by James Luceno
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon confirmed. He glanced across the room, to where C’baoth stood studying one of the wall displays, and lowered his voice a bit. “We’re still not entirely sure what went wrong.”
“Instruct Central to give the coordinator a thorough debriefing,” Thrawn said. “What report from Wayland?”
Pellaeon had thought they’d been talking too quietly for C’baoth to hear them. He was wrong. “Is that it, then?” C’baoth demanded, turning away from the display and striding over to tower over Thrawn’s command chair. “Your Noghri have failed; so too bad, and on to more pressing business? You promised me Jedi, Grand Admiral Thrawn.”1
Thrawn gazed coolly up at him. “I promised you Jedi,” he acknowledged. “And I will deliver them.” Deliberately, he turned back to Pellaeon. “What report from Wayland?” he repeated.
Pellaeon swallowed, trying hard to remember that with ysalamiri scattered all through the command room, C’baoth had no power whatsoever. At least for the moment. “The engineering team has finished its analysis, sir,” he told Thrawn. “They report that the cloaking shield schematics seem complete, but that to actually build one will take some time. It’ll also be highly expensive, at least for a ship the size of the Chimaera.”
“Fortunately, they won’t have to start with anything nearly this big,” Thrawn said, handing Pellaeon a data card. “Here are the specs for what we’ll need at Sluis Van.”
“The shipyards?” Pellaeon frowned, taking the data card. The Grand Admiral had so far been very secretive about both his goals and the strategy for that attack.
“Yes. Oh, and we’re also going to need some advanced mining machines—mole miners, I believe they’re informally called. Have Intelligence start a records search; we’ll need a minimum of forty.”
“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon made a note on his data pad. “One other thing, sir.” He threw a quick glance at C’baoth. “The engineers also report that nearly eighty percent of the Spaarti cylinders we’ll need are functional or can be restored to working order with relative ease.”
“Spaarti cylinders?” C’baoth frowned. “What are those?”
“Just that other little bit of technology I was hoping to find in the mountain,” Thrawn soothed him, throwing a quick warning look in Pellaeon’s direction. An unnecessary precaution; Pellaeon had already decided that discussing Spaarti cylinders with C’baoth would not be a smart thing to do. “So. Eighty percent. That’s excellent, Captain. Excellent.” A gleam came into those glowing eyes. “How very thoughtful of the Emperor to have left such fine equipment for us to rebuild his Empire with. What about the mountain’s power and defense systems?”
“Also operational, for the most part,” Pellaeon said. “Three of the four reactors have already been brought on line. Some of the more esoteric defenses seem to have decayed, but what’s left should defend the storehouse more than adequately.”
“Again, excellent.” Thrawn nodded. The brief flicker of emotion was gone, and he was all cool business again. “Instruct them to begin bringing the cylinders to full operational status. The Death’s Head should arrive within two or three days with the extra specialists and two hundred ysalamiri they’ll need to get things started. At that point”—he smiled faintly—“we’ll be ready to begin the operation in earnest. Beginning with the Sluis Van shipyards.”
“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon glanced at C’baoth again. “And about Skywalker and his sister?”
“We’ll use Team Four next,” the Grand Admiral said. “Transmit a message telling them to withdraw from their current assignment and stand ready for further orders.”
“You want me to transmit the message, sir?” Pellaeon asked. “Not that I’m questioning the order,” he added hastily. “But in the past you’ve usually preferred to contact them yourself.”
Thrawn’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Team Eight failed me,” he said softly. “Sending the message through you will let the others know how displeased I am.”
“And when Team Four also fails you?” C’baoth put in. “They will, you know. Will you be merely displeased with them, too? Or will you admit your professional killing machines simply can’t handle a Jedi?”
“They’ve never yet met any foe they can’t handle, Master C’baoth,” Thrawn said coolly. “One group or another will succeed. Until then—” He shrugged. “A few Noghri, more or less, won’t seriously drain our resources.”
Pellaeon winced, throwing a reflexive glance at the chamber door. Rukh, he suspected, wouldn’t be nearly that phlegmatic about the casually proposed deaths of some of his people. “On the other hand, Admiral, this attempt will have put them on their guard,” he pointed out.
“He’s right,” C’baoth said, jabbing a finger in Pellaeon’s direction. “You can’t fool a Jedi twice with the same trick.”
“Perhaps,” Thrawn said, the word polite but his tone not conceding anything. “What alternative do you suggest? That we concentrate on his sister and leave him alone?”
“That you concentrate on his sister, yes,” C’baoth agreed loftily. “I think it best that I deal with the young Jedi myself.”
Again, the eyebrows went up. “And how would you propose to do that?”
C’baoth smiled. “He is a Jedi; I am a Jedi. If I call, he will come to me.”
For a long moment Thrawn looked up at him. “I need you with my fleet,” he said at last. “Preparations for the assault on the Rebellion’s Sluis Van space dock facilities have already begun. Some of the preliminaries to that assault will require a Jedi Master’s coordination.”
C’baoth drew himself up to his full height. “My assistance was promised only upon your promise to deliver my Jedi to me. I will have them, Grand Admiral Thrawn.”
Thrawn’s glowing eyes bored into C’baoth’s. “Does a Jedi Master go back on his word, then? You knew that obtaining Skywalker for you might take some time.”
“All the more reason for me to begin now,” C’baoth shot back.
“Why can’t we do both?” Pellaeon cut in.
Both looked at him. “Explain, Captain,” Thrawn ordered, a hint of threat audible in his tone.
Pellaeon gritted his teeth, but it was too late to back out now. “We could begin by starting rumors of your presence somewhere, Master C’baoth,” he said. “Some sparsely populated world where you might have lived for years without anyone really noticing. Rumors of that sort would be certain to make their way back to the New Rep—to the Rebellion,” he corrected, glancing at Thrawn. “Particularly with the name Joruus C’baoth attached to them.”
C’baoth snorted. “And you think that on the strength of an idle rumor he’ll rush foolishly to find me?”
“Let him be as cautious as he likes,” Thrawn said thoughtfully, the threat gone from his voice. “Let him bring half the Rebellion’s forces with him, if he chooses. There will be nothing there to connect you to us.”
Pellaeon nodded. “And while we find a suitable planet and start the rumors into motion, you can remain here to assist with the Sluis Van preliminaries. Hopefully, their response to our activities will keep Skywalker too busy to check out the stories until after the Sluis Van part is over.”
“And if not,” Thrawn added, “we’ll know when he makes his move, and in plenty of time to get you there ahead of him.”
“Hmm,” C’baoth murmured, stroking his long beard, his gaze drifting off to infinity. Pellaeon held his breath … and after a minute the other abruptly nodded. “Very well,” he said. “The plan is sound. I will go to my chambers now, Grand Admiral Thrawn, and choose a world from which to make my appearance.” With an almost regal nod to each of them, he strode out.
“Congratulations, Captain,” Thrawn said, eyeing Pellaeon coolly. “Your idea seems to have caught Master C’baoth’s fancy.”
Pellaeon forced himself to meet that gaze. “I apologize, Admiral, if I spoke out of turn.”
Thrawn smiled faintly. “You served too long under Lord Vader, Captain,” he said. “I have n
o qualms about accepting a useful idea merely because it wasn’t my own. My position and ego are not at stake here.”2
Except, perhaps, when dealing with C’baoth … “Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said aloud. “With your permission, Admiral, I’ll go prepare those transmissions to the Wayland and Noghri teams.”
“At your convenience, Captain. And continue to monitor the preparations for the Sluis Van operation.” Thrawn’s glowing eyes seemed to bore into his. “Monitor them closely, Captain. With Mount Tantiss and Sluis Van both, the long path to victory over the Rebellion will have begun. With, or even without, our Jedi Master.”
In theory, Inner Council meetings were supposed to be a quieter, more casual sort of encounter than the more formal Provisional Council3 things. In actual practice, Han had long ago found out, an Inner Council grilling could be just as rough as being raked over the fires by the larger group.
“Let me get this straight, then, Captain Solo,” Borsk Fey’lya said with his usual oily politeness. “You, alone, and without consultation with anyone in official authority, made the decision to cancel the Bimmisaari mission.”
“I’ve already said that,” Han told him. He felt like suggesting to the Bothan that he pay better attention. “I’ve also stated my reasons for doing so.”
“Which, in my opinion, were good and proper ones,” Admiral Ackbar’s gravelly voice interjected in Han’s support. “Captain Solo’s duty at that point was abundantly clear: to protect the ambassador in his charge and to return safely to alert us.”
“Alert us to what?” Fey’lya countered. “Forgive me, Admiral, but I don’t understand what exactly this threat is we’re supposedly facing. Whoever these gray-skinned beings were, they clearly weren’t considered important enough by the Old Senate to even be included in the records. I doubt a race that insignificant is likely to be capable of mounting a major offensive against us.”
“We don’t know that that’s the reason they aren’t in the records,” Leia put in. “It could simply be an oversight or gap damage.”
“Or else a deliberate erasure,” Luke said.
Fey’lya’s fur rippled, indicating polite disbelief. “And why would the Imperial Senate want to erase the records of an entire race’s existence?”
“I didn’t say it was necessarily the Senate’s idea,” Luke said. “Maybe the aliens themselves destroyed their records.”
Fey’lya sniffed. “Far-fetched. Even if it was possible, why would anyone want to do it?”4
“Perhaps Councilor Organa Solo can answer that,” Mon Mothma interjected calmly, looking at Leia. “You were more involved in the information side of the Imperial Senate than I was, Leia. Would such a manipulation have been possible?”
“I really don’t know,” Leia said, shaking her head. “I never got all that deeply into the actual mechanics of how the Senate’s records were handled. Common wisdom, though, would suggest that it’s impossible to create a security system that can’t be broken by someone determined enough to do it.”
“That still doesn’t answer the question of why these aliens of yours would be that determined,” Fey’lya sniffed.
“Maybe they saw the Old Republic’s coming demise,” Leia told him, her voice starting to sound a little irritated. “They might have erased all references to themselves and their world in hopes the rising Empire might not notice them.”
Fey’lya was fast, all right; Han had to give him that. “In that case,” the Bothan smoothly switched gears, “perhaps a fear of rediscovery was all that motivated this attack, as well.” He looked at Ackbar. “Regardless, I see no reason to make a full-fledged military operation out of this. To reduce our glorious forces to the level of a mere diplomatic entourage is an insult to their courage and their fighting spirit.”
“You can dispense with the speeches, Councilor,” Ackbar rumbled. “None of our ‘glorious forces’ are here to be impressed by them.”
“I say only what I feel, Admiral,” Fey’lya said, with that air of wounded pride he did so well.
Ackbar’s eyes swiveled toward Fey’lya—“I wonder,” Leia spoke up quickly, “if we could get back to the original subject here. I presume it hasn’t escaped anyone’s notice that, whatever their motivation, the aliens were ready and waiting for us when we reached Bimmisaari.”
“We’re going to need tighter security for these missions, obviously,” Ackbar said. “At both ends—your attackers did suborn a local Bimm politician, after all.”
“All of which will cost that much more time and effort,” Fey’lya murmured, a section of his fur rippling.
“It can’t be helped,” Mon Mothma said firmly. “If we don’t protect our negotiators, the New Republic will stagnate and wither. Accordingly”—she looked at Ackbar—“you will detail a force to accompany Councilor Organa Solo on her trip back to Bimmisaari tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Han threw a sharp look at Leia, got an equally surprised look in return. “Excuse me,” he said, raising a finger. “Tomorrow?”
Mon Mothma looked at him, an expression of mild surprise on her face. “Yes, tomorrow. The Bimms are still waiting, Captain.”
“I know, but—”
“What Han is trying to say,” Leia jumped in, “is that I had intended at this meeting to ask for a brief leave of absence from my diplomatic duties.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Mon Mothma said with a slight frown. “There’s far too much work to be done.”
“We’re not talking about a vacation here,” Han told her, trying to remember his diplomatic manners. “Leia needs more time to concentrate on her Jedi training.”
Mon Mothma pursed her lips, throwing glances at Ackbar and Fey’lya. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I, of all people, recognize the need to add new Jedi to our ranks. But for now there are simply too many urgent demands on our time.” She looked at Fey’lya again—almost, Han thought sourly, as if seeking his permission. “In another year—possibly sooner,” she added, glancing at Leia’s stomach, “we’ll have enough experienced diplomats for you to devote the bulk of your time to your studies. But right now I’m afraid we need you here.”
For a long, awkward moment the room was silent. Ackbar spoke first. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and have that escort force prepared.”
“Of course.” Mon Mothma nodded. “Unless there’s something more, we stand adjourned.”
And that was that. Jaw clenched tightly, Han began collecting his data cards together. “You all right?” Leia asked quietly from beside him.
“You know, it was a lot easier back when we were just taking on the Empire,” he growled. He threw a glare across the table at Fey’lya. “At least then we knew who our enemies were.”5
Leia squeezed his arm. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see if they’ve gotten Threepio cleaned up yet.”
C H A P T E R 9
The tactical officer stepped up to the Chimaera’s bridge command station, bringing his heels smartly together. “All units signal ready, Admiral,” he reported.
“Excellent,” Thrawn said, his voice glacially calm. “Prepare for lightspeed.”
Pellaeon threw a glance at the Grand Admiral, then returned his attention to the bank of tactical and status readouts facing him. To the readouts, and to the blackness outside that seemed to have swallowed up the rest of Pellaeon’s five-ship task force. Three-thousandths of a light-year away, the Bpfassh system’s sun was a mere pinprick, indistinguishable from the other stars blazing all around them. Conventional military wisdom frowned on this business of picking a spot just outside the target system as a jumping-off point—it was considered dangerously easy for one or more ships to get lost on the way to such a rendezvous, and it was difficult to make an accurate hyperspace jump over so short a distance. He and Thrawn, in fact, had had a long and barely civilized argument over the idea the first time the Grand Admiral had included it in one of his attack plans. Now, after nearly a year of practice, the procedure had become almost routine.<
br />
Perhaps, Pellaeon thought, the Chimaera’s crew wasn’t as inexperienced as their ignorance of proper military protocol sometimes made them seem.1
“Captain? Is my flagship ready?”
Pellaeon brought his mind back to the business at hand. All ship defenses showed ready; the TIE fighters in their bays were manned and poised. “The Chimaera is fully at your command, Admiral,” he said, the formal question and response a ghostly remembrance of the days when proper military protocol was the order of the day throughout the galaxy.
“Excellent,” Thrawn said. He swiveled in his chair to face the figure seated near the rear of the bridge. “Master C’baoth.” He nodded. “Are my other two task forces ready?”
“They are,” C’baoth said gravely. “They await merely my command.”
Pellaeon winced and threw another glance at Thrawn. But the Grand Admiral had apparently decided to let the comment pass. “Then command them,” he told C’baoth, reaching up to stroke the ysalamir draped across the framework fastened to his chair. “Captain: begin the count.”
“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon reached to his board, touched the timer switch. Scattered around them, the other ships would be locking onto that signal, all of them counting down together …
The timer went to zero, and with a flare of starlines through the forward ports, the Chimaera jumped.
Ahead, the starlines faded into the mottling of hyperspace. “Speed, Point Three,” the helmsman in the crew pit below called out, confirming the readout on the displays.
“Acknowledged,” Pellaeon said, flexing his fingers once and settling his mind into combat mode as he watched the timer now counting up from zero. Seventy seconds; seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six—
The starlines flared again through the mottled sky, and shrank back into stars, and the Chimaera had arrived.
“All fighters: launch,” Pellaeon called, throwing a quick look at the tactical holo floating over his display bank. They had come out of hyperspace exactly as planned, within easy striking range of the double planet2 of Bpfassh and its complicated system of moons. “Response?” he called to the tactical officer.