Thrawn

by Timothy Zahn

  “That was a unique case,” Yularen growled. “The perpetrators managed to get the entire kitchen staff fired, then infiltrated the new staff with their own people. Once you’ve got someone on the inside, you can pull off almost anything.”

  “Exactly,” Thrawn said. “You said there were dojos that specifically work with Senate bodyguards?”

  “Yes,” Yularen murmured, frowning with sudden interest. “Yes, I see where you’re going. But most of the bodyguards who train at those places are already employed. I doubt a senator would go to one of the dojos to hire replacements or extra staff. He or she would probably get those from an accredited agency.”

  Yularen stood up. “Still, it’s been a long time since ISB looked at any of those places. Might be worth taking a tour of the Federal District’s combat subculture. Either of you care to join us?”

  —

  “Welcome to the Yinchom Dojo.” The boy seated cross-legged on the floor to the right of the door rises to his feet. His voice has the clearness of youth, with cheerfulness beneath the solemnity. He bows at the waist toward Colonel Yularen, then repeats the gesture to each of the other four of the group. “Abandon the tedium and cares of life, all who enter, and prepare your minds and bodies for the rigors and joys of combat.”

  “We will,” Yularen said. His voice is calm and official, but there is a hint of humor beneath it, as well as appreciation for the boy’s performance. “I’m Colonel Yularen. I wish to speak to the owner of this place. Can you go and bring her to us?”

  “I can,” the boy acknowledged. He bows again to Yularen. “Please; come inside.”

  The group filed into the dojo. The boy waited until all five were standing against the wall, then headed off around the edge of the training room.

  “Not nearly as impressive as the last one, sir,” Vanto murmured.

  “No,” Thrawn agreed.

  “A little small, and a little too far from sunlight to be considered top-line,” Yularen agreed. He looks slowly across the training area, his eyes flicking back and forth, taking in the details. A sparring duo works in each of the central mat’s corners: one duo empty hand, the second empty hand against blade, the third and fourth stick against stick. A young human female circles the center of the mat, calling occasional instructions and corrections to each of the pairs.

  “On the other hand, thirty senators have sent one or more of their bodyguards here for updated training or sparring over the past five years,” Yularen continued, “so the place must have something going for it. Owner’s a Togorian named H’sishi.”

  The boy, continuing around the room, passes a woman seated on a bench against the wall.

  “Sir?” Vanto said suddenly. He nods toward the woman. “That woman. We’ve seen her someplace before.”

  The boy passes the woman, and she stands and makes her way around the edge of the mat. An overly wide round kick comes near. She leans gracefully out of its path. An indication of moderate proficiency and skill. She reaches the Imperials and inclines her head. “Welcome to the Yinchom Dojo, Captain Thrawn,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the clash of combat sticks. “I’m Arihnda Pryce. You probably won’t remember, but we met once at an Ascension Week reception in the Alisandre Hotel, back when you were a senior lieutenant.”

  “Certainly I remember you, Ms. Pryce,” Thrawn said. “You are an aide to Senator Domus Renking.”

  “You have a remarkable memory, Captain,” Pryce said. “I’m no longer with Senator Renking’s office, though. I work now for an advocacy group.”

  “I see,” Thrawn said. “May I reintroduce my companions, Colonel Yularen and Ensign Vanto.”

  “I remember you both,” Pryce said. She nods a greeting to each of them. Her eyes shift briefly to the two ISB agents standing silent watch behind them. “How may I assist you?”

  “We wish to speak to the owner,” Yularen said. “The boy’s gone to get her.”

  “Who is the woman overseeing the sparring?” Thrawn asked.

  “That’s Juahir Madras, one of the instructors,” Pryce said.

  “Are you here for a class?” Yularen asked.

  “No,” Pryce said. “My boss thought I might be able to establish a few contacts with some of the high-level bodyguards who train here, so I’ve been hanging around for the past few days chatting with people. Ah—here’s H’sishi now.”

  A large, feline being appears in one of the doorways leading from the side of the main room. She is covered in short brown-white fur and dressed in a combination kilt and bandolier. Her yellow eyes focus on each of the visitors in turn. She looks at each of the sparring duos, then at Instructor Madras. “Cease!” she called.

  Instantly the sparring halted. In the silence, H’sishi strode across the mat, moving with grace on her back-jointed legs. She passed Instructor Madras without a glance and came to a halt beside Pryce. “Good day to you, officers of the Empire,” she said. Her voice is sibilant but clear. “I am H’sishi, master of the Yinchom Dojo. How may I serve you?”

  The sparring duos stand facing the visitors, their facial heat intense from heavy exercise. Instructor Madras’s expression and stance show uneasiness. Her gaze is on Yularen’s chest, not his face.

  “I’m Colonel Yularen,” Yularen said. “This is Captain Thrawn; Ensign Vanto; Officers Roenton and Brook. We’re doing a routine spot-check of the dojos in the Federal District, with particular interest in government contracts and bodyguard training. I presume you have full records of both?”

  “Of course,” H’sishi said. “I will get them for you.”

  “Before you do,” Thrawn said, “we are also interested in trainers for a possible new urban combat unit. Do you teach advanced stick fighting?”

  “We do,” H’sishi confirmed. “Have you had training in that art?”

  “I have had the basics,” Thrawn said. “I would like to observe your best technique firsthand.”

  “Certainly,” H’sishi said. “Instructor Madras and I will offer you a demonstration.”

  “There is no need to involve any others,” Thrawn said. “Instructor Madras, please bring the sticks. Instructor H’sishi and I will spar.”

  “Sir?” Vanto asked. His voice is surprised and wary. But there is no understanding in it. He doesn’t see the patterns; nor has he woven together the facts and possibilities.

  Madras walks to the center of the mat, the fighting sticks in her hands. Her body stance holds uneasiness.

  “Ms. Pryce, please walk alongside me,” Thrawn said. “There is a question I wish to ask.”

  “Of course.” Pryce moved to his side.

  Thrawn, Pryce, and H’sishi walked to the center of the mat. “You said you worked for an advocacy group,” Thrawn said. “Which one?”

  “It’s called the Higher Skies Group,” Pryce said.

  “Thank you,” Thrawn said. “Stand clear, now. Instructor H’sishi, let us begin.”

  Pryce and Madras stepped away. “The timer is for three minutes,” H’sishi said. She crossed her sticks in salute. Thrawn mirrored the gesture.

  They began.

  H’sishi is a good fighter. But her focus is solely on the combat, with no thought for other matters. She does not notice as the relative positions are slowly altered until Pryce and Madras are within view.

  Both watch the combat, neither speaking to the other, though a quick conversation could have occurred before they were fully in view.

  Their expressions are inconclusive. Both women are fascinated by the combat, with all fears, concerns, and thoughts submerged.

  With H’sishi herself there are no longer doubts.

  The three minutes end. H’sishi steps back and again crosses her sticks.

  “Excellent, Captain,” she said. “Your style is unknown to me, but you have clearly been well trained.”

  “Thank you, Instructor,” Thrawn said. He crossed his own sticks and then offered them to Madras. She walks forward and takes them, her eyes avoiding his gaze. “Perhaps th
e next time I have duty on Coruscant you will teach me some of your style. It is of your species?”

  “Yes, a Togorian form,” she said. “I hope you will find the time. I would welcome you as both student and teacher. And now, Colonel Yularen, I will retrieve the records you requested.”

  They waited while she went to her office and returned with a data card. Yularen accepted it, then led the group back outside. “Well, that was interesting,” Yularen commented as they walked toward their aircar. “I assume, Captain, that you didn’t simply feel the need for a little exercise?”

  “Indeed,” Thrawn said. “I presume you noted that Instructor Madras did not stop the sparring when we first entered?”

  “She didn’t stop when Pryce came over to talk, either,” Yularen said. His tone conveys thoughtfulness. “And that despite the fact that the noise made conversation difficult.”

  “They didn’t stop until H’sishi ordered them to,” Vanto added.

  “I assume you think it wasn’t just rudeness?” Yularen asked.

  “I think she knows who I am,” Thrawn said. “She certainly knows who you are, Colonel. And so she stalled our meeting, wishing additional time to prepare herself.”

  “Interesting,” Yularen said. “Unfortunately, it’s a reaction ISB agents see all the time. Everyone has dirty secrets.”

  “But not everyone has secrets concerning Higher Skies,” Thrawn said.

  “The advocacy group?” Yularen asked.

  “Yes,” Thrawn said. “It is the one with which Ms. Pryce works. I asked about it before the sparring, and watched Instructor Madras as Ms. Pryce supplied me with the name. She reacted with discomfort.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” Thrawn said. “For one reason or another, the group bears investigation.”

  “So once you had the name and Madras’s reaction, why did you go ahead with the fight?” Vanto asked.

  “I have developed a certain skill for reading human emotions,” Thrawn said. “I do not have such a baseline for Togorians. I wished to know if H’sishi, too, was concerned that I know of Ms. Pryce’s connection with Higher Skies.”

  “So you gave her the chance to take you out,” Vanto said slowly. His tone holds growing understanding. “You were the only one of us who’d heard the name. So if she’d wanted to, she could knock you down, claim it was an accident, and buy herself and the group some time.”

  “Correct,” Thrawn said. “To be more precise, I offered what looked like opportunities to injure me. They were, of course, illusory.”

  “Of course,” Vanto said. His tone is properly respectful, but also holds irony. “So when you were attacked at Royal Imperial Academy…?”

  “I wished to study the attackers’ capabilities,” Thrawn said. “I would have protected you from serious harm, as indeed I protected myself.”

  “You’ll have to tell me all about that one sometime, Captain.” Yularen pulls out his comlink. “I’ll get ISB started on Higher Skies and see what we can dig up.”

  “I would caution that the investigation be careful and low-key,” Thrawn said. “They will be alert now to such a probe, and we do not wish to drive them away.”

  “Yes, we do know how to handle investigations, thank you.”

  “I meant no offense,” Thrawn said. “I would also consider it a favor if you would allow me to observe your progress.”

  “Sorry, but that won’t be possible,” Yularen said. “New orders came in while you were batting sticks with H’sishi. Ensign Vanto picked them up.” He gestures to Vanto. “Ensign?”

  “Yes, sir,” Vanto said. His voice holds hidden frustration. “For the next four weeks, while the Thunder Wasp undergoes repairs, you’ll be at the Palace with Emperor Palpatine. Once the repairs are complete, it’ll return to Mid Rim and Outer Rim patrol duties.” He pauses, his frustration growing deeper. “Under the authority of its newly appointed captain, Commander Thrawn.”

  “Congratulations, Commander,” Yularen murmured.

  “Thank you,” Thrawn said. He had been promoted. Yet Vanto had not?

  That wasn’t as it should be. Vanto had held the rank of ensign a full year longer than was customary. Yet there was nothing Vanto had done or failed to do that should have delayed his promotion.

  “Impressive achievement,” Yularen continued. His gaze switches between Thrawn and Vanto. He, too, recognizes something is amiss. “Usually a captain warms that position for at least six years.”

  “I understand that during the Clone War promotions occurred more quickly.”

  “Wartime will do that,” Yularen said. His voice holds grim memories. “Good luck with your new assignment, and your new command. And don’t worry about Higher Skies. Whatever’s there, we’ll find it.”

  No one is immune from failure. All have tasted the bitterness of defeat and disappointment. A warrior must not dwell on that failure, but must learn from it and continue on.

  But not all learn from their errors. That is something those who seek to dominate others know very well, and know how to exploit. If an opponent has failed once at a logic problem, his enemy will first try the same type of problem, hoping the failure will be repeated.

  What the manipulator sometimes forgets, and what a warrior must always remember, is that no two sets of circumstances are alike. One challenge is not like another. The would-be victim may have learned from the earlier mistake.

  Or there may have been an unanticipated or unknown crossing of life paths.

  —

  “Sorry I missed our last two sessions.” Ottlis’s voice came from Arihnda’s comm. “As I told you, my employer has come for a visit, and we’ve all been pretty busy.”

  “I understand,” Arihnda said.

  She did, too. Which wasn’t to say she was happy with the situation. Not just because of the interruption in her combat training, but because she really enjoyed Ottlis’s company.

  But work was work, and even in the upper echelons of Imperial power only a few had the luxury of picking and choosing their own schedules. “If you ever do get a couple of hours you don’t know what to do with, though, let me know,” she said.

  “Actually, that’s why I’m calling,” he said. “I’m watching the office alone tonight—everyone else is off to a party—and if we move the table in the conference room over to the wall there should be plenty of room for a sparring session. You game?”

  “I think so,” Arihnda said, frowning. This was out of the blue. Still, it would be a chance to get in some practice. Not to mention a couple of hours of human contact that wasn’t just pitching high-minded policies to senators and ministers. “When do you want me? And where do you want me—you’ve never given me the address.”

  “I haven’t? Sorry.” He rattled off the address, a place in one of the office spires near the Senate Building. “As to time, the sooner the better. Like I said, everyone’s already gone, and we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  “Aside from the doorwatch droids?”

  “Well, of course aside from them,” he agreed. “But I’m high enough clearance that I can vouch to them for you. How soon can you be here?”

  Arihnda checked the chrono. Technically, she was supposed to keep the office open for another forty minutes, just in case some senator’s aide dropped by for more information on one of Higher Skies’ policy positions.

  But as usual, she was alone here this afternoon. Just this once, she decided, the Empire’s movers and shakers could wait until tomorrow. “Ten minutes,” she said.

  “Ten it is,” Ottlis said. “Just buzz the door when you get here, and I’ll let you in.”

  Arihnda backtracked the address on her datapad during the air taxi ride, hoping to find out who exactly Ottlis worked for. But that information was unlisted. Once inside the building—Ottlis had already cleared her with the outer door droids—she looked for a directory or some other index or occupant listing.

  Again, nothing. Apparently the residents didn’t want even droid-a
pproved visitors to know who was here and where exactly they were located.

  She’d already guessed Ottlis’s employer was very high up in the official ranks. This merely confirmed it.

  The two doorwatch droids in the hallway stared silently at Arihnda as she approached the office door. But they permitted her to touch the buzzer without challenge. Ottlis answered promptly, gave the droids his personal clearance password, and ushered her inside.

  “Nice,” she commented, looking around as he led the way through the foyer and down a long corridor. The carpeting, wall hangings, and pillar sculpts were elegant but more understated than the décor she’d seen in other senators’ offices. Someone who liked luxury, but didn’t feel a need to rub people’s faces in it. “Your boss must be even more important than I guessed.”

  “Probably so,” Ottlis agreed. “This way.”

  Arihnda frowned, casually dropping a half step behind him. There was an odd layer of emotional distance in Ottlis’s speech and mannerisms tonight. Something wasn’t right. “Where’s the party?” she asked.

  “What party?”

  “The party you said everyone else had gone to.”

  “Oh.” He stopped by an open door and gestured her toward it. “In here, please.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Something was definitely wrong, but it was too late to back out now. Brushing past him, she stepped into the room.

  And came to an abrupt halt.

  This wasn’t the conference room Ottlis had promised. It was an office, as luxuriously appointed as the foyer and corridor, with trinkets and trophies from around the galaxy on display and no room whatsoever for sparring.

  And seated behind the carved pearl desk—

  “Good evening, Ms. Pryce,” Moff Ghadi said, rising to his feet. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  —

  For a long moment Arihnda stood where she was, the memory of her last run-in with Ghadi flooding over her. This was the man who’d thrown spice on her and then threatened to have her arrested. The man who’d used that blackmail lever to make her betray Senator Renking. The man who’d sent her entire life into a tailspin.