Chaos Rising

by Timothy Zahn

  At least, that was what Thrawn and Ar’alani hoped they would see. The question now was how much of the Rapacc incident the Nikardun had shared with their allies.

  And, even more important, if they’d also shared whatever countermeasures they’d come up with for any future uses of the gambit.

  Apparently, the answer to both was yes. “Probe is faltering,” Dalvu announced. “Vigilant seems to be losing control.”

  “Comm interference increasing,” Samakro confirmed, peering at the comm displays. “Lioaoi are trying to jam Vigilant’s control signal. To jam and override.”

  Samakro looked at the tactical. The probe’s original vector had been toward the ventral ship in the Lioaoin formation. Now it was wavering back and forth as the Vigilant and the Lioaoi fought for control.

  The Lioaoi won. With a final skittering surge, the probe settled down on a new vector, one that would take it harmlessly through the center of the Lioaoin formation and from there to disappear into the empty light-years of the Chaos. “At least we know now that they can learn,” Samakro commented.

  “Indeed,” Thrawn agreed. “And as you see, Mid Captain, that can be a good or a bad thing.”

  “Yes, sir,” Samakro said. The probe was nearly to the Lioaoin ships, moving steadily now under the control of its new masters. It entered the open space in the center of the formation—

  “Fire,” Thrawn said.

  At their current distance, Samakro knew, certainly against warships equipped with electrostatic barriers, a spectrum laser attack would be not just futile but laughable. But the warships weren’t Thrawn’s target. Instead, the Springhawk’s lasers flashed a burst of energy into the small, unprotected shuttle.

  And as the hull shattered, the four breaching missiles that had been packed aboard shot outward, one toward each of the Lioaoin warships.

  The Lioaoi saw the attack coming, of course, and even at so close a range they had enough time to respond. But with a friendly ship directly behind each incoming missile, none of the warships could launch the level of countermeasures necessary to fully neutralize the attack. A few laser shots tentatively lanced out, and one of the missiles was caught and disintegrated. But the blast merely released the warhead’s acid globs, leaving the deadly fluid to continue onward toward its target. A second later, as the warships tried in vain to move out of harm’s way, the missiles struck.

  The actual physical damage was probably minimal. Even the incredibly strong acid that breachers were loaded with could penetrate only so deep into a warship’s hull, and the lateral spread of a single missile’s worth was only so great. Electronics, sensors, and weapons systems would be damaged, but that damage would be fairly localized.

  But the psychological effect more than made up for it. All four Lioaoin ships lurched violently, breaking formation. A second later the moment of instinctive panic seemed to subside, and the captains began systematically rotating away from the Chiss ships, trying to turn their new points of vulnerability out of the reach of enemy lasers.

  They had each managed about a forty-degree turn when the Vigilant’s lasers flashed out.

  And the second shuttle—the dark, silent, cold, all-but-undetectable second shuttle that had been towed invisibly behind the first—shattered and sent its own cargo of breacher missiles into the reeling Lioaoin warships.

  “Lioaoin Regime, I’m still waiting for that explanation,” Ar’alani’s voice came over the speaker. “Perhaps you should start with an apology, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Lioaoin ships falling back,” Dalvu reported. “Two other ships rising from defense orbit.”

  “Admiral?” Thrawn asked.

  “Apparently, they’re not yet ready to concede,” Ar’alani said, her voice icy. “Fine. We’re here to deliver a message. Let’s deliver it.”

  “Acknowledged,” Thrawn said. “Springhawk: Prepare for battle.”

  * * *

  —

  There was a soft double-thump from somewhere nearby. Che’ri, sitting in her chair pretending to draw, gave a violent jerk. “What was that?” she whispered.

  “It’s okay,” Thalias said from the couch facing Che’ri’s chair, where she’d been pretending to read. “Probably just some stray shrapnel from a missile our lasers destroyed.”

  “What about the acid?” Che’ri asked, peering at the upper corner of the suite.

  “There isn’t any,” Thalias said, sternly ordering her own heart to calm down. “We’re the only ones who use breacher missiles with acid. Everyone else uses explosives. Once our lasers destroy or detonate them, there’s nothing that keeps coming toward us.” There was another set of thumps, six of them this time. “Except maybe a few small leftover pieces of the missile,” she amended.

  “What happens if the pieces get through?”

  “They won’t,” Thalias assured her. “The electrostatic barrier can slow them down a little, but more important is that the Springhawk has really good, thick armor.”

  “Okay,” Che’ri said. But it was clear from her anxious expression that she wasn’t really satisfied. “How come nobody else uses acid?”

  “I don’t know,” Thalias said. “I suppose it’s not as impressive as explosives. Probably harder to make the missiles work, too.”

  “How come we do?”

  “Because when it works, it works really well,” Thalias said, feeling a twinge of sympathy. When she was Che’ri’s age, the officers and caregivers would never answer her questions about things like this. Only later had she learned they’d been forbidden to talk to sky-walkers about these details.

  Probably still were, actually, which meant Thalias would likely get in trouble if anyone found out about this. But she could remember feeling terrified during her ships’ battles as she sat alone with her caregiver and wondered what was going on.

  Knowing how the ship’s weapons worked might not be much comfort. But then again, it might.

  “If the missile gets close enough before the enemy’s lasers hit it, the acid will keep going as a big glob,” she continued. “Pretty hard to shoot down a glob of liquid. Electrostatic barriers can’t do much to slow it down, either, so when it hits it starts eating into the metal of the hull.”

  “So it opens the hull to space?”

  “Not unless the hull is very thin or has already been damaged,” Thalias said. “But it can destroy any sensors or fire-control systems and corrode any communications links that cross the area. Even better, from our point of view, it blackens the hull metal and creates pits, both of which help the metal underneath absorb the next batch of spectrum laser fire we put there.”

  “And that opens the hull to space?”

  “It absolutely can,” Thalias said. “It won’t wreck the whole ship, of course—you’ve seen how many emergency bulkheads the Springhawk has down the passageways. But it’s a warning to the enemy ship that we have the upper hand.”

  There was another double-clunk, farther away this time. “What happens if one of these pieces hits the viewport?” Che’ri asked.

  “Probably nothing,” Thalias said. “The point defenses around the bridge are pretty good, and there are blast shields that can be raised if they see something big coming. And the viewport material itself is pretty strong and thick.”

  “I mean, it’s nice being able to see outside when we’re flying somewhere,” Che’ri mused. “But I always worry that we’ll run into something.”

  “It’s a risk,” Thalias conceded. “But the viewports aren’t just because we like looking at the stars. There are lots of ways that sensors and electronics can be damaged or distracted or confused. The bridge officers need to be able to actually see what’s going on out there. There are also a couple of triangulation observation areas where other warriors can help aim and focus our attacks.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Che’ri peered cl
osely at her. “How come no one’s ever told me this before?”

  “They’re not supposed to,” Thalias admitted. “Actually, there are a lot of things they’re not supposed to tell sky-walkers.”

  “Yeah.” Che’ri made a face. “They treat me like a—” She broke off.

  “Like a child?” Thalias suggested.

  “I’m not a child,” Che’ri flared. “I’m almost ten years old.”

  Thalias’s first reflex was to point out that ten years old was well within the definition of childhood. Her second reflex was to try the kind of soothing there, there noises that her caregivers had so often given her.

  But as she looked into the girl’s eyes, into all that fear and uncertainty, she realized neither approach would be any good. The two of them were far more alike than Thalias had realized until now, and for her the only thing that could ease fear was knowledge. “I know,” she said, nodding tacit recognition of Che’ri’s assessment of herself. “More than that, you’ve lived through more pressure and stress in the past three years than most Chiss will face in their entire lifetimes.”

  Che’ri’s eyes turned away. “It’s okay,” she muttered.

  “It’s okay—and it’s going to be okay—because you’re strong,” Thalias said. “You’re a sky-walker, and Third Sight seems to come with a special mental toughness.”

  “I don’t know,” Che’ri said, her eyes focused on something light-years away that only she could see. “I don’t feel very tough.”

  “Well, you are,” Thalias said. “Trust me. And for whatever it’s worth, most of the things they don’t tell you they also don’t tell anyone outside the military. Most of what I just said I had to dig out on my own after I left.”

  “Did you get in trouble?”

  “Not really. I got a few warnings, though.” Thalias made a show of wrinkling her nose as if in thought. “Though I suppose I might have gotten some other people in trouble.”

  That got her a small, tentative smile. “Did they deserve it?”

  “I like to think the galaxy runs on balance,” Thalias said. “Those who deserve trouble get it, and those who don’t, don’t.”

  “You really think it works that way?”

  Thalias huffed out a sigh. “Not even close,” she conceded. “Sadly. You hear that?”

  Che’ri looked up, frowning. “No.”

  “Exactly,” Thalias said, feeling a small sense of relief. “There haven’t been any more shrapnel thuds. I think the battle is over.”

  “I hope so,” Che’ri said, straining her ears. “I hate battles.”

  “So does everyone else,” Thalias said. “Well. There’ll probably be some talking now, and Captain Thrawn will let the Lioaoi know he could have flattened their whole planet if he’d wanted to, and then some more talking. Somewhere along in there we’ll be called back to the bridge, and you’ll start us on the path for home.”

  “I hope so,” Che’ri said, a shiver running through her.

  “Trust me,” Thalias said. “So that leaves us only two questions.”

  Che’ri frowned. “Which ones?”

  “What you want for dinner,” Thalias said, “and whether you want to eat it now or wait until your first break.”

  Recruitment duty, Aristocra Zistalmu reflected as he awaited his visitor, was among the most tedious of tasks a family member could be assigned. Tedious, and usually frustrating. Most of the time, the recruiter didn’t even know why that particular person had been chosen.

  In this case, at least, Zistalmu knew exactly why Mitth’raw’nuru had been chosen. And he wondered if the Irizi family had gone completely mad.

  The expected tap came at the door, at precisely the specified time. “Come,” Zistalmu called.

  The panel slid open. “Senior Commander Mitth’raw’nuru, reporting as requested,” his visitor said formally as he stepped into the room.

  “Senior Commander Thrawn,” Zistalmu said, nodding and gesturing to the chair in front of him. “I’m Aristocra Irizi’stal’mustro.”

  “Aristocra Zistalmu,” Thrawn said, nodding in return as he lowered himself into the indicated chair. “I was surprised to receive your invitation.”

  “Yes,” Zistalmu said, keeping his voice neutral. “I understand you briefly visited the Irizi family homestead a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Yes,” Thrawn said. “I don’t recall seeing you there.”

  “Sadly, the press of Syndicure business prevented me from being at the event,” Zistalmu said. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself over the past few years.”

  “Sometimes that name is appended to a curse.”

  At least he recognized how polarizing his career and he himself were. Zistalmu hadn’t been sure the man was even that self-aware. “Sometimes people don’t appreciate your talents and skills,” he said. “I understand you’ve had some problems with certain members of the Mitth family.”

  Thrawn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I understood that the family still supports me.”

  “Perhaps,” Zistalmu said, the bitter taste of resentment in his mouth. Why the Irizi family wanted this man was beyond him, and why they’d saddled him with the recruitment was even more opaque. But he’d been given the job, and there was nothing he could do but see it through. “I simply note that those who feel your exploits reflect badly on the family aren’t reluctant to say so.”

  “I’m sorry they’re displeased,” Thrawn said. “At the same time, I have to fulfill my duties to the Expansionary Defense Fleet to the best of my ability.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Zistalmu said. “But I’ve asked you here to assure you that, whether or not the Mitth recognize your dedication, the Irizi family certainly does.”

  “Thank you,” Thrawn said, inclining his head. “Though given the tensions between our two families, I doubt your support will help my position.”

  “I believe the Irizi family was thinking of helping your position more directly.”

  A frown creased Thrawn’s forehead. “How?”

  Mentally, Zistalmu shook his head. In the military realm, Thrawn had demonstrated a fair degree of insight and tactical ability. But in the political realm, he might as well have been dropped straight out of the sky. “I’m suggesting that you detach from the Mitth,” he said, “and accept a position instead with the Irizi.”

  “A position as merit adoptive?”

  “Not at all,” Zistalmu said, bracing himself. This was the most odious part of the whole offer. “That may be good enough for the Mitth, but not the Irizi. We’re prepared to offer you the position of Trial-born.”

  “That’s…very interesting,” Thrawn said, clearly taken aback. “I…that’s extremely generous.”

  “It’s no more than you deserve,” Zistalmu said. That had caught his attention, all right. A merit adoptive brought in via military service automatically lost the relationship when that service ended. A Trial-born not only kept the connection but if deemed worthy could advance to the status of ranking distant, where his bloodline would thereafter be incorporated into the family’s. “And of course, coming in at that status means you wouldn’t ever need to go through the Trials themselves. Your exemplary service has apparently been deemed an adequate substitute.”

  “I’m both honored and humbled,” Thrawn said. “I’m not certain how my detachment from the Mitth would benefit the Irizi.”

  “It would serve in many ways,” Zistalmu said. “Our overall presence in the military—well, that’s a political matter. Nothing you need concern yourself with. Let’s just say that we can always use another distinguished high-ranking military officer, and the Irizi believe you’re the best choice.”

  “I see,” Thrawn said, nodding slowly, his forehead creased in thought.

  Zistalmu held his breath. If this worked—if Thrawn accepted the offer—then it would be finis
hed. The Irizi would have him, and the Mitth wouldn’t.

  Whether the Irizi would someday regret that was of course another question. But that was their problem. All Zistalmu needed to focus on was how a successful recruitment here and now—whether he agreed with it or not—would raise his own name and prestige within the family.

  “I appreciate your interest,” Thrawn said. “But I can’t make a decision without further thought.”

  “Think as long as you wish,” Zistalmu said, keeping his face neutral, struggling to balance the mix of annoyance, regret, and relief. Was Thrawn really such a fool that he couldn’t see how immensely valuable this move would be? “Just bear in mind that if you delay too long, some other up-and-coming officer might catch the family’s eye instead.”

  “I understand,” Thrawn said. “Thank you for your time, and for your offer.” He stood to go, then paused. “Your comment about distinguished high-ranking officers. It occurs to me that you already have one such in your family: Senior Captain Ziara.”

  “Yes, we do,” Zistalmu said ruefully. “But not, I’m afraid, for much longer.”

  * * *

  —

  “Senior Captain Irizi’ar’alani,” Supreme Admiral Ja’fosk intoned. “Stand forth.”

  This was it. Bracing herself, trying to keep her breathing steady, Ziara stepped forward into the center of the floodlit circle facing Ja’fosk and the other two senior officers.

  “State your name,” Ja’fosk said in that same death-knell tone.

  “Senior Captain Irizi’ar’alani,” Ziara said. Was he trying to be intimidating, she wondered, or was that merely a side effect of his ultra-formal voice?

  “That person no longer exists,” Ja’fosk said. “That name no longer exists. You are no longer of Irizi. You are no longer of any family.”

  Ziara held his gaze, a knot in her stomach. She’d known this moment was coming for the past week, and had anticipated it for much longer. But even with all that mental preparation, it was an unexpectedly emotional moment. Unlike many Irizi, she’d been born into the family, with no merit challenges, rematches, or Trials to pass. She was a full-blood daughter, with all the privileges and honor that position bestowed.