Star Wars: The Hand of Thrawn II: Vision of the Future

by Timothy Zahn

  “How should I know?” Klif grumbled, getting his shovel into place under the other side. “Maybe she figures she’ll pick up a bounty if she can deliver everything in a neat package.”

  “Could be,” Navett said, lifting carefully. The block came up, and he got his fingers under the edge. “I think it’s more likely she’s got some trouble of her own with the Bothans that means she can’t go to them with any accusations.”

  “That wouldn’t stop her from calling in an anonymous tip,” Klif grunted as they eased the trapdoor off the hole. “The mood they’re in out there, they’re probably jumping at every cracked twig.”

  “No,” Navett said, gazing into the hole. “No, she’s not the type for anonymous tips. I think that for whatever reason, she’s decided to take this whole thing personally. Professional pride, maybe—I don’t know. The point is that she’s turned this into a private duel between her and us.”

  Klif grunted. “Pretty stupid.”

  “Stupid for her,” Navett agreed. “Useful for us.”

  “Maybe,” Klif said. “So what now?”

  “We get back to work,” Navett said, dropping into the hole. “And when we’re done,” he added, digging his shovel into the packed dirt at his feet, “I’ll go retrieve the Xerrol. Maybe tomorrow night we’ll take her up on her invitation to come out and play.”

  · · ·

  Gavrisom looked up from Leia’s datapad, his prehensile wing tips flicking restlessly across the desk beside it. “And you truly believe he is sincere about this?” he said.

  “Very sincere,” Leia said, feeling a frown creasing her forehead. She had expected a considerably more positive reaction to Pellaeon’s peace proposal. “And I examined the credentials he brought from the Imperial Moffs. Everything was in order.”

  “Or so it appeared,” Gavrisom said, shaking his mane. “So it appeared.”

  He looked back down at the datapad, touched the control to scroll back. Leia watched him, trying to understand this strange and unexpected emotional conflict she could sense in him. An end to the long war might finally be at hand. Surely this was news for at least cautious excitement.

  So why wasn’t he cautiously excited?

  Gavrisom looked up at her again. “There’s no mention of Thrawn anywhere in here,” he pointed out. “Did you ask Pellaeon about that?”

  “We discussed it briefly,” Leia said. “At that time he’d received no word from Bastion that Thrawn had assumed supreme command. Nor had he had any indication that the Moffs had rescinded his authorization to begin peace talks.”

  “Neither of which means anything at all,” Gavrisom said, his tone suddenly and uncharacteristically harsh. “With Thrawn on the scene, officially or otherwise, this is utterly meaningless.” He slapped a wing tip across the datapad.

  “I understand your concerns,” Leia said, choosing her words carefully. “But if it’s not a trick, this may be our chance to finally end this long war—”

  “It is most certainly a trick, Councilor,” Gavrisom ground out. “That much we can all be sure of. The only question is what exactly Thrawn hopes to gain from it.”

  Leia drew back in her seat. The flash of emotion right then … “You don’t want Pellaeon’s offer to be genuine, do you?” she asked. “You want it to be a trick.”

  Gavrisom turned his eyes away from her, snorting a soft, whinnying sigh. “Look all around us, Leia,” he said quietly, turning his head to gaze out the stateroom viewport. “Look at them. Nearly two hundred warships, dozens of peoples, all ready to begin a civil war over their own individual concepts of what constitutes justice for Caamas. The New Republic is poised ready to destroy itself … and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.”

  “Han has a copy of the Caamas Document,” Leia reminded him. “He’ll have it here tomorrow. That should defuse a lot of the tension.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Gavrisom agreed. “But at this point I’m not willing to rely on even that to stop them. You and I both know that for many of the potential combatants Caamas has merely become a convenient excuse for restarting old wars with old enemies.”

  “I realize that,” Leia said. “But once that excuse is taken away from them, they’ll have to back down.”

  “Or create a different excuse,” Gavrisom countered bitterly. “The fact is, Leia, that the New Republic is in danger of fragmenting, of being driven apart by our own vast diversity. We need time to counter those forces; time to talk, time to plan, time to try to build all these different peoples into some sort of unity.”

  He waved a wing toward the viewport. “But we no longer have that time—this crisis has snatched it away from us. We need to get it back.”

  “The Caamas Document will do that,” Leia insisted. “I’m sure it will.”

  “Perhaps,” Gavrisom said. “But as President, I can’t afford to put all my hopes on it. I must prepare to muster every common purpose I can find for the New Republic. Every common purpose, every common goal, every common cultural ethos.”

  He tapped the datapad, gently this time. “And, if necessary, every common enemy.”

  “But they’re not a real enemy anymore,” Leia said, striving to keep her voice calm. “They’re far too small and weak to be any kind of threat.”

  “Perhaps,” Gavrisom said. “But as long as they’re out there, we have someone to unite against.” He hesitated. “Or even to fight against, if necessary.”

  “You aren’t serious,” Leia said, gazing hard at him. “Stirring up action against the Empire at this point would be nothing short of a slaughter.”

  “I know that.” He shook his head. “I don’t like this any better than you do, Leia. In fact, I will admit to being ashamed of using the people of the Empire this way. But whether my name and memory are denounced by history is of no importance. My job is to hold the New Republic together, and I will do whatever is necessary to achieve that.”

  “Perhaps I have more faith in our people than you do,” Leia said quietly.

  “Perhaps you do,” Gavrisom said with a nod. “I sincerely hope you are right.”

  For a moment they sat together in silence. “I presume you won’t be releasing news of Pellaeon’s offer,” Leia said at last. “With your permission, though, I’d like to begin putting together a list of delegates for a full peace conference. If and when you decide to proceed with this.”

  Gavrisom hesitated, then nodded. “I admire your confidence, Councilor,” he said. “I only wish I could share it. Yes, please assemble your list.”

  “Thank you.”

  She got up from her chair and retrieved her datapad. “I’ll have the list ready for you by tomorrow.” She turned to the stateroom door—

  “There is, of course, one other option open to you,” Gavrisom called from behind her. “You are merely on leave of absence from the Presidency. Assuming the Senate confirmed the decision, you could resume that office right now.”

  “I know,” Leia said. “But this isn’t the time for that. Yours is the voice that has been speaking for Coruscant since the Caamas Document first came to light. It wouldn’t be good for that voice to suddenly change.”

  “Perhaps,” Gavrisom said. “But there are many in the New Republic who believe that Calibops are skilled at words and nothing more. Perhaps the time for words has ended, and the time for action has arrived.”

  Leia stretched out briefly to the Force. “The time for action may indeed have come,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean the time for words is ended. Both will always be needed.”

  Gavrisom whinnied softly. “Then I will continue with the words,” he said. “And will entrust to you the actions. May the Force be with us both.”

  “May the Force be with us all,” Leia said quietly. “Good night, President Gavrisom.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  She waited until an hour after the background sounds of the household had quieted down. Then, getting up from her bed, Shada left her room in the vast underground c
omplex that was Jorj Car’das’s home and slipped down the darkened hallway.

  The library door was closed, and the Aing-Tii hand-waving trick Car’das had used to get inside obviously wasn’t going to work for her. However, before saying good night he had showed her and Karrde the more conventional method of opening their room doors, and she was banking on the library being set up the same way. Searching around the stones lining the doorway with her fingers, she found the slightly cooler one and pressed her palm against it.

  For perhaps twenty seconds nothing happened. Shada maintained her pressure on the stone, alert for signs of activity in the area and wondering again at this ridiculous procedure. Based on the life story he’d told them, she couldn’t see the Jorj Car’das who had first arrived here on Exocron being an overly patient man, certainly not the type to install doors in his home that took half a minute to open. She could only assume his thinking at that time had been that intruders bent on theft or violence would be similarly impatient.

  Now, of course, with his Aing-Tii tricks, none of it mattered. At least not to him.

  Beneath her hand, the trigger stone gave a gentle bump. Shada held on; and a few seconds later the door finally slid ponderously open.

  She’d expected the library to be as dark as the rest of the house, with only a handful of muted glow panels to show the way around. To her uneasy surprise, the room was lit much more brightly than that. Not as bright as it had been when Car’das showed it to them earlier, but brighter than an uninhabited room ought to be. She slipped inside, ducking to the left out of the doorway; and as she did so, she caught a glimpse of a moving shadow in the central circle near the computer desk.

  Car’das? She bit back a curse. Karrde had already scheduled an early-morning departure for the Wild Karrde’s rendezvous with the Aing-Tii ship. This was her one and only chance to get to the datacard she needed to find.

  And then, drifting up from the computer desk, she heard a muffled but very familiar voice: distinctive, somewhat prissy, and quite mechanical. Silently, she detached herself from the wall and made her way down one of the narrow aisles between the data cases and headed to the center.

  To find that her ears had indeed not been playing tricks on her. “Hello, Mistress Shada,” Threepio said brightly, straightening up from his stooping lean over the computer desk. “I thought you and the others had retired for the night.”

  “I thought you had done so, too,” Shada said, glancing at the nearest data case as she stepped over to him. Each shelf completely packed with stacks of datacards; each stack of datacards standing eight to ten deep. An incredible collection of knowledge. “Or whatever it is droids do at night.”

  “Oh, I usually close down for a time,” Threepio told her. “But during my talk earlier with Master Car’das he suggested I might wish to have a chat with his main computer. Not that the computer aboard the Wild Karrde isn’t decent company, of course,” he added hastily. “But I must admit I sometimes miss Artoo and others of my own kind.”

  “I understand,” Shada assured him, a lump forming in her throat. “It can be very lonely to be somewhere where you’re out of place.”

  “Really,” Threepio said interestedly. “I suppose I’ve always assumed human beings were adaptable to most every place and circumstance.”

  “Being adaptable to something doesn’t necessarily mean you like it,” Shada pointed out. “In many ways I’m as much out of place aboard the Wild Karrde as you are.”

  The droid tilted his head. “I’m so sorry, Mistress Shada,” he said, sounding pained. “I had no idea you felt that way. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Maybe help me return to where I belong.” Shada gestured down at the computer desk. “Have you gotten to know the computer well enough to be able to do a search of Car’das’s library?”

  “Certainly,” Threepio said, his voice suddenly wary. “But this is Master Car’das’s equipment. I’m not sure I should—”

  “It’ll be all right,” Shada soothed him. “I’m not going to steal anything. All I want is one small piece of information.”

  “I suppose that would be all right,” Threepio said, still sounding uncertain. “We are his guests, after all, and guests often have the tacit run of the household—”

  He stopped as Shada held up a hand. “Can you do the search?” she asked again.

  “Yes, Mistress Shada,” he replied in a somewhat subdued voice. “What is it you wish to search for?”

  Shada took a deep breath—

  “Emberlene,” a quiet voice came from behind her. “The planet Emberlene.”

  “Oh, my!” Threepio gasped. Shada spun around, dropping into a slight crouch, her hand diving beneath her tunic to the grip of her blaster—

  “Forgive me,” Car’das said, coming into view around the inner circle of data cases. “I didn’t mean to startle you that way.”

  “I certainly hope not,” Shada said, her grip still on her blaster, muscles and reflexes preparing for combat. If Car’das took exception to her being here … “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to hear me,” he said, smiling. “You’re not planning to use that blaster, are you?”

  So much for Mistryl subtlety. “No, of course not,” she said, withdrawing her hand empty. “I was just—”

  She broke off, frowning, as the words he had spoken a moment earlier suddenly penetrated her conscious mind. “What did you say when you came in?”

  “I told Threepio you wanted to do a search for the planet Emberlene,” Car’das said, eyeing her steadily. “That is what you were going to look up, wasn’t it, my young Mistryl shadow guard?”

  Her first impulse was to deny it. But looking into that even gaze, she knew it would be a waste of effort. “How long have you known?” she asked instead.

  “Oh, not long at all,” he said, waving a hand in an oddly self-deprecating gesture. “I suspected, of course, but I didn’t actually know until you defeated those four swoopers outside Bombaasa’s place.”

  Shada grimaced. “So Karrde was right,” she said. “He thought giving Bombaasa his name would eventually get it back to you.”

  Car’das shook his head. “You misunderstand. Bombaasa doesn’t work for me, nor I for him. In fact, aside from Entoo Nee and the other few in my household, no one actually works for me at all.”

  “Right—you’re retired,” Shada growled. “I forgot.”

  “Or else you don’t truly believe,” Car’das countered. “Tell me, what is it you want for Emberlene?”

  “What everyone else wants,” she shot back. “At least what they want for big, important worlds like Caamas. I want justice for my people.”

  Car’das shook his head. “Your people don’t want justice, Shada,” he said, an infinite sadness in his voice. “They never did.”

  “What are you talking about?” Shada demanded, feeling her face warming. “How dare you judge us? How dare you judge anyone? Sitting out here all high and mighty, never deigning to get your own hands dirty, while everyone else fights and bleeds and dies—”

  She broke off, her rising fury at his attitude battling against her deeply ingrained fear of losing control. “You don’t know what it’s like on Emberlene,” she bit out. “You’ve never seen the suffering and squalor. You have no business saying we’ve given up.”

  Car’das’s eyebrows lifted. “I never said you’d given up,” he corrected her gently. “What I said was that you didn’t want justice.”

  “Then what do we want?” Shada snarled. “Charity? Pity?”

  “No.” Car’das shook his head. “Vengeance.”

  Shada felt her eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you know why Emberlene died, Shada?” Car’das asked. “Not how it died—not the firestorming and massive air and space attack that finally crushed it—but why?”

  She stared at him, a dark uneasiness beginning to swirl into the flame of her anger and frustration. There was something behi
nd his eyes that she didn’t like the look of at all. “Someone feared our growing power and prestige and decided to make an example of us,” she said carefully. “Some think that person was Palpatine himself, which is why we’ve never worked for his Empire.”

  The eyebrows lifted again. “Never?”

  Shada had to look away from that gaze. “We had millions of refugees to feed and clothe,” she said, her voice sounding hollowly defensive in her ears. “Yes, sometimes we worked even for the Empire.”

  For a moment the room was filled with an awkward silence. “Principles are so often like that, aren’t they?” Car’das said at last. “So very slippery. So hard to hold on to.”

  Shada looked back at him again, trying to come up with a properly scathing retort. But nothing came to mind. In Emberlene’s case—in the Mistryl’s case—his quiet cynicism was all too true.

  “At any rate, that particular principle was of no real value,” Car’das continued. “As it happens, Palpatine had nothing to do with Emberlene’s destruction.”

  He stepped past her and around to the data case behind Threepio. “I have the true history of your world right here,” he said, waving at the top row of datacards. “I pulled all the information together once I knew you’d be coming here with Karrde. Would you like to see it?”

  Automatically, Shada stepped toward him … hesitated. “What do you mean by true?” she asked. “What does anyone mean by true? We both know history is written by the winners.”

  “History is also written by the bystanders,” Car’das said, his hand still up beside the datacards. “By the Caamasi, and the Alderaanians, and the Jedi. Peoples who had no part or stake in what happened. Would you accuse all of them of lying?”

  Shada swallowed, fear and a horrible sense of inevitability twisting itself around her throat. “And what do all these disinterested parties say?” she asked.

  Slowly, Car’das lowered his hand. “They say that three years before its destruction,” he said gently, “the rulers of Emberlene set off on a rampage of conquest. That for the first two and a half of those years they destroyed and conquered and plundered every one of the dozen other worlds within their reach.”