From his shuttle, the first thing Cross would notice about Prakith—aside from its titian color—was the presence of the so called "Grand Imperial Navy" above the planet. It had never been especially "grand," even when the former Governor of Prakith, Foga Brill, declared it so. But it was still formidable. Prominent in Cross's line of sight would be the Imperial Star Destroyer Providence, stationed low over the planet and used mostly, these days, for traffic control, customs, and cargo. Closer to the Illudium, in high orbit, was an Adz-class patrol destroyer and a pair of Victory-class Star Destroyers. Moreover, unknown to Cross, a duo of Imperial Patrol Frigates were cruising the system and had long ago detected the Admiral's fleet. To say that he was "unexpected," thus, was not entirely true.

Prakith was an interesting case. It was a fortress world that had lasted through Endor, the fall of Coruscant, the reborn Emperor, Thrawn, and the Bastion Accords. It was, throughout it all, the last remnant of the "old Empire." But it almost wasn't—Wilberforce was one of several officers who had conspired to assassinate Governor Brill and then, supposedly, to negotiate peace with the New Republic. As soon as Brill was dead, however, Wilberforce had second thoughts. The army was very much against compromise with the Republic, and the army, in turn, was popular with the people. The Republic was not. In fact, living conditions were miserable on Prakith and it became apparent that the Republic was the common enemy that was holding this fragile society together. That, and Foga Brill's durasteel fist.

Lesson learned.

There would be no democracy on Prakith, as Wilberforce had hoped. There would be no negotiation with the New Republic. So he simply became the next Foga Brill, and his first order of business was to order the Red Police to arrest all of his fellow conspirators, charge them with treason, and execute them. The following day there was a memorial service—for Foga Brill. Wilberforce delivered the eulogy and, in it, he rallied the people and promised to "wage the war," not only against the New Republic, but also against poverty, scarcity, and vagrancy. Thus, Prakith continued to be a bastion for people like Malcolm Cross; rogue warlords who needed supplies, money, repairs and recruits to keep up the fight. In exchange, Wilberforce had these warlords at his disposal for occasional favors (i.e. pillaging some food, money, or luxury goods, sabotaging competitors perhaps, and most of all, rallying to defend Prakith when the Republic attacked it—as it occasionally did). It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.

"Shuttle Illudium," the voice came back a moment later, "You are cleared to approach the Star Destroyer Providence. His honor, Governor Wilberforce, will greet you there. A TIE will be dispatched to guide your party."

It was unusual, perhaps, to see a Star Destroyer being used, essentially, as a customs station, but all of the operations were run with Imperial efficiency. It was not without some traditional decorum, either; a troop of stormtroopers and officers lined the ramp from the Illudium and saluted, out of courtesy, as the Admiral was seen. Wilberforce was there, too—he stood beside a waiting passenger tram and nodded as Cross approached him. "Welcome to Prakith," he said, warmly. "Unfortunately, it isn't common that we receive an accomplished Admiral such as yourself. Please, be seated," he gestured to the tram and was seated himself. As soon as Cross joined him, they would be underway as the tram sped through the busy hangar, through a door, and into a long, seemingly endless corridor, also bustling with crew, droids, and other trams.

"I've seen that your fleet is in poor repair," Wilberforce said, revealing that he was, in fact, aware of the Admiral's fleet elsewhere in the system. "No doubt you will require maintenance," he noted, "and perhaps fuel, food, and supplies. Prakith will be quite willing to accomodate you, providing we can agree on terms."

The Governor seemed like a pleasant fellow, but there was something odd about him—a sort of vacancy in his demeanor. His "friends," what few of them remained, noted that this was a recent development in him; that he had not quite "been himself," and that he was prone to a temper they'd never seen in him before. Some spoke of the Curse of the God King, a legend on Prakith dating back to the Sith Lord, Darth Andeddu, who had assumed control of the planet and gone mad and, especially, paranoid with power. Every leader of Prakith since had been haunted by the Sith Lord and met a similar, ruinous end, so the legend went. Wilberforce, naturally, dismissed this as nonsense, although in the quiet of night he couldn't help but recall that it had been true of his predecessor, Foga Brill. And his priorities had certainly changed since he became Governor, having abandoned his aspirations for democracy and become steadily more of the tyrant that Governor Brill and, for that matter, Darth Andeddu had been.

But this was not the Force at work, of course. It was politics.

"Tell me, Admiral," the Governor glanced to Cross, seated beside him, with a pleasant smile, "What will your forces require? Rest and relaxation, no doubt, which Prakith can provide. But what else, in the way of supplies?"

A few moments and a short walk later, they would enter upon Wilberforce's quarters. The room was simple—certainly compared to the Governor's far more elaborate office on the planet below—but it was not without decorum; there were a few mildly erotic, mildly violent and all around disturbing sculptures in the room, which was also adorned with simple, grey, Imperial-issued furniture that the Admiral would be familiar with. "Would you care for a drink?" he asked as he went to the liquor cabinet and began pouring himself a drink. "There is... another thing," he said, still facing the cabinet as he poured himself a glass of brandy, "To be honest with you, Admiral, we need funds. I have in mind a place from which you could appropriate some, if you are willing."

He turned, now with two glasses of brandy, and handed one to Cross. "Cato Neimoidia," he said, smiling. "There are vast storehouses of wealth there—you would get to raid a prominent New Republic world, and Prakith would get the credits it needs to continue to supply the war effort. It would be of benefit to us all. What do you say, Admiral?"

He took a deliberate sip of his brandy and savored its flavor for the briefest of moments before he went on. "You are the tactician, not I," he said, "But what would you say to a diversion? That is to say, a feint? I regret to say that the Grand Imperial Fleet"—here, again, he referred to Prakith's navy—"is not adequate to attack a Republic world. Not successfully. But we can make them think that we are. Perhaps a feint at Neimoidia, to pull the Kruus away? Or, better still, a double feint; to arrive at Neimoidia, supposedly to attack it, but then proceed to, say, Balmorra, supposedly to attack it instead? The Kruus would perhaps be persuaded to follow us, or requested to by the Republic. It would give you plenty of time to raid Cato Neimoidia, would it not?"