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

by Timothy Zahn

And he’d done a fair job of keeping it there … until the long-awaited, long-feared orders had come in from the remnants of the Empire—could it really have been only two weeks ago?—reactivating his TIE combat unit. Then, all the old uncertainties and questions and self-doubts had surged back to the front of his mind. He was a clone. A clone. A clone …

  Stop it, he snarled at the word. I am Carib Devist. Husband of Lacy, father of Daberin and Keena, tallgrain farmer of the Dorchess Valley of Pakrik Minor. Where I came from and how I came to be don’t matter. I am who I am.

  He took a careful breath … and as he did so, the doubts once again returned to their uneasy sleep in the deep crevices of his mind. He was Carib Devist; and despite what anyone might say or believe, he was indeed a unique individual.

  The Ubiqtorate agent was starting to wind down now, and with a flicker of private amusement Carib realized that for once the old intimidation tactic had backfired. Far from unnerving its intended victim, the tirade had instead given him the time he needed to collect his thoughts and his nerve and to prepare for verbal combat.

  “So let’s hear it,” the agent snarled. “Let’s hear this vitally important news of yours.”

  “Yes, sir,” Carib said. “There was an Imperial attack on New Republic High Councilor Leia Organa Solo over Pakrik Minor five days ago. It failed.”

  “Yes, thank you, we know that,” the agent said sarcastically. “Are you telling me you broke security—?”

  “The reason it failed,” Carib continued, “was because—”

  “I’m talking here, Devist,” the agent snapped. “You broke security for a story we could have pulled off Coruscant Hourly—?”

  “—was because,” Carib went on doggedly, “they were assisted—”

  “Will you shut up? I’ll have your skin pickled in—”

  “—by an unknown alien ship,” Carib finished.

  “—a Hutt’s slimy—” He broke off. “What do you mean, an unknown alien ship?” he demanded.

  “I mean a ship with a completely unknown design,” Carib said. “It had four outboard panels like the two on a TIE fighter, but the rest was definitely non-Imperial.”

  For a long moment the agent measured Carib with his eyes. “I don’t suppose you happened to pull any records of the battle,” he said at last, his tone challenging.

  “Not of the battle itself,” Carib said, pulling a datacard from his side pouch. “But we did get something of the ship afterward.”

  The agent held out his hand. Carib dropped the datacard into it, mentally crossing his fingers. Solo had cobbled this thing together during the trip here from a pair of records he and Organa Solo had had with them in their ship. Where they’d gotten the originals Carib didn’t know.

  And really didn’t care, either. Combat, intrigue, galactic security—none of those were matters he and his brothers wanted anything to do with anymore. All they wanted was to be left alone to raise their families and tend their farms and live their lives.

  And all he cared about at this immediate moment was that Solo’s gimmicked record be good enough to fool this glowering bit-pusher into believing it. If it was …

  The agent whistled under his breath, peering at his reader. “Tarkin’s teeth,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Are these energy readings correct?”

  “That’s what was there.” Carib hesitated, but he couldn’t resist. “So was it worth breaking security for?”

  The agent looked up, but it was clear he wasn’t really seeing Carib anymore. “I’d say so, yes,” he said absently, keying his board furiously. “Sure. Just watch it when you head home, and keep with the zigzag. Dismissed.”

  And that was it. No thank-yous, no well-dones, no nothing. Just a petty little Ubiqtorate agent on dead-end duty at the edge of nowhere with visions of promotion dancing through his head.

  But that was okay, Carib knew as he headed down the corridor. His part was done now, or almost done, and Solo would take it from here. He could go back to Lacy and his brothers and sink back into the quiet anonymity that was all any of them desired.

  Unless …

  He grimaced as a thought belatedly struck him. Yes, the Ubiqtorate agent back there had swallowed the bait in a single eager gulp. But that was no guarantee the military analysts on Bastion who would take the record apart would do the same.

  And it was no guarantee at all that Grand Admiral Thrawn wouldn’t see instantly through the scam. If he did, and if Solo was still in Imperial space at the time …

  He shook his head once to clear it. No. He’d done what they wanted, and had risked his own neck to do it. What happened now was in their hands, not his. His part was done. Period.

  Quickening his pace, he headed toward the docking tunnel where his freighter was berthed. The faster he got out of here and back to his farm, the better.

  From off to the side, the speaker suddenly crackled. “Solo?”

  Hastily, Han dropped his feet off the edge of the control board where they’d been propped and keyed the comm. “Yeah, I’m here, Carib,” he said. “You got it?”

  “Yes,” Carib said. “He sent the droid probe off on vector forty-three by fifteen.”

  Behind Han, the bridge door opened. “Is that Devist?” Lando asked.

  “Yeah,” Han said as he punched up a chart. “You sure this is the vector to Bastion?”

  “It’s the direction the probe went,” Carib said. “I’m sending you a copy of the recording.”

  “What I meant was are you sure he was sending it to Bastion,” Han said as a beep from the board acknowledged receipt of the transmission.

  “He didn’t say anything one way or the other,” Carib said. “But from the shining vision of promotion in his eyes, I can’t see where else he would have sent it.”

  “How about to the main Ubiqtorate base at Yaga Minor?” Lando countered. “Isn’t that his proper chain of command?”

  “Usually, yes,” Carib said. “But matters of immediate military importance go directly to the high command. Your unknown alien ship should come under that heading.”

  “We hope,” Lando muttered.

  “Besides which, there are military politics involved,” Carib added. “Anyone stuck out on a contact station like this is here because the upper echelons have basically written him off. The only way to get out is to impress someone higher up in the military. Again, that means sending it straight to Bastion.”

  Han lifted his eyebrows at Lando. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

  “I suppose,” Lando said suspiciously, peering with narrowed eyes at the freighter hanging in space outside the Lady Luck’s viewport. “So Baron Fel was pretty good with military politics, was he?”

  Han winced. Whatever Lando’s feelings about clones might be, there was no reason to go out of his way to antagonize Carib. Especially when the man was trying to help them.

  Even more especially when they were sitting at the edge of Imperial space within spitting distance of a Ubiqtorate station. “Carib—”

  “It’s all right, Solo,” Carib said, his voice studiously neutral. “Maybe you’ll agree now I was right when I talked about this back on Pakrik Minor.”

  Han winced again. Carib’s contention that there was still heavy prejudice against clones in the New Republic … “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Carib repeated. “My part’s done; I’m heading home. Good luck to you.”

  The freighter curved away over the Lady Luck and flickered with pseudomotion as it made the jump to lightspeed. “He’s sure in a hurry to get away,” Lando growled.

  “He’s heading home,” Han reminded him, turning his attention back to the chart. A course of forty-three by fifteen from the Ubiqtorate station would put it …

  “Looks like the Sartinaynian system,” Lando said, looking over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, it does,” Han agreed, nodding.

  “Funny place to put an Imperial capital,” Lando said, an edge of suspicion still coloring his tone.


  “Oh, I don’t know,” Han said, skimming down the data the Lady Luck’s computer had on the place. “It was a sector capital once, so they’re probably used to having a bureaucracy underfoot.”

  “Still a long way from the glittering towers of Coruscant, though,” Lando said.

  “Isn’t everything?” Han countered. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

  Shaking his head, Lando dropped into the pilot’s seat. “Sure. Let’s just walk into the middle of the Imperial capital. Why not?”

  “Lando, look—”

  “No, it’s all right, Han,” Lando said with a tired sigh. “I said I’d do it, and I will. I just wish I didn’t have to.” He reached over and keyed the nav computer. “But wishes don’t bring you the cards you want. Give Lobot and Moegid a call, will you, and tell them to strap in.”

  “Sure,” Han said, reaching for his own restraints with one hand and going for the comm switch with the other. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s going to work out fine.”

  “Yeah,” Lando said. “Sure.”

  “No!” Ishori Senator Ghic Dx’ono snarled, slamming a horny-tipped fist down on the table for emphasis. “It is completely out of the question. The Ishori will not accept anything less than full and complete justice for the Caamasi and the people of the New Republic.”

  “Justice is what we all seek,” Diamalan Senator Porolo Miatamia countered, his voice the glacial calm of his species. “But—”

  “You lie!” Dx’ono all but screamed, his ears flattened against his head. “The Diamala demand the impossible, and refuse to settle for anything else!”

  “Senators, please,” President Ponc Gavrisom cut in, his wings sweeping briefly between the other two as if trying to separate a pair of enraged shockball players. “I’m not asking for a resolution of the Caamas situation here and now. All I’m asking—”

  “I know what you’re asking,” Dx’ono snarled. “But justice postponed is too often justice ignored.” He jabbed a finger accusingly toward Miatamia. “And that is precisely the situation the Diamala are trying to engineer.”

  “The Diamala have every intention of seeing justice served,” Miatamia said coldly. “But we understand that more urgent matters should take priority.”

  “Thrawn is dead!” Dx’ono snarled, leaping to his feet as if to physically attack the other. “He is dead! All Imperial records agree!”

  Miatamia remained unmoved. “I saw him, Senator. I saw him, and heard him—”

  “Lies!” Dx’ono cut him off. “All lies, created to distract us from the search for justice.”

  Seated in the small room behind the false wall, Booster Terrik shook his head. “Idiots,” he muttered. “Both of them.”

  “Now, now, Father,” his daughter Mirax Terrik Horn said, squeezing his arm. “Both of them are probably sincere, from their own different points of view.”

  “And we all know what road is lined with sincere people,” Terrik said sourly, glancing back over his shoulder. “Where is that blasted Bel Iblis, anyway? I’ve got work to do.”

  “You’ve got nothing but overhaul and maintenance work on the Errant Venture scheduled for the next three weeks,” Mirax admonished him firmly. “And you’re not needed for a single bit of it.”

  Booster sent a glare at her, a glare that worked about as well as such looks had ever worked on her. Which was to say, not very. “I thought daughters were supposed to be a source of pride and comfort to their fathers in their old age,” he grumbled.

  She smiled. “When you get there, I’ll see what I can do,” she promised.

  The smile faded as she turned back to the false wall. “This whole thing is starting to get out of hand. Have you heard that a hundred systems have already petitioned to rejoin the Empire?”

  “My sources say it’s only been twenty systems,” Booster said. “Everything else is just rumors.”

  “Whatever the numbers, it’s still something to worry about,” Mirax said, a note of quiet dread in her voice. “If Thrawn is really still alive, and if all this turmoil persuades people they want or need his protection, then the Empire could regain its territory without firing a single shot.”

  “I doubt they’re going to talk that many systems into coming back,” Booster argued. But he didn’t feel nearly as confident as he was trying to sound. “Anyway, there’s not a lot we can do about it.”

  Behind him, the door slid open. “Ah—Captain Terrik,” General Bel Iblis said, striding in and offering his hand. “Thank you for coming. I trust you’ve been well entertained?”

  “If you mean the dance show, I’ve seen better,” Booster said, jerking a thumb toward the loud drama in the next room as he reluctantly and briefly gripped Bel Iblis’s hand. He and authority had never gotten along very well. “Speaking of dance shows, I’ve got a bone to pick with you over that nonsense in the Sif’kric system three weeks ago. The bureaucrats there still haven’t released the Hoopster’s Prank back to me.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Bel Iblis said, shutting off the speaker that was bringing the argument in from the next room and pulling over the room’s remaining chair. “I’ll give orders to have it sprung as soon as we finish here.”

  Booster eyed him warily. “The word ‘finish’ implies a start.”

  “Indeed it does,” Bel Iblis agreed, positioning the chair to face the two of them and sitting down. “I didn’t ask you here just for a private showing of Gavrisom’s mediation skill. Incidentally, I presume I don’t have to tell you that anything you heard here is to be considered confidential.”

  “Really.” Booster frowned thoughtfully at his daughter. “Let’s see. The Ishori scream when they debate and want a square meter of skin off every Bothan to give to what’s left of the Caamasi. The Diamala want the same square meter, but only from the Bothans who helped destroy Caamas—exhuming them if necessary—as soon as anyone figures out who they were. Who do you think we should sell these big secrets to first, Mirax?”

  She gave her father a patient look and shifted her attention to Bel Iblis. “We understand, General,” she said. “What is it you want?”

  “I let you see a bit of this private conversation because I thought it would help drive home the seriousness of the situation we’re in,” Bel Iblis said, nodding back toward the discussion still going on now inaudibly behind him. “The buildup of warships over Bothawui is being repeated all over the New Republic as worlds and species line up behind the Ishori and Diamala over this issue. The only way we’re going to defuse the situation is to find out who exactly the Bothans were who sabotaged the Caamas planetary shields.”

  “As a dancer, General, you’re no better than they are,” Booster said. “Get to the point.”

  Bel Iblis locked eyes with him. “I want to borrow the Errant Venture.”

  Booster stared at him, too stunned even to laugh in the general’s face. “You must be joking,” he got out at last. “Certainly not.”

  “What do you need it for?” Mirax asked.

  Bel Iblis shifted his gaze to her. “We think there may be a complete copy of the Caamas Document in the Ubiqtorate base at Yaga Minor,” he told her. “Gavrisom has decided to launch an information raid to try to get hold of it.”

  “A data raid on a Ubiqtorate base?” Booster echoed. “What poor sucker pulled that assignment?”

  Bel Iblis regarded him coolly. “I did,” he said.

  For a moment the room was silent. Booster studied Bel Iblis’s face, wishing the general had glazed over the false wall behind him when he’d turned off the sound. The argument back there, particularly the Ishori Senator’s wide-armed flailing, was highly distracting.

  As Bel Iblis probably intended it to be. “Okay,” he said at last. “I get the picture—you need a Star Destroyer to sneak in through their outer defenses. Last I heard, the New Republic still has some captured ones. Why not use one of those?”

  “Two reasons,” Bel Iblis said. “First, they’re all too well known. Disguising their markings and engine I
D signatures would take too long.”

  “And probably not fool anyone for long,” Mirax murmured.

  Booster glared at her. Whose side was she on here, anyway?

  “Right.” Bel Iblis nodded. “Second, and more importantly, we can’t pull any of them away from their assigned patrol duties without everyone in the sector instantly missing them. You know what an information raid is like: if the target gets even a whiff of your plans, you’re sunk.”

  Booster crossed his arms across his chest. “Sorry, General. I sympathize with your problem and all, but no deal. I went through too much for that ship to risk it in some crazy scheme that’s none of my business anyway.”

  Bel Iblis cocked his head slightly to the side. “You sure about it being none of your business?”

  Booster uncrossed his arms far enough to tap at his upper chest. “You see a New Republic military insignia here?”

  “You see the Diamalan Senator back there?” Bel Iblis countered. “They’re allies with the Mon Cals on this Bothan situation; and you know how much the Mon Cals hate smugglers. If all-out war breaks out, one of the first things they’re likely to do is move against all smuggling groups they can find, if for no other reason than to drain the potential pool of privateers the other side can use.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “And with an Imperial Star Destroyer in your possession, where do you think you’ll end up on their list of things to do?”

  Booster grimaced. “Somewhere near the top?”

  “That’s where I’d put you,” Bel Iblis agreed. “So helping me is very much in your own best interests.”

  He had a case, Booster had to admit. And he could feel the accusation behind Mirax’s eyes as she gazed at him, reminding him of his glib comment not five minutes ago about how there was nothing they could do.

  And it occurred to him—as it might not yet have to his daughter—that if Bel Iblis was going to Yaga Minor, Mirax’s husband, Corran, and the rest of Rogue Squadron would probably be going in with him.

  But to be asked to risk his beloved Errant Venture this way was just too much. Yes, it was falling apart, with half its systems questionable or totally dead, and with an operating cost that would make an Imperial baron blanch. But it was his. All his …