Nine years, seven months, and twenty-one days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, seven months, and twenty-one days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and six days since the arrival)
The very first problem hit them the moment they emerged from an unremarkable "dead end" into one of the corridors leading through the entire residential wing. A patrol rounded the corner, heading straight toward them.
— Hey, you two! — came the voice of the obvious leader of the group, jabbing a shock baton in Mara's direction. Oh, how clever, so confident in their safety they don't even carry blasters. The girl sensed the suspicion radiating from both Republic guards, sharply contrasting with the fear and confusion of Ghent, who shuffled beside her. The kid nearly bolted. Only a subtle "rear" trip from Mara stopped his flight and, in effect, saved them both from instant exposure. — What are you doing here?
The "slicer" looked around like a hunted animal, trying to figure out how he'd ended up sprawled on the floor. Mara, meanwhile, slapped on the mask of a weary technician—a role she'd been playing so far—and waved at the guards:
— Praise the Force we've finally found someone! — she flashed an exhausted smile. — This palace is so huge that…
— Who are you, and what are you doing here?! — The guards closed in almost right up to them. Smart tactic—makes it easier to paralyze a target with a baton. And dumb at the same time—if the "target" is ready, that shock baton could end up straight down the attacker's throat. But today, Mara decided, for a change, not to warm up her fists on enemy grunts.
Slowly, oh so slowly, as if climbing a long, steep staircase, Mara Jade forced herself to pull two identification cards from the pocket of her tech jumpsuit:
— Technicians, — she explained, beaming such gratitude from her face that the second guard even blushed. Seriously? Kid, quit this job. If a smiling girl throws you off, what'll you do when she breaks your nose and a couple of ribs? — They sent us to figure out the periodic glitches in the palace's internal comms…
— Only now?! — gasped the younger guard, earning a sharp, expressive glare from his older, more seasoned partner and boss, prompting the kid to shut up. Well… at least he's got the beginnings of a brain.
— The comlinks have been glitchy for a whole week, — grumbled the senior guard, eyeing how the fragile-looking girl struggled to help her clumsy colleague back to his feet. Mara could practically feel where the two guards' gazes were drifting. In her younger days, this game with her body annoyed her, but now… Whatever, it's part of the role. — Didn't they fix it three days ago or something?
— So they're working for you? — Mara perked up. — If they are, we'd happily get out of here! I spent two hours looking for this klutz, — she gave Ghent a friendly smack on the back of the head. — Imagine this: he got lost on this floor. And our comlinks aren't working to find each other. If I hadn't started poking into every corner, you'd have died here! — she said reproachfully. — What, never heard the stories? Palpatine and Vader "lost" people here left and right when they wanted someone gone! It's a labyrinth, honestly…!
— That's all just tall tales, — the senior guard said, handing back their forged IDs. — Stories the Imps spread to make everyone scared of them.
Under different circumstances, Mara could've regaled him with a couple of tales about clerks who died at their desks here in the Imperial Palace, only to be found as mummified remains. But that would've blown her cover.
— Your cards check out fine, — the patrol leader said, scrutinizing the "technicians." — Though I don't recall seeing you around here before.
— I don't recall seeing you either, — Mara scrunched her face in mock confusion, tapping her full lips with her index finger. — Have you been working here long?
— Half a year already, — the guards tensed. The senior one rested his hand on his baton.
— Oh, — Mara drawled simply. — That explains it. This is our first time in this wing. We were in the Vestibule before.
— So what are you doing here if your section's the Vestibule? — Suspicion lingered in the senior guard's voice.
— Well, — Mara nudged Ghent in the shoulder, — because of him.
Honestly, she wasn't even lying. It was her "slicer" who'd triggered the cascading shutdowns of some of the Imperial Palace's systems. Done ahead of time, carefully, to ensure their cover held.
— And what'd he do? — the senior guard asked. Fear flickered in Ghent's eyes.
— Decided to earn a few extra credits, — Mara sighed. — Heard they're planning to host some big shots in this wing, so he ran to the brass like, "I'm such a hotshot, I'll fix it quick." So they sent us here. Me to check the lighting systems in the common areas, and him to figure out what's up with the relays in this wing. And this klutz still managed to get lost somewhere. Honestly, guys, he nearly vanished here! Good thing he had the sense to backtrack the same way. Or close enough. Anyway, I found him in that dead end over there, — she pointed to the spot they'd emerged from. — Standing there, scratching his head… Probably thought there was a way through.
— Why're you doing all the talking for him? — the senior guard asked suspiciously. He eyed Ghent, who was trembling like a starship landing with busted stabilizers. — What, he mute or something?
Mara plastered an offended look on her face.
— Calling him names isn't nice! — she declared. — He's been mute since birth! But he's sharp as a tack!
— Uh… — the younger guard scratched the back of his head now. — How do you even talk over comlinks if he can't speak?
— What's the locator function and text messaging for? — Mara widened her eyes. — If I need him, I write him—like he does me. If we need to meet, we track each other with the comlink beacons.
— Fancy stuff, — the senior guard said, puzzled. — We should check you out properly through the central post, but these kriffing comlinks aren't working!
— Well, that's his fault, — Mara shifted the blame onto Ghent again. Good thing the "slicer" had the sense to keep quiet. — Should've fixed stuff instead of wandering the halls.
— Exactly, — the younger guard nodded eagerly. — Without comlinks, we're like handless. You two get going, find out why the comm devices aren't working here, and fix it…
— Always happy to, — Mara assured him. — If we could just find the local library…
— What's there? — the younger guard perked up.
— It's a common area, — Mara reminded him. — Like I said, they're planning to move some bigwigs into this wing. So we're running around like stung mynocks, working our tails off.
— Brass always has their own plans, — the younger guard nodded. — Well, — he waved down the corridor tunnel, — get going then…
— Not so fast, — the senior colleague cautioned. Pointing at the small bags slung over Mara and Ghent's shoulders, he asked:
— What's in there?
— Stuff, — Jade shrugged, still playing the simpleton. Ghent, meanwhile, gripped the strap of his bag tightly.
"If this keeps up, he'll give us away with his behavior," Mara thought.
— It's fine, — she smiled gently at her partner. — They just need to check our bags. It's their job.
She wasn't worried about the contents. Even if this pair gave her a full pat-down, all they'd find were a couple of standard multitools and a custom-made thermos. They could even drink from it—not poisoned, for a change. Though the real internal volume didn't match what it looked like from the outside.
Ghent's bag had a simple datapad, some cheap Coruscant street snacks, another thermos with a hidden trick in the flask, and that was it.
Sure enough, the lack of any threat convinced the pair. The younger guard even made a show of poking around Ghent's datapad, and Mara almost thought he looked disappointed when he found nothing but a couple of perfectly legal diagnostic programs and adapters for various network types. Those weren't banned in the New Republic either.
— The nearest library's that way, — the senior guard waved toward the far end of the corridor. Mara followed his "tip" with utmost seriousness, mentally noting he'd conveniently forgotten to mention another library just ten meters ahead, one level down. The Emperor had cared about the comfort of the sentients living in his Palace—including easy access to the most comprehensive open data sources.
— Oh wow, — she smiled. — Thanks-thanks-thanks, I was starting to think we'd never see those overtime credits. So, maybe you could tell us how to get out of here after so we don't get lost? — she asked. She knew the real answer. But she wanted to hear what these two would say.
A standard patrol on this floor included five security teams. Each had its own route. And these two probably wanted to cross paths with her again after the "technicians" finished their work. The younger one would drown in his own drool soon, ogling her curves. Oh, kid, this beauty isn't training for you. Or anyone, really. A fit, good-looking body, in Mara's case, wasn't about seeking attention or approval—it was, oddly enough, a byproduct of the training she needed to stay in top shape. But a toned, pleasing figure did help her bamboozle suckers like these.
— Down this corridor, — the senior guard said curtly, — keep going straight. Turn left, and you'll find the exit.
— Got it, thanks-thanks, — Mara nodded like a bobblehead. Despite her real mood, she politely thanked them both for their "help," suppressing the urge to clearly and concisely explain where she'd seen all these incompetent advisors before—considering she could find her way through any corner of the Palace blindfolded. But she had to keep playing the part.
Over her years as the Emperor's Hand, she'd gotten used to slipping effortlessly into the role of a dim-witted, slightly silly woman. Men rarely expected a threat from someone like that. And they often ended up unpleasantly surprised by the consequences.
Waving goodbye to the guards, she grabbed Ghent by the arm and strolled off down the corridor with him, feeling two pairs of eyes boring into her back. Animals. How does Coruscant tolerate them? Where's all that vaunted "HoloNet" decency every Republic soldier's supposed to have, from bread-slicer to launcher operator? Looks like when they were handing it out, these two got barely a crumb.
— Slow down, — she hissed at Ghent. — They're watching us.
— Who? — Ghent blinked rapidly. At least he didn't turn his head, and the guards couldn't catch his lip movements as the "mute." The senior one still had some suspicions about her—she could feel it through the Force. He couldn't check her identity via comlink unless he abandoned his post and hoofed it to central dispatch. They'd confirm a technician like her existed—Ghent had tweaked one of the databases. The problem was, just one.
The women's.
He hadn't cracked the men's database for the Imperial Palace staff. Tried, but failed. And since it didn't work on the first go, Mara forbade him from tempting the Force with more hacks. So they fell back on the tried-and-true forgery scheme. It'd work once. Until the guards figured things out.
But this pair's patrol route was clearly a long one—they'd suggested she trek five kilometers down the main corridor to the central stairs as an exit. As if they didn't know about the spare and service exits.
No. Of course they knew. They couldn't be so dumb as to not have scoured every millimeter of the Palace's walls and panels, missing the hidden passages or the routes to concealed landing pads. But overlooking dozens of turbolifts and staircases… No, this pair wanted her to loop around this residential section. Probably until they could verify her and Ghent's IDs. And they wouldn't sound the alarm—not wanting to spook her and Ghent. They'd just send spec ops teams from both ends of the corridor to nab the "unarmed spies" alive.
But they didn't know this place like she did.
This was a floor for VIP guests—one of the few corners of the Palace the Emperor left exactly as it was before he took power. Walking these corridors, with their ancient hinged doors—not sliding ones—wall panels, and furnishings adorned with intricate hand carvings, was like stepping a thousand years into the past. The Emperor usually reserved these rooms for those nostalgic for the old days or who appreciated such continuity of eras. Few knew it was all a façade to hide Palpatine's countless secrets. When everything looks like it did twenty years ago, a guest wouldn't suspect a carved panel of rare wood might be a secret door, from which a killer could emerge to slit their throat with a garrote in two swift moves. Or drag them through hidden passages straight to the dungeons, where interrogators would expertly turn their victim inside out to get what they needed. Only now did she wonder if some of those poor souls had confessed falsely just to end their torment.
Reaching the library hall's door, Mara swiped her card across the panel's reader. The red lock light switched to green.
— Let's get to work, — she said in the same simpleton tone, keeping up the act.
But the moment the door closed behind them, the girl transformed.
So did Ghent, who lit up at the sight of cutting-edge computer equipment installed in dozens across the library's expanse. The very one the guards had directed them to. So they'd know exactly where to look if it came to that. The residential suites were sealed—no getting in there now.
— Don't gawk, — Mara advised him. — We're not staying long.
— Huh? — Ghent blinked. — I thought you wanted to hit the Imperial data center straight from the library.
— Yeah, — the Jedi agreed. The Force told her no sentients were here. But that could change any second—once spec ops came for them. — But not this one.
— What, there's a bunch of libraries here? — Ghent asked, stunned. He was probably calculating the funding scale the Emperor must've thrown around if building multiple setups like this—stocked with computer terminals, each worth a decent starship— wasn't an issue.
— One per floor in the residential VIP wing, — Mara explained. — They're laid out perfectly symmetrically for convenience. We're in the second hall. We'll work in the first. One level down.
— How…? — Ghent started to ask, but she silenced him with a look, ordering him to sit and stay out of sight.
Mara moved along the shelves of data chips, searching for what she needed.
Only when she turned a corner, out of Ghent's view, did she let herself step aside, lean her back against the end of another shelf, and slide slowly to the floor.
Her legs felt like cotton, suddenly weak. She'd been here back then, the moment the Emperor died at Endor. She'd seen it all. Seen Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader supposedly kill Palpatine—poor guy, betrayed by his own right hand. What a drama. The wrinkled paranoid had thoroughly brainwashed her. But thanks to Thrawn, she'd pulled through. So why was she trembling now?
Was it because she'd returned to where her childhood and youth had unfolded? In one of these halls, after the first Death Star's destruction, she'd first learned of a sentient named Luke Skywalker. Not from just anyone, but from Darth Vader himself. He'd been hunting his son through Imperial databases. She'd gotten lucky by chance—pulling off a little trick with a computer terminal to recover Vader's last active files…
She wondered: if the Dark Lord had known back then, nearly ten years ago, that he was an old paranoid needlessly suspecting the Emperor's Hand—an eighteen-year-old brat—of trying to usurp his spot by the Emperor's side with his sleek black armor and sexy raspy breathing, how would he have faced his fated future?
Mara suspected Vader had hunted Skywalker not just for destroying Tarkin and the Emperor's favorite toy. No, he'd likely wanted to turn the younger Skywalker to his side and take on the wrinkled schemer together. Who knows how the galaxy would've turned out if he'd succeeded… For her, though, it'd all end the moment the Skywalker duo usurped Palpatine's throne. Given Vader didn't just "dislike" her but hated her with every fiber of his soul, they'd have snapped her fiery red head off at the first chance.
She shook her red mane, banishing the ghosts of the past. She wasn't here to wallow in memories.
She and Ghent couldn't smuggle weapons into the Imperial Palace—even arriving via a concealed landing pad didn't give them an edge. Like with the guards—they could be searched any moment. So, knowing Ghent was as much a shooter as a rancor was a herbivore, Mara had settled the weapons issue decisively.
That's why they'd come to the library.
She'd already explained to Ghent the difference between the official "one floor, one library" line and the real setup. But that wasn't the key to their mission. She'd come to the library for a weapon.
Every library held a massive tome titled "The Complete History of Lesser Corvis." Mara found it quickly—right where it belonged. Judging by the dust on the chip case, even the Republic hadn't touched it. Why? Because the chronicles of Lesser Corvis were a prime example of dull, unremarkable planetary history—no one visiting these libraries ever thought to check what exciting tidbits might've happened over thousands of years. Mara had once dared to study the original. Nothing had knocked her out faster, not even after brutal training sessions.
In other words, no one in their right mind would bother with this box. Except those who knew its secret.
The blaster she pulled from the Lesser Corvis history case was slightly, but noticeably, different from the one she usually kept in a concealed holster on her left arm. The cartridge's charge wasn't huge, but it'd hold up in a decent firefight.
Returning to Ghent, she slid her gaze over him. The slicer had already gutted his thermos, pulling out chips with the needed software. The datapad was similarly disassembled, revealing the boards and chips inside. The "slicer" worked with focus, fully committed, and fast.
Mara unscrewed her own container, retrieving a hidden holster she clipped into place. Next came the hilt of a lightsaber, once belonging to a Jedi Master. She swore to herself again she'd scrounge the parts and build her own one day.
Quickly booting a couple of computers in the background and loading them with meaningless diagnostic programs, she poured caf from the thermos into mugs, setting them by the active machines. Anyone walking in would think the techs had just stepped away. The tiny power cells hidden in the mugs would keep the caf hot for a long, long time.
— Let's go, — she said, grabbing Ghent's arm and practically dragging him toward the shelves. She tossed one of the now-useless bags onto a chair and stuffed the "thermoses" and the high-capacity data drive from the datapad into the other.
She knew the power grid layout of the Palace's VIP wing by heart. Like many of its secrets. But right now, none of them could help her cut through a half-meter floor slab.
Except the lightsaber.
With a hiss, the energy blade sprang from the hilt, and she plunged it into the floor, making the first cut at the right angle. Cutting a hole was easy. Making sure the removed piece could be replaced without crashing to the level below—and tipping off spec ops to their location—was trickier. Especially for someone who hadn't used the Force in ages. Each time, she had to focus hard. Even after minor manipulations with the guards to read their moods, she felt off. Fatigue was creeping in.
— Whoa, — Ghent said, awestruck. — You've got one of those too?
— Everyone's got their tools, — she replied, making the second cut. The Force echoed that sentients were nearby—but she didn't have time to wait them out. And they didn't seem that close…
After carving a triangular section in the floor, it took Mara three tries to lift the truncated pyramid chunk free. Letting the edges cool, she helped Ghent drop down, then jumped in herself. Calling on the Force again, she slid the cut piece back into place. With every second, it got harder…
Finally, with a creak and a small thud, the hatch sealed shut, and she caught her breath.
— Get to work, — she said, nodding Ghent toward the nearest computer terminals. — Lock all the doors first.
— Done, — he replied after a couple of seconds, diving back into his digital realm. He ran connecting cables between the "thermoses" and the data drive. The cylindrical devices they'd used to smuggle their gear also housed massive data arrays between their outer and inner walls—the most capacious ones credits could buy from Verpines and Givin. Ghent had spent serious time upgrading them, boosting their already sky-high storage. Even then, there was no guarantee they'd pull all the needed data from the info center. So he'd written a heavy-duty data compressor. Still, Mara knew even that might not cut it.
The "slicer" wasted no time, settling at the nearest machine. As the system booted, the young man worked it like a pro sabaac player, gradually plugging more chips into the device's ports. Programs loaded into the computer and spread across the Palace's unified network, turning every terminal in the Emperor's residence from standalone units with individual processors into a massive supercomputer—perfect for a quick hack and data dump from the Palace's depths.
Jade noted how, without any external nudge, the activity lights on every computer terminal in the library started flickering on their own. Gripping the lightsaber tighter, she mentally ran through its activation sequence—already second nature—and began patrolling the library.
The Force hinted at nearby sentients, but she couldn't pinpoint where. No time to flee to another library—the guards could uncover Ghent's fake ID any moment. With the air of distrust here, fueled by government leaks to Thrawn, it wasn't surprising the guards wouldn't slack off. The heavy wooden doors could hold off a brief assault—unless spec ops brought something heftier than standard blasters. Did the guards know each door had a thin durasteel plate in its core, making a breach a slog?
Time—that was the resource they needed to pull this off.
No one planned to destroy the Imperial Palace. Or even paralyze it. Thrawn wanted info. And a little "gift" for anyone trying to crack the Emperor's and Empire's secrets.
Suddenly, Mara caught a faint beeping—someone was trying to retune a comlink. Pointless, since Ghent's intrusion into the Palace network had crashed every comm station, leaving them unresponsive to operators' commands. For the first few hours, at least, it'd look like fallout from the cascading failures that had plagued the Palace for ages.
Mara focused on the Force, stepping out from behind another shelf, hoping to pinpoint the potential threat. But reality was far more mundane.
Striding toward her with a graceful gait was a tall woman with snow-white hair. Her aristocratic face screamed Alderaanian roots, but her walk… She was a fighter. Probably a saboteur.
"Congrats," Mara mentally clapped for herself, tucking her hands behind her back. "You've found your Republic doppelgänger."
— Hello, — the stranger said with a professionally restrained smile. — You're a technician, right?
— Yep, — the girl grinned good-naturedly and nodded. — Fixing glitches here…
— The door to the library was locked, — the white-haired woman explained. — And my computer froze for some reason.
"Not so mysterious," Mara smirked inwardly. This woman was dangerous. She wouldn't let Mara stall for long.
— Locked? — Mara feigned surprise. — Looks like the glitches hit that system too. Any idea what's causing all this? It worked fine for so long, then bam, everything's falling apart!
— Not the slightest clue, — the woman's smile was as cold as her gaze. — So, will you help me with the door?
— Just use another one, — Mara blurted, struggling to hold back from charging head-on. Something about this woman grated on her. Something familiar, subconscious… — There's one at the far end, leads to the turbolifts.
— Another one? — The white eyebrows shot up.
It took Mara a second to process what she'd said.
The Rebel Alliance took Coruscant three years ago. The Imperial Palace was their top prize. They'd fully settled in and repurposed it… AND THEY DON'T KNOW ABOUT THE BACK EXITS?!
"I could've just waltzed in through a side door, hit the backup command center, killed everyone there, and done the job from there," she realized. No Tusken dancing required. Hutt's hell, maybe she should've taken a service turbolift, dropped to the basement, and carved the servers right out of the info center's walls! Seriously?! For once, she'd played it safe, and look—she'd outsmarted herself.
— Yeah, — Jade feigned confusion. — Main entrance is in the library's center, emergency one's at the far end. Everyone knows that.
— I'm hearing it for the first time, — the stranger's voice stayed calm. But Mara caught her sliding her right leg back slightly. The finger play on her right hand—pro fighters did that to shake off tension in the wrist before a scrap. Smart girl. Already prepping for a fight. Too bad it's not happening. One lightsaber jab to your infuriatingly cold, yet gorgeous (kriffing bitch!) face, and all I'd need is to shove you under the nearest table.
— Really? — Mara pressed. — Maybe you're just not from around here?
— I'm Winter, assistant to Princess Leia Organa Solo and Counselor Mon Mothma, — the white-haired woman said without a hint of arrogance. — I'm "from around here" everywhere.
Nope, definitely a bitch. Too valuable a source to kill.
— Oh… — Mara kept stalling for Ghent. She stole a glance at the blonde. She'd read every dossier from the Emperor, Intelligence, the Ubiqtorate, and anyone else who fed the Empire's head info on Rebel leaders and key players, but "Winter" rang no bells. Either she was a fresh "assistant" or had been in the background.
— That's why your face looked familiar. Didn't we cross paths in the Alliance? In supply.
Rear units—monotonous, tedious, and utterly forgettable for any soldier. Unless they were skimming. So it was unlikely this Winter…
— No, — she said firmly. — You were never in Alliance supply.
— We had a small outfit…
— I spent most of the war flying planet to planet, working material support, — Winter replied. Her right hand clenched into a fist. — I know every supply officer in every Rebel group and cell.
— You're kidding, — Mara probed cautiously. A bad feeling was brewing in her chest. — There were hundreds, if not thousands, of cells across the galaxy…
— I remember everything I see, — she answered. — And everyone. They'd drop me into Imperial warehouses, and with one glance, I'd memorize every crate's layout. I've never seen you. Who are you, and what are you doing here?
"Force, you've got a twisted sense of humor," Jade thought grimly. She'd figured out who this was. And it only made her want to take this woman alive more.
In pre-Yavin reports, the Emperor's Hand had stumbled across mentions of a mysterious Rebel agent. No known species, gender, or identity. But their MO and unique gift were documented: eidetic memory. Even in the galaxy, sentients with that talent were rare, barring a few species.
— Nice to finally meet you, Pointer, — Mara smirked sardonically despite herself. — You've spilled a lot of our blood…
— Who are you, and what are you doing here? — Hearing one of her aliases—the one Imps loved—Winter stepped back to widen the gap. — General Solo will be here soon, and then…
— But you must realize, — Mara theatrically ignited the purple blade from her palm, — that won't help you now…
— Emperor's Hand, — Winter's voice wavered. Slightly, almost imperceptibly. Looks like the New Republic had sniffed out a few secrets under the Imperial Palace. The only database listing Mara was down there.
— Now we're acquainted, — Jade grinned, lunging into attack.
***
Over years of service—first aboard a Strike-class medium cruiser in the Republic's Grand Army, then on Imperial ships—Captain Pellaeon had probably fought in hundreds, if not thousands, of battles. At first, you're proud of them, recounting every skirmish to your buddies and acquaintances, painting it in vivid detail with every adjective you can muster to convey how thrilled you were to be aboard a ship in such an epic fight.
After the first hundred, that urge shrinks to brief mentions of only the most gripping ones.
With time, when life becomes an endless string of battles, patrols, repairs, maintenance, pirate clashes, and other drudgery, you want to talk about service as little as possible.
Because it gets old. Humans are wired so that even the brightest moments fade, lose color, and retreat to memory's dusty corners, where you don't bother digging them up.
But Thrawn's arrival… It changed everything.
Not just for Pellaeon himself, but for every crewmember on the starships under his command. Gilad, like many, had been skeptical of Thrawn's knack for winning by studying an enemy's art. Yet he couldn't deny it worked. The string of victories trailing this Chiss spoke for itself.
Skepticism gave way to admiration and respect. And a subconscious urge to understand Thrawn. If he'd once seemed unfathomable, after Obroa-skai, his plans—though far more complex, inventive, and multifaceted—became graspable. Maybe it was the time the Grand Admiral spent aboard the Chimaera, or maybe Pellaeon had learned to read his commander, but he caught himself occasionally glimpsing Thrawn's intent. Though, almost always, the plan turned out deeper and broader. Thrawn hadn't done that before—back then, it was one or two side threads and strict adherence to the main line. Now, he'd casually break operation schedules, tweak them on the fly, allow certain plans to falter (sure, if they ever did—it'd be a sight), and always had backups ready. It was… unusual.
He'd grown more open, less icy. No, Pellaeon could swear (though an atheist's oaths don't fill bellies) that every now and then, the Grand Admiral let slip subtle jokes—unthinkable before.
At first, Pellaeon worried about it. Then he started watching—was something off with the Grand Admiral? A wild thought even crossed his mind (sparked only because Thrawn briefly stopped admiring his holographic museum) that he wasn't himself… And when the Grand Admiral flat-out told him he might not live to see all his plans through and handed him a data chip, Gilad's brain nearly shorted out.
It all clicked into place.
Thrawn was seriously considering his own death. He'd learned something—something critical and grim. And it changed him. Just enough to make him… more human, maybe?
Not that he'd ever been Hutt-like. But his demeanor used to drip with excessive mystery. He'd pluck answers from thin air, read an enemy from one maneuver. Now, Thrawn was… more human, wasn't he?
He'd started smiling—restrained, but still. He showed hints of emotion—Gilad still couldn't admit what shocked him more in the Grand Admiral's office: the noghri and guardsman trying to kill each other, or Thrawn raising his voice with a flash of irritation on his face.
But what baffled Gilad most was how willingly the Grand Admiral explained what he was doing. Sure, only when Pellaeon "ripened" to the right questions. Still, progress. Fighting under a genius like Thrawn was any soldier's dream. But it stung when you were just a secretary next to him, executing orders while tactical initiative—up to the Hast shipyards battle—was relentlessly squashed and ignored. Well, maybe after this mission, he'd owe Captain Mor a drink for being stubborn enough to call Thrawn out to his face. And surviving…
Gilad knew how most fleet commanders saw him. A spineless yes-man whose days of glory and talent were long gone. Maybe that's why Thrawn picked him as his flagship captain?
And he really feared he was the reason Thrawn had become so… human, maybe? That air of mystery had dulled a bit; the Chiss even seemed to fit organically among the humans on the Chimaera, despite his skin and glowing eyes—a tall order. But over the past months, he'd become what they call an "officer-father."
Pellaeon had overheard lower ranks on his ship discussing Thrawn's ruthlessness toward enemies at Honoghr: yet it was standard to lose a few ships in battle. No one would've batted an eye at how battered that Strike-class cruiser was. But Thrawn instantly reshaped the fight, using overwhelming fire from a Star Destroyer to shred an assault frigate. He didn't explain why—no one asked—but the grunts firmly believed the Grand Admiral avenged their fleet's wounded. Few survived on that Strike-class. None on the frigate.
Pellaeon hadn't pegged Thrawn as vengeful before and could've assumed he was just countering a potential breach to save the "cripple"… He could've even lectured the grunts to clear their misconception, but he stopped himself.
Nearly six years had passed since the second Death Star's destruction and the Galactic Empire's collapse began. Loss after loss, wiping out trained, skilled fleet personnel. Replaced by green kids, further demoralized by defeats. And Thrawn gave them hope. Showed the enemy could be beaten. Even outnumbered.
So Pellaeon said nothing. People need something to believe in. Why not that Thrawn had grown more human, even embracing vengeance for fallen subordinates?
Even if he'd softened emotionally, become "simpler," his plans… Hutt's hell! He'd cracked the Mon Calamari commander's moves at Hast from just a couple of artworks! Sometimes it made your head spin with all these plans within plans… Gilad itched to ask the Grand Admiral if he ever got tangled in them himself. Or maybe kept notes somewhere? If so, sharing wouldn't hurt, instead of just doling out "checkpoints" timed to the minute.
Still, Pellaeon figured Thrawn would spill it all himself. When he found the right questions. And asked them.
The Chimaera's commander sighed, watching a massive golden-brown celestial body loom through his ship's central viewport.
— Gives me the creeps thinking anyone could live on that lifeless rock, — Pellaeon grimaced, commenting on his first glimpse of the planet Lok.
Planet Lok.
— The galaxy's full of surprises, — the Grand Admiral mused philosophically, seated as always in his chair at the center of the command platform. Calm, unflappable.
— That's why we approached Lok while its moon's on the other side of its orbit, — the Chimaera's commander nodded toward the tactical display showing data on the Karthakk system. Especially the planet closest to the Star Destroyer and its escort, the Black Asp.
— Correct, Captain, — Thrawn confirmed. — We don't need surprises from an orbital defense cannon. Be so kind as to open the general comm channel, keep the squadrons ready for combat, and track our position.
Pellaeon issued the orders. Was there a point in telling Thrawn the whole system—every junker in range—would hear him? No, he surely knew that. Probably banking on it. Maybe. At the briefing, Thrawn hadn't shared details—just assigned tasks.
— This is Grand Admiral Thrawn, Supreme Commander of the Galactic Empire's Armed Forces, — the commander spoke into the comlink mic on his pristine white tunic's collar, his voice calm but firm. — I wish to speak with Captain Nym, leader of the organization known as the Lok Revenants.
— I'd bet my credits that guy's scrambling for a deeper hole right now, — Pellaeon snorted.
— Keep your money, Captain, — Thrawn advised. — You'll find better uses for your pay. Captain Nym will answer us any minute. Ensure the fighters he's sent our way from Lok station stay in our pilots' and gunners' sights.
Gilad nodded silently.
Oh yeah, he'd spotted those twelve blips. Scurrg H-6. Heavy hitter. The Chimaera's techs had torn their sample apart bolt by bolt, confirming that even three decades after its make, the fighter was a serious threat.
— First interceptor squadron—stand by for launch, — he said into his comlink. — Target: Lok station's defenses and fighters.
— Lieutenant Creb, order received, — came the squadron leader's reply.
Pellaeon switched his comm to standby just as the general channel crackled to life:
— Ho, — came the distinctive Outer Rim drawl. Definitely nonhuman. — Looks like Imps dropped by for a visit. You've wandered pretty far from your Remnants, Grand Admiral Thrawn.
— You're not easy to track down, Captain Nym, — the commander continued. — But a meeting was necessary.
— Oh yeah? — the unseen speaker sounded surprised. Thrawn deliberately avoided the holocomm to keep himself unidentified. Too much honor for a mere pirate to chat face-to-face. Back in the day, voice comms in the Imperial Navy were reserved for top brass…
— The Monastery system, — Thrawn specified. — Ten days ago, you and your outfit attacked and destroyed a GR-75 medium transport. Despite warnings that the ship and its cargo belonged to the Empire.
— Aaaah, — the pirate drawled. Pellaeon noted more red dots popping up on the tactical display.
— Sir, — Lieutenant Tschel whispered in his ear. How does this kid keep ending up duty officer so often? His punishments ran out ages ago. Does he swap shifts just to be on the bridge when Thrawn tears into someone? If so, Tschel's stock just rose in his commander's eyes. Gotta check the duty roster—he should be on the next shift, not this one. — Two fighter squadrons lifted off the planet. Heading our way. Identified as modified Headhunters.
— Assign them as targets for the first and second fighter squadrons, — Pellaeon whispered back swiftly.
He didn't like this. Sure, he was used to Thrawn not sticking his neck out without a way to snap the noose, but right now, his two ships were pinned—Lok's gravity well on one side, an asteroid field of obsidian chunks tough to spot pressing their stern. Off the port side hung what looked like a jury-rigged Lok docking station, bristling with a dozen fighters, and up front, twenty-four very real problems were closing in. Three of five squadrons already in play. And Thrawn had refused to deploy the Crusader-II yet! "The corvette will come in later," he'd said. But when's "later"?! When they're stuffed with proton torps?! Hutt knows how many more fighters this Nym has up his sleeve!
— I was wondering who tipped you off, — the pirate went on. — Tibby, old pal. Thrawn, I ain't exactly sweet on the Empire, but you'd better clear out while you can. My beef with Tiberos is my own.
— Not anymore, Captain Nym, — Thrawn said. — You destroyed cargo Captain Tiberos secured for me. There's a price for that.
Laughter erupted in response.
— Grand Admiral, you new around here or what? — Nym asked, chuckling. — Imps have hit Lok so often I can't keep count. And they brought more than one Star Destroyer and an interdictor cruiser. We roughed 'em all up good so they'd leave us alone…
— Actually, you cut a deal with Grand Moff Tarkin, — Thrawn cut in. — Supplied him resources and workers so he wouldn't torch your den and keelhaul you from bow to engine nozzles on his Star Destroyer.
Pellaeon's eyes widened. What the… Nym's a pirate! And nonhuman. Tarkin, with his views and brutality, would never…
— Ha, — Nym replied after a few seconds of silence. — Nice move, Grand Admiral. Trying to sow doubt among my boys by slandering me…
— Stating facts, Captain Nym, — Thrawn declared. — Tarkin's a known figure in the Outer Rim. His views too. Even the Kavilhu pirates had to burrow into the deepest holes to survive, only crawling out after certain events. Yet you've thrived here for decades… Curious. Did you know Tarkin would kill off your underlings, or were you really dumb enough to think he'd honor the deal? You don't strike me as a fool—they don't last this long. That leaves one option…
— Thrawn, — menace crept into Nym's voice. — Guess you don't know how business works in the Outer Rim… Insulting the guy whose home you flew to is a sure ticket to war.
— Precisely why, Captain Nym, — Thrawn said, — I came to Lok myself. To negotiate. You'll get Captain Tiberos.
— Oh wow, — surprise laced the pirate's tone. Enough that his three squadrons froze in place, as if waiting. — Should've led with that, Thrawn! Hand me Tiberos, and you can fly off wherever…
— The terms will be different, — the Grand Admiral said firmly. — You'll get Tiberos and the reason for his personal grudge against you. In exchange, you and your pirate outfit will work for me. And help achieve my goals in the Karthakk system.
Silence hung.
Pellaeon was still digesting the new intel on Tarkin…
Just then, he saw the Black Asp pivot two vectors of its gravity well generators—one locking down two enemy squadrons, the other perpendicular, pinning the third and Lok station. Hm…
— Interesting offer, — Nym said after three minutes. — Alright, let's talk, Thrawn. I'm waiting for you and Tiberos at my fortress, — the comms officer signaled that coordinates from the surface had uploaded to a separate terminal. — My boys will escort you.
Gilad was already picturing how Thrawn would smear this punk when the unimaginable happened.
— We'll fly down in a Lambda, — Thrawn said. — Me, Captain Tiberos, and a stormtrooper escort. Your fighters will guide us.
— Thrawn, — Nym growled menacingly. — That's not how it works! You don't order my fighters around! Either you trust me, or…
— Are the Lok Revenants so feeble that a single transport shuttle's a threat? — Thrawn taunted.
A snarl came back.
— Fine, — Nym said. — I'm waiting. We'll roll out the red carpet. Hope you don't mind a grand welcome, eh, Grand Admiral?
— You've got three squadrons in orbit, Captain Nym, — Thrawn continued calmly. — I'd appreciate it if they joined the escort for my shuttle.
Nym went quiet for a bit.
— The two hanging off your destroyer's nose'll do, Thrawn, — the Lok Revenants' leader drawled lazily.
— As you wish, Captain Nym, — Thrawn said. — For the future. I'm sure you can remember to address an Imperial commander with more respect. My shuttle launches in a few minutes.
Gilad—and everyone else on the bridge—felt their jaws hit the polished floor of the command platform. This was Thrawn?! What was going on? Where was the "lulling Captain Nym's guard" he'd promised at the briefing?! Thrawn was walking into a trap?! They'd shoot him down in orbit!
— Heh, — Nym chuckled. — Alright, Thrawn. Come on down, I'm waiting. You can tell me how to talk to you Imps proper. And I'll show you how we handle your kind here in the Karthakk system.
— Can't wait to see it myself, Captain Nym, — Thrawn said. — End transmission.
— Hy-h, yeah, something like that.
Once the channel cut out, Pellaeon stared at the Grand Admiral in disbelief.
— Sir, it's an obvious trap! — he blurted.
— Of course, Captain, — Thrawn's tone didn't shift. — That's why shuttle seventeen's heading down.
Gilad tensed. The one they'd been tweaking the whole trip to this system?
— Understood, sir, — he replied, voice grim. — You sure a stormtrooper squad's enough?
A familiar smile curved the Chiss's lips.
— Brace yourself, Captain, — the Grand Admiral said cryptically. — Today, we'll get satisfaction for our convoy's destruction in the Monastery system. And teach the Karthakk system's pirates a lesson they'll never forget.
Gilad had no choice but to nod silently.
His mind whispered that one day, Thrawn's overconfidence would be his undoing.
— Sir, — Gilad croaked. — Flying down there's suicide!
— Captain, — Thrawn said gently, rising from his chair and signaling his bodyguards, whose presence on the bridge the crew had gotten used to as fast as the furniture in their quarters. — We've made a deal with Captain Nym. My shuttle's heading to Lok regardless of whatever misgivings you or anyone else have. Orders stand in my absence. Chin up, Captain, — a faint smile touched Thrawn's lips. — We've already broken them. Now we just finish it.
With that, the Grand Admiral, flanked by his bodyguards, strode toward the bridge exit.
Taking their hope with him…
***
After the Grand Admiral left the bridge with his entourage—noghri and an Imperial Guardsman—Lieutenant Tschel couldn't hold back.
He'd seen enough battles to stop feeling like a rookie. He grabbed every chance to linger on the bridge, eavesdropping on Thrawn and Pellaeon's talks.
That one time Thrawn had chewed him out for acting like a kid had stuck with him. He'd set a goal: learn everything he could from Thrawn and Pellaeon, no matter what. To him, they were unmatched authorities. No other victorious commanders like them existed across Imperial space or any Imperial Remnants. And there wouldn't be.
Darting past the "pit," where every officer had risen from their seats, eyes glued to either the tactical display or the central viewport, Tschel caught a glimpse of one tractor beam operator whispering into his comlink. Quietly… Probably relaying everything to the rest of the crew, who were left guessing what was happening on the bridge. And most of the destroyer, too.
— Sir, — his voice cracked traitorously as he addressed Pellaeon. — Tell me this is a joke and the Grand Admiral isn't flying to those pirates in one shuttle! Sure, a Lambda's armored and decently armed, but two enemy fighter squadrons! They'll shoot it down! And the Grand Admiral will die!
Pellaeon turned his head. Tschel felt his throat tighten.
He rarely saw the Chimaera's commander furious. But now…
The captain was breathing hard—nostrils flaring as he sucked air into his broad chest. His uniform looked ready to burst from how his torso heaved. His gray hair and mustache bristled, making him look like a snarling beast. And his eyes burned with such raw fury that Tschel took a couple steps back.
The enemies he'd faced with the Chimaera's crew, like the battles themselves, were a mixed bag. Some foes were smart, others cautious, a few cunning, but plenty were flat-out incompetent—scuttlebutt often pegged Thrawn as offing someone's political pets who'd landed posts beyond their tactical chops.
The strategies and tactics Thrawn and Pellaeon deployed varied too—from straightforward to devious, even downright brutal. After Rugosa, Hast, and Honoghr, the crew was practically ready to canonize their Grand Admiral, even when some battle outcomes didn't scream immediate gain. But as it turned out later, those murky results were huge boons for the fleet—like the Dufilvian sector op, breathing new life and faith into them.
But never in his career had Lieutenant Tschel seen Grand Admiral Thrawn take such a… stupid risk. Or seen his actions drive Captain Pellaeon into a rage.
— Tschel, — the Chimaera's commander spat his name like a curse. — Back to your post!
— But, sir, — the young officer whined, trying to protest. — The Grand Admiral… we have to stop him!
— NOW! — Pellaeon roared, blasting the lieutenant with the hot breath of an aging commander.
Tschel felt his insides clench. Tears welled up like a kid's. His eyes stung.
— Yes, sir, — he whimpered, spinning on his left heel and lifting a foot to step away.
— I feel the same, Lieutenant, — Pellaeon said quietly. Tschel bit his lip to keep from bawling like a child. His nails dug into his palm until something hot and sticky trickled between his fingers. — I don't know what's driving the Grand Admiral, but… — Pellaeon paused, sucking in air like a pump. — I hope with every fiber of my being that he's holding the cards he needs, and this Lok stunt turns into a "Pure Sabaac" for us.
Lieutenant Tschel didn't play cards, deeming them unfit for an Imperial officer. But he knew "Pure Sabaac" was a hand in the game sabaac where the player takes all.
— Now get to the medbay, Lieutenant, — Pellaeon ordered, turning to the viewport. — You've dripped enough blood from your hands…
— Shuttle seventeen has left the hangar bay! — one of the duty officers called out.
Tschel, like most present, ignored all protocol, devouring the white hull of the ship with his eyes—a favored transport for many Imperial civvies and brass. He only noticed that same tractor beam operator he'd clocked earlier still staring at his gear like it was streaming Zeltron dancers! Shameless! How could anyone focus on work at a time like this?!
— Should've taken a JV-7 at least, — Pellaeon hissed like a snake. — A Delta's a hundred times better than a Lambda…
— Enemy squadrons are forming two escort columns around the ship, — the same officer kept stating the obvious. — Distance: eighty units!
Lieutenant Tschel watched, clinging to a flicker of hope. What if Thrawn was right, and his moves had already broken the pirates' spine? What if there was nothing to fear?!
— Enemy's broken formation! — the systems watch officer squeaked. — Moving to attack pattern! Target: shuttle seventeen!
— Train the guns! — the Chimaera's commander shouted. Then it hit him—the Lok Revenants' fighters were out of ship artillery range. — Launch fighters!
— Sir, — the chief gunner and hangar duty officer chimed in. — Grand Admiral Thrawn ordered no response, no matter what!
Tschel couldn't believe his ears! How could he?!
Judging by Pellaeon's reddening face, he knew full well the trap he was in—disobeying could derail Thrawn's plans. But doing nothing meant letting the pirates kill the Supreme Commander!
In the first case, ordering an attack might land Captain Pellaeon in front of a tribunal and whatever punishment followed.
In the second… Per the Charter, only then could Pellaeon ditch Thrawn's last order without fallout.
Lieutenant Tschel knew exactly what was happening. And saw the confusion on Pellaeon's face.
Grand Admiral Thrawn had drilled them so hard on following his orders precisely that going against him now felt unthinkable. Time and again, he'd proven even seemingly trivial commands carried deeper meaning… If this was all part of Thrawn's plan, opening fire now…
— Enemy's taken out the Lambda's engines, — the systems watch officer said, voice crushed.
— Ha-ha-ha! — the general comm burst back to life. — Dumb Imps! Works every time! Watch, you bastards, as your "Grand Admiral Thrawn" and that traitor Tiberos bite it. This planet's mine! All mine!
Several Headhunters opened up with laser cannons, shredding the battered ship's armor and cockpit. Then two proton torpedoes launched from one of the pirate fighters, screaming toward Grand Admiral Thrawn's craft…
The next instant, a blinding flash erupted ahead of the Chimaera as the transport shuttle tore apart.
The last thing Lieutenant Tschel heard before blacking out was his own sobs and a wail of grief that'd shame even an enraged rancor.