Chapter Text
*
“Sir! Sir, we’re being hailed!”
The relief in the comm officer’s voice was palpable as the secondary bridge erupted into cheers. Thrawn allowed it to continue for a moment before clearing his throat, the sound abruptly cutting off.
They had been drifting for weeks, slowly cannibalizing their remaining ships as they made their way blindly towards the center of the galaxy in short hyperspace jumps, calculating their next leap at each step to avoid the chaotic tumble of dangerous debris in their path. They were down to just two ships, the Chimaera and the Thunder Wasp – and Thrawn would admit the influence of sentiment on leaving those ships to the last – but even he had to admit it was a futile attempt; if the navigator’s calculations were correct, it would take years to return to civilized space in such a manner, if they didn’t run out of food or fuel first.
Civilized space.
Not for the first time, Thrawn was forced to reflect on how his time in the Empire had changed him. Civilized space. Words were not his choice of art, but he had drawn meaning from paintings, sculptures, weaving, even music. Words were not so different.
So, what could he glean from his words that would tell him of himself?
Civilized space. Civilized: at an advanced stage of social and cultural development. Alternatively, polite and well-mannered. To claim one such space as “civilized” was, naturally, implying that the rest of space was not.
And yet, Thrawn himself was from uncivilized space, if “civilized” was applied to Imperial space. Had been born there, raised there; had grown, learned, and become himself there.
He had claimed to Ar’alani, to his people, that his time in the Empire had not changed him. And yet.
Civilized space.
Regardless. They were being hailed. The one-in-a-thousand chance that they would encounter a people with advanced technology had happened, and it was almost enough to make him believe in the Jedi’s Force.
But not quite.
“Put it through, Senior Lieutenant Lomar,” he called.
“Yes, sir!” the man called back. His voice is exuberant, unprofessional. Given the situation, Thrawn would permit it.
The comm crackled with static. Thrawn could see the officer holding his breath, face pale. Then a voice came through.
“Ssshhhcckkk--toyahl---wa, ngod--atobi,” it said, interrupted by more static. Then the message repeated. “zzzck--lesilw--- ato---i,”
“Sir?” Lomar asked. His face heats as it creases with worry, frustration. He is disappointed, and fearful the transmission will not prove useful. “Should I try and clean up the signal?”
“No need, Lieutenant,” Thrawn replied smoothly. “It is a distress call – they are under attack. Trace the signal back to its origins; perhaps we may offer some assistance.”
Standing at his side, Captain Pellaeon stirred. “Sir?” he said quietly, too quietly for the rest of the bridge to overhear. His voice contains doubt; as is often the case, he is concerned that the strategy is too risky. “Is this wise? The Chimaera is severely damaged. We may not be able to provide much aid.”
“Consider, Captain,” Thrawn replied, slightly louder. If Pellaeon was voicing it, it was likely that others among the crew were concerned as well. And while an announcement of his intentions would hardly be appropriate, allowing some nearby to overhear would reassure them that he, as always, remained in control. “The Chimaera has indeed taken a great deal of damage, particularly to its exterior. Unfortunate. However, our internal systems remain functioning. Which includes…”
Pellaeon was silent for a moment, thinking. He slides a sideways glance at Thrawn, exasperation hidden, but present; like many of Thrawn’s protégés, he finds such tests frustrating.
He would learn.
“The TIE fighters, sir?” he finally replied.
“Precisely.” Thrawn gave him a nod, pleased. The captain still had far to go, but he showed promise, and with his experience, would learn quickly. “We still have nearly our full complement of TIE fighters, including the remaining TIE Defenders. Furthermore, I can assure you that capital ships of the size of an Imperial Star Destroyer are nearly unheard of in this region of space. The sight of the Chimaera alone should suffice as a deterrent for any pirates in the area, and a flight of nearly seventy starfighters will drive off all but the most desperate.”
“And if they are desperate?” Pellaeon asked.
Thrawn smirked. “Then the TIEs will make short work of them. Unless technology has advanced at an unprecedented pace, their shield designs should be, at most, decades behind.”
“How can you be sure?” Pellaeon demanded. His face remains creased in doubt; he has served under Thrawn’s command for only weeks, and has not yet adjusted.
“Because in my youth, I captured the first deflector shield seen in the Unknown Regions,” Thrawn replied carelessly, hiding his smirk. “And while that design has undoubtedly begun its spread throughout the region, it was captured during the Clone Wars. And the Unknown Regions do not have nearly the development capabilities of the Sienar Fleet Systems.”
Pellaeon’s brow clears, a flicker of astonishment across his brow before it settles into strict professionalism. “I see, sir. Forgive me, I didn’t realize you knew the region well.”
“Not this region specifically, or I would have a much surer heading for us,” Thrawn commented. “But word in the Unknown Regions travels quickly, and any such innovation would have shifted the balance of power noticeably.”
Pellaeon shifted. “An innovation such as an Imperial Star Destroyer?” he suggested.
Thrawn smiled. “Perhaps.”
*
Pellaeon frowned out the viewport as the Chimaera limped through hyperspace, leaving the Thunder Wasp to continue its travel and hopefully find some other sign of civilization – one more heartening than a distress call, Pellaeon hoped. The Chimaera was responding as fast as they could, which was magnitudes longer than it should take. The ship was heavily damaged, and at their pace, whoever had sent the call could very well be out of time by the time they reached them.
But it was the first contact they’d made with anyone in whatever forgotten corner of the Unknown Regions they’d been dropped into, and they couldn’t let it go to waste.
Thrawn had retreated to his office to prepare for the potential battle and review what little the Empire’s files had on the area. Nothing that they hadn’t picked through already in their attempts to determine where, exactly, they were, but he’d insisted that the short, staticky call would provide him with new insight.
He had, just before departing the bridge, informed Pellaeon that the language used was Minnisiat, a trade language of the Unknown Regions – or Chaos, as it was apparently called here – and that they might attempt either Sy Bisti or Meese Caulf to communicate.
Pellaeon didn’t speak Sy Bisti, but he did know enough Meese Caulf to get by, a relic from his Judicial days when trade languages were still required for the curriculum. A quick census of the bridge had returned that Lieutenant Commander Pyrondi spoke some Sy Bisti; enough, she claimed, to keep up with Thrawn’s schemes in that language. Apparently, Thrawn’s former aide – Eli Vanto, Pellaeon remembered that scandal during the Savit mess – had spoken it, and Thrawn had found a tactical advantage in the obscure tongue.
Pellaeon sighed. He’d never been particularly gifted at languages and had no interest in learning one that would be useful for only a few weeks, at the most. Once the Chimaera was repaired, they would swiftly return to Imperial Space, hopefully in time to capture what remained of the rebels before they could spread their anarchy through more of the galaxy.
Until then, Meese Caulf would have to do.
“Coming out of hyperspace, sir!” The call came from the helm as the lines of hyperspace collapsed, the ship shuddering as it dropped into real space like a rock. Not at all like an elegant Imperial Star Destroyer should, but at least they hadn’t lost any pieces that Pellaeon could see.
Such concerns were immediately swept aside by the scene outside the viewport.
“Shields up!” Pellaeon barked, as the first salvo from the gunships swarming the planet below flew towards the Chimaera’s hull, glancing off the shields, flaring to life just in time. “Ready TIEs. Comms, open!”
“Comms open, sir!” Senior Lieutenant Lomar called back.
“Unknown combatants, this is Captain Pellaeon of the Chimaera!” Pellaeon called over the comms in Meese Caulf, with the few words he had very good practice in, old soldier that he was. “We are responding to a distress signal. You will stop your attack and retreat! Repeat, stop your attack and retreat!”
He turned to the weapons station. “Commander Pyrondi, repeat in Sy Bisti please.”
While the woman opened the comm on her console, Pellaeon turned away, pulling out his private comm. “Grand Admiral Thrawn, we’ve arrived on the scene and engaged the enemy,” he reported. “Assorted gunships – they look like pirates to me.”
“I have received the scans,” Thrawn’s cool voice replied. “For the moment, I concur, although the situation may warrant further investigation. After the battle is resolved. Prepare a Marg Sabl maneuver. We will make the most of the element of surprise.”
“TIEs, prepare to launch Marg Sabl maneuver!” Pellaeon repeated to the flight controller, who nodded as he transmitted the orders to the TIE squadrons. Pellaeon paced the command deck, one eye on the tactical display, one eye on the scene outside the viewport. Another salvo rocked the bridge as the gunships approached; the Chimaera’s turbolasers responded, but the ravaged vessel simply wasn’t up to its full strength.
“Turbolaser pattern one dash four,” Thrawn called calmly behind him as the Grand Admiral arrived on the bridge. “Let those below believe we are holding our power in reserve, for now.”
“TIEs ready, sir!” the flight controller called.
“One moment,” Thrawn ordered, holding up a hand. Pellaeon shot him as close to an angry glare as he would allow himself towards a superior officer, trying desperately to read the man’s face; the gunships were nearly close enough to start slipping fire through their shields, if they realized how vulnerable they were-
“Patience, captain,” Thrawn advised lazily. “Let them see us… and dismiss us.”
Pellaeon turned back to the tactical display wordlessly, watching the ships get closer and closer. He shot another glance at Thrawn, wondering if that would be enough for the man to launch their best defense, but the Grand Admiral simply raised an eyebrow in return.
Pellaeon looked back at the display, and then he saw it: as the first wave of gunships continued their advance, the second – which had moved to follow the first – had turned back to the planet below, apparently believing the damaged Chimaera too little of a threat.
Their mistake.
“Launch,” Thrawn called, and Pellaeon began his internal countdown; five seconds to launch the TIE squadron, three seconds to form up behind the shadow of the Chimaera, and –
Just as the gunships reached the Chimaera proper and began their run against the hulk of the Imperial Star Destroyer, the TIEs swept over the top, opening fire on the gunships lined up oh so neatly against the Chimaera’s hull.
In moments, they were obliterated.
“Brace for debris,” Pellaeon called to the bridge, the sad remains of the pirates clattering against the viewport’s shields.
“TIEs advance on the gunships. Helm, bring us in along bearing zero twenty-four mark three hundred, between the attackers and the planet below,” Thrawn continued calmly. He must have caught Pellaeon’s flicker of confusion, as he continued, “Our TIEs can easily handle the bulk of the gunships, but moving them into the planet’s atmosphere invites more dangers than it is worth. Especially considering the planet’s defenses.”
“Defenses?” Pellaeon couldn’t help but ask, turning back to the viewport. From what he could see, this section of the planet was empty green space – fields or forest of some kind.
“Indeed. Cleverly hidden – you will note the lack of regularity that usually betrays development. But the color patches here and here have a particular blend of disorganization that stands out against the background. Almost an art in itself – an avian people, I would guess, or one with a background in flight and avoiding conflict. I look forward to meeting them,” Thrawn commented, as mildly as if he had unearthed another piece of his art collection to show Pellaeon and not as if he was in the middle of a dramatic space battle.
Pellaeon squinted at the planet but could not for the life of him see whatever Thrawn saw in the vegetation. “If you say so, sir,” he said diplomatically.
“We shall see soon enough,” Thrawn replied with a small smirk, clearly catching on to Pellaeon’s doubts but turning away without comment. “Focus turbolaser fire on the gunships fleeing the planet,” he called. “Do we have a tractor beam?”
“No, sir!” Pyrondi replied from the weapons station. “Tractor beams remain inoperable. Shall I order shots to disable, sir?”
“Yes, Commander. Inform the TIEs to leave them alive for capture,” Thrawn agreed immediately to the bold suggestion, from a weapons officer, and Pellaeon again marveled at the synergy between the Grand Admiral and crew – a rare thing in the Imperial military, where so many officers relied on fear and force for discipline.
The ship shuddered as she entered the center of the battlefield. Pellaeon winced at the shrieking of the hull; they desperately needed to repair the holes, not to mention their shields if Thrawn was going to take them into situations like this. Still, he couldn’t deny that the strategy was working; the bulk of the remaining gunships were forced to break away rather than crash into the Chimaera, and the general confusion of their aborted charge was leaving them open for the TIEs sweeping by.
On the other side, Pellaeon blinked as a ship suddenly exploded. Squinting, he finally caught sight of a wavering line of distortion an instant before another gunship’s wing sheared away. Some sort of laser outside of the visual spectrum, he would guess, although such things had been long discontinued in civilized space due to the risks of invisible weapons fire and difficulties with calibration and maintenance.
“Sensor station, scan that ship,” Thrawn ordered, the sudden coldness of his voice diverting Pellaeon’s attention from the ongoing battle. “TIEs, target – do not let it escape.”
But it was too late, Pellaeon realized, as the ship, coming up from the planet’s surface, angled away from the Chimaera, putting the gunships between it and the TIEs. He held his breath as four of the TIEs put on speed, a mad dash through the battlefield – but even as they closed in, a gunship crashed through their formation, colliding with the lead TIE. Both exploded in a fireball, and Pellaeon bit back a curse as the freighter disappeared into hyperspace.
Thrawn hissed something under his breath, turning away. He stared into the distance for a moment, before his face smoothed out, and he turned back to the viewport, eyes flicking over the battle.
“Bring in the survivors for questioning,” he ordered, the last flares of laser fire dying down as the gunships surrendered, weapons powering down. “Sensors, send everything available on the escaped ship to the Analysis Team and my datapad. Captain Pellaeon-”
“Comm, sir, from the planet’s surface,” Lomar called.
“Captain Pellaeon?” a voice warbled through, an odd, musical tone to the accented Meese Caulf. “I am Etchra of the Third Flight. We thank you for your timely aid.”
“This is Grand Admiral Thrawn, commanding officer of the Chimaera,” Thrawn replied. “We received your distress call and are pleased to have prevented further trials for your people. May we ask, who are the marauders who threatened your planet? Are they likely to return?”
There was a brief pause before the voice returned. “They are the Shrrigar,” they said unhappily. “They are pirates, attacking trade routes outside the asteroid field. They target small ships, freighters and cargo vessels without escorts, but flee when confronted.”
“They did not flee this time,” Thrawn pointed out. “And an attack on an inhabited planet is far beyond a freighter or cargo ship. What changed?”
“We do not know,” Etchra admitted. “Five orbits ago, their attacks increased in power and frequency. They have struck at trade outposts, armed convoys, isolated colonies, and now, our own planet. Their ships are stronger, their weapons more powerful; we are besieged, Grand Admiral Thrawn, and we only hope your victory here will push them back long enough for us to recover.”
“How much time do you need?” Thrawn asked, and Pellaeon suppressed a frown. Fending off some pirates was one thing, but the Chimaera had their own quest, and the troubles of the Unknown Regions were not their concern.
“…It is hard to say,” Etchra replied after a long moment of silence. “We are a peaceful people. Our military is designed for defense, but we have been overwhelmed. I would need to speak with the Second Flight. But we thank you for what time you have bought us, Grand Admiral Thrawn. We of the Third Flight ask what we might offer in return?”
Pellaeon caught the slightly nervous, slightly hopeful lilt to the voice as it neatly deflected the direction of Thrawn’s inquiry. The presence of an Imperial Star Destroyer would put anyone on edge, and he would guess the people below were quickly calculating their odds should the Chimaera decide their offer was insufficient.
It sat poorly with Pellaeon, the idea that they might be mistaken for a pirate plundering the skies; he’d joined the Republic’s Judicial Forces to fight such criminals and bring peace and order to the galaxy. It was why he’d stayed with the Empire, after the disaster of the Clone Wars, and why he was proud to serve in the Imperial Navy. The younger generation might rail against the Empire’s stringency, but Pellaeon knew the alternative, had seen firsthand the chaos brought on by the Republic’s weak-willed spinelessness in military matters.
“The safety of your people is reward enough,” Thrawn replied smoothly. “We are not warlords, here to make demands for tribute; simply a ship returning to our people after our own misfortunes. However, if it is within your means, we would appreciate your assistance in our own quest. Our ship has sustained heavy damage in the battles behind us, and we are low on the supplies and support to repair our vessel.”
“Of course. We are happy to help,” Etchra replied while Pellaeon slanted a glance at Thrawn. The Grand Admiral had a habit of responding to his subordinate’s thoughts as much as their words, which Pellaeon found rather off putting; but in this case, he reminded himself, it was more likely Thrawn had simply come to the same conclusion. Regardless, Thrawn hadn’t even glanced at him, and his face was as opaque to Pellaeon as ever. “I do not know if we will have everything you need – your ship is strange to us. But what we have is yours, in our thanks.”
“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “Perhaps we may discuss the details in person. I admit, I would enjoy a closer look at your planet. It is quite magnificent from above – I have been admiring the camouflage nets on your turret installations.”
There was another long pause, and Pellaeon hid a wince, trying to imagine what that must have sounded like to those below. Honest respect? A veiled threat?
“We are impressed, Grand Admiral Thrawn,” Etchra finally said. “Few have the eyes to see us from above, and we have worked hard to maintain that advantage. The Third Flight would be happy to show you what we have built here. We believe that all things should have their own beauty, and we are proud of our craft.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Thrawn said. “If there are any examples of your work you would be willing to share, I would be most grateful. I have a deep admiration and respect for the art of different cultures and would be pleased to add yours to my collection.”
“I will send some files,” Etchra promised. “Along with directions to our city. The Third Flight is pleased to welcome you to Chptera, Grand Admiral Thrawn.”
The comm clicked off, and Thrawn frowned, again with a sharp gaze into the distance. Pellaeon moved a step closer, ready for orders.
“Prepare my shuttle,” Thrawn ordered after another moment’s thought. “We will depart once I have had time to review the files.”
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon replied. “Shall I order a guard to accompany you?”
“I will know once I have reviewed the files,” Thrawn said. “For now…”
He gazed into the distance, in the direction of the escaped ship, then turned back to Pellaeon, eyes sharpening.
“Bring me the Jedi,” he ordered. “I believe he may be of use, and it is time we spoke of his future.”
*