High minded talk from someone who not ten minutes ago was screaming at a corpse, it seemed to Ardam. He figured it came with the territory: Jedi had a tendency to wax philosophical, regardless of their qualification, and Sith doubly so. This one at least was somewhat more pragmatic, but the talk of ‘balance’ didn’t do the Sith any favors with him.
“I’d not put much trust in EmpInt, if I were you. Without the Bothans they couldn’t investigate their way out of a paper bag, let alone into the Jedi temple. A thousand or more Jedi in there, meditating, ‘searching their feelings’? You’d have to be something pretty special to go unnoticed around their big flat-iron, and EmpInt aren’t. Maybe the higher-ups have some force-sensitive sithspit they’re keeping secret, but I don’t get paid enough to try and guess the Empire’s secrets. Or disobeying Imperial Admirals. It’s not good for life expectancy. Wait until after the interrogation, and we’ll see if something can’t be worked out, no?”
Speaking of life expectancy, Ardam finally give the correct authentication codes. Flying towards a Super Star Destroyer is an excellent way to get killed if you, like the sith, didn’t know the accurate access codes, and Ardam figured if the sith tried anything characteristic to his philosophy, Ardam would at least take solace in getting atomized by turbolasers minutes later. A voice came through the radio a moment later, a familiar female voice with a familiar air of haughty command.
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“Pardalis. I will be away from the Bazaar for some time. I expect you to conduct the interrogation in my stead. You know what I expect; succeed and you will be rewarded. Good luck, Fairfax out.”
The pre-recorded message was not her preferred method of instructing her subordinates, but it was necessary. She wanted to be back to the Bazaar as soon as possible, and wasting time waiting for a single individual would not help her win the war. The Captain had his orders, at least: search for and destroy gathering Republic naval elements while avoiding major confrontations. With any luck, the Bazaar and her fleet would only have to be Admiral-less for a few days, and they could resume their full offensive within the standard week.
As for right now, she was stranded on a small transport for an uncomfortably long time. There is a maxim that commanders repeat: “You must not fight too often with one enemy, or you will teach him all your art of war”. Since, of course, there were only two factions in the galaxy, the Empire and the Rebels, Amolia no longer had the ability to fight someone else. And since ‘not fighting too often’ went against her sensibilities, she had to find an escape from this conundrum. Her solution, quite simply, was to learn faster than she taught.
Her luxurious, if understated, personal quarters on the Super Star Destroyer did nothing to indicate the massive library of military literature it held, but the wonders of modern computer technology compressed millennia of learning into a chip the size of her fingernail. That chip, and the copies she had of it, occupied whatever free time she had. She would read the works of the Mandalores, histories of Revan and Malak, analyses of the Clone Wars and first-hand accounts of battles like Coruscant or Mon Calamari. Of course, there was only so much histories and ancient advice could teach her, and she supplemented these works with modern thought. She read essays out of the Navy College, the collected works of Piett or Ossel, and of course, the sole volume penned by Admiral Thrawn. She knew the last almost off by heart, though she would never admit it.
She contented herself with this heavy reading, working her way through a surprisingly entertaining, and ruthlessly scathing, critique of the conduct of the Navy before and during Endor. As much as she hated to admit it, the Rebels had made something great. She flicked through another screen, and settled in for her long journey.