From Rebels to Andor, we’ve met different types of people that make up the Empire’s sinister intelligence forces in the Imperial Security Bureau. We’ve seen agents like Kallus realize the extent of their role in the Empire’s evil, and agents like Dedra Meero consumed by the system they created. Now, in the latest Star Wars novel, we’re going to meet an agent learning a very difficult lesson: the long arm of Imperial law doesn’t apply to some people, whether they like it or not.
That’s the trouble facing ISB agent Sendril Crane in Lamar Giles’ new Star Wars novel out this week, Sanctuary. A brand new tale starring Clone Force 99—better known as the ragtag heroes of The Bad Batch—Sanctuary is set during the events of the Clone Wars continuation’s second season, after the Batch has found a new secretive home on the island world of Pabu.
Tasked with a series of risky new missions by their ally, the treasure hunter Phee Genoa, the Batch find themselves immediately leaving the safe haven of their new home for a chance for money and potential exposure to agents of the Empire they all long to avoid. After things start going wrong and pressure mounts, Hunter, Tech, Wrecker, and Omega find themselves weighing the odds of their mercenary life when they’re tasked with ferrying a young couple to safe harbor—as the shadow of the ISB stalks them all, threatening to bring not just the Bad Batch’s passengers but all of Pabu into the spotlight at the worst possible time.
You can get to know Crane a little in our exclusive excerpt from Sanctuary below, as he investigates the aftermath of one of the Batch’s louder missions with Phee… only to discover that, for all the terror the ISB strikes in people at the heart of the Imperial regime, in some corners of the galaxy, a certain name dropped at a certain time can still count for an awful lot… especially when that name is Sheev Palpatine’s.
“Parlin, Parlin! Is that the authorities? Thank goodness. I didn’t expect them to get here so fast.” The woman, her luxurious gown sullied with dust and muck, her hair mussed, her hands shaking, emerged from the shadows of the entrance. Her eyes were wide with relief, but the look shifted to confusion. “You aren’t the local police. You’re ISB.”
“Cellia Moten, I presume.” Crane kept his voice light. He wanted her to trust him. Easier to catch her in a lie that way. Under Imperial statutes, lying to an ISB agent was punishable by up to ninety days of detention.
“I am.” She extended her hand daintily, fingers down, the back toward the sky. Crane associated this gesture with royalty, beings who were accustomed to people grasping those fingers before kneeling or kissing rings. He remained upright while squeezing her fingers. It looked as awkward as it felt.
Cellia retracted her hand, unfazed. “Did the Dallow police send you?”
“No,” Crane said, his original line of questioning lost in his own confusion. “Why would they?”
“Because I’ve been robbed!”
“You’ve been—” Crane was taken off guard here, though usually quick to control a situation, especially an interrogation, even if unofficial. He’d expected an inept adversary, but was this woman a victim? “May we come in so you can tell us what happened?”
The Kiffar tensed, but Cellia remained eager. “Of course. Do excuse the mess. The thieves went on an absolute rampage.”
She led them into the palace, and Crane was taken aback again. This wasn’t a mess. It was a war zone. Evidence of blasterfire. Bombs. Was that a pool of green blood in the corner?
Clone Force 99’s work? From what he’d read, they were capable of this level of destruction.
Crane’s operatives murmured among themselves while more beings entered from the opposite end of the room. There were various species and some droids, all armed with illegal weapons. Military-grade hardware came with serious jail time should Crane decide to charge the wielders—a right he reserved while he ascertained what happened here.
Cellia Moten said, “I was tricked by con artists masquerading as antique dealers. They wormed their way into my home under the guise of a simple transaction. Once they were here, they threatened my life and the lives of my workers.”
“So you fought them,” Crane said—a statement, not a question. The evidence of a battle was unmistakable.
“We do not wither here.”
“What were you attempting to buy?” Drand asked.
“Pottery,” Cellia said, and nothing more.
Crane would’ve preferred to be the sole interrogator here but took Drand’s eagerness for a chance to examine their surroundings more closely.
Several lavish models, now mostly blown to smithereens. Red veins in white marble still screamed opulence through the dust and debris. Floor to ceiling, none of the finishes would have been affordable on a hundred ISB salaries. Crane’s sympathy for Cellia Moten’s tumultuous day diminished as the running credit count in his head increased.
“What were they trying to take?” Crane asked.
Cellia scoffed. “There’s nothing in here that isn’t valuable.”
“I can tell.” Crane continued down the corridor, prompting Cellia, her guard, and Crane’s team to follow. “But, specifically, for the con artists, as you put it, to concoct a scheme convincing enough for you to shuttle them to your home, they must’ve had a specific payday in mind.”
“I can’t speak to their motivations. I don’t think like a criminal.”
“How many of them were there?”
“Three.”
“All clones?”
Cellia took a moment before answering. “One of them resembled a clone. Somewhat. Another was a pickpocket child. The third was a pirate known as Phee Genoa. I’m sure her name’s somewhere in the extensive files of the ISB.”
Even more players than Clone Force 99 and Gayla? A pirate? And a child? In the next grand room, there was more destruction. Crane pointed to a gaping hole in the wall.
“What happened here?”
“My security attempted to corner the thieves before they could harm me and escape with any valuables, but they blasted their way through the wall.”
That . . . was a lie. The explosive charge was triggered on the exterior, and the evidence was clear. Crane was so pleased to utter his next words. “Cellia Moten, by the authority of the Imperial Security Bureau, I’m placing you under— ”
Cellia interrupted him. “Does Sheev know you’re here?”
“Sheev?”
“I’m sorry. Emperor Palpatine. We’re old friends, and I forget most of you may not refer to him by— You know what, never mind. I’m going to contact him and let him know that . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
“I’m Agent Sendril Crane.”
To the Kiffar, she said, “Yes. Parlin, please get in touch with Mas’s of-fice and inform them that Agent Crane and his team are assisting a close friend in a most personal matter.”
Had Crane heard her correctly. “Mas?” Sheev Palpatine. Mas Amedda. Crane knew the names, of course, but in the way he knew the names of longtime holodrama stars. He could maybe argue a closer connection because of the ISB’s inherent political roots. Still, Crane could barely fit the grand impression of the Emperor and his closest confidant in his head, let alone refer to them as casually as Sheev and Mas.
Parlin tipped his chin to Cellia. “I’ll notify Grand Vizier Amedda right away, Mistress.”
He left them at a clip, and Cellia met Crane with a smile that was just below malicious. “Once the Emperor knows you’re assisting one of his dearest companions, you’ll be provided any additional resources you need to bring the vandals who desecrated my home to justice.”
“Thieves,” Crane said before he could think better of it.
Cellia said, “What was that?”
“Earlier, you said ‘thieves,’ not ‘vandals.’ ”
She sucked her teeth and let the low click echo. “Two things can be true.”
Not two lies, Crane thought but controlled his tongue. He sensed the danger here. It didn’t scare him—he didn’t feel much fear anymore. It intrigued him. In a little more than a breath, he’d gone from attempting to arrest her on conspiracy charges to questioning his safety in her presence. Being in this home, with this woman, felt akin to drifting in deep waters with an unseen leviathan skulking just below the surface. Was she really an associate of the Emperor?
She said, “I am under the impression that a ranking agent like yourself is not so beholden to semantics that it distracts you from the necessary truths that you, me, and the galaxy depend upon. Correct?”
Crane was slow to answer, somewhat in awe of her foreboding eloquence.
“Is that correct, Agent Crane?” Cellia asked, pressing.
Crane chanced a glance at Drand, who gave the slightest nod. She’d found something in her search. It better be worthwhile for her sake. He told Cellia, “Yes. Any friend of the Emperor is a friend of the bureau.”
For now.
Star Wars: Sanctuary hits shelves tomorrow, August 5. Head on over to Random House Worlds to see where you can snag a copy!
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