by Timothy Zahn
“Acknowledged,” Thrawn said, his fingers skipping over his questis. “They’ll be ready when we need them.”
Samakro peered out through the canopy, feeling sweat gathering beneath his tunic collar. The more course changes they made, the higher the odds that one of the ships would make a mistake and the whole illusion would pop like a bubble.
But Thrawn had insisted on piling complexity onto their incursion, arguing that a steady, straight-in vector might raise suspicions of a second intruder, while multiple course changes should allay any such concerns.
The other option being the conclusion that whoever was in charge of the mission was crazy. That was certainly the one Samakro himself was going with at the moment.
The minutes ticked by. One by one the course shifts were recalculated and factored in. Samakro watched the tactical as the two ships continued inward, listening to the sensor officer’s running commentary on the status of the pursuing blockade ships. A third had joined the party now, angling in from a direction that would bring it into clear view of the Springhawk nearly a minute before the cruiser was scheduled to break off. Thrawn and Ar’alani discussed the situation, and once again the Chiss ships increased their speed a few percent. Samakro continued to watch and listen, keeping a close eye on the Springhawk’s weapon and defense monitors, just in case Thrawn’s plan degenerated into a battle.
And then, suddenly, they were there.
“Stand ready to break off,” Thrawn said. “Admiral?”
“Standing ready,” Ar’alani said. “Blockades One and Two now four and a half minutes from intercept, Blockade Three ninety seconds from visual. We’ll continue on for three minutes, then head for Shadow Two and hyperspace. That should give you enough time to settle in.”
“Acknowledged,” Thrawn said. “We can make do with two minutes if you need to break early.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ar’alani said. “We’ll wait for you at the rendezvous. Good luck.”
“Helm?” Thrawn called.
“Standing ready, sir,” Azmordi confirmed.
“Prepare to veer off,” Thrawn said. “Stand ready: Three, two, one.”
With multiple puffs of compressed gas the Springhawk angled to portside, moving away from the Vigilant on a vector that would take it across the edge of the nearest asteroid cluster. Samakro held his breath, focusing his attention on the tactical display. If the blockade ships spotted them, the charade would be over.
He twitched reflexively as the Vigilant, now pulled ahead of them, put on a sudden burst of speed, shifting its angle as if Ar’alani was trying one last maneuver to try to get to the planet in the distance before her pursuers reached combat range. If she was able to keep the blockaders’ attention on her for a few more seconds, they might pull this off. The slowly wobbling asteroid that was their goal loomed ahead of them—
With another blast of cold gas the Springhawk braked to a halt beside the asteroid. Another carefully tuned pulse, and the cruiser had matched itself to the asteroid’s slow spin. Samakro looked at the tactical, noting that the blockade ships were still fully invested with chasing down the Vigilant.
“Full stealth mode,” Thrawn ordered.
All around them, the bridge displays and monitor boards winked red and then went dark. “We appear to have arrived undetected,” Thrawn added calmly.
Samakro took a deep breath, making one more visual sweep to make sure all nonessential systems had been locked down. “So it would appear,” he said, matching his commander’s tone. “How long do we wait?”
Thrawn looked past him at the stars now tracking slowly across the sky. “We need to allow the Vigilant to escape and the blockade ships to return to their picket positions. A few hours, no more.”
Samakro nodded. And then it would be time for Thrawn to slip over to the abandoned mining station floating halfway across the asteroid cluster.
Where they would find out if this whole gamble had been worth the effort.
* * *
—
The Vigilant’s sky-walker was named Ab’begh, and she was only eight.
But she had some interesting moldable play figures and some really nice colored graph markers. And she had a lot of building snaps. Way more than Che’ri had.
They were starting to play with them when Ab’begh’s momish told them to stop.
“It’s reading time, girls,” the woman said. “Put away the snaps and get your questises. Come, come, come. Toys away; questises out.”
“Do we have to?” Ab’begh asked in a whiny voice. “We want to play.”
Che’ri made a face. A whiner. Great. She hated being around whiners.
Still, Ab’begh had a point. “We just did some trips,” Che’ri spoke up. “We’re supposed to get to rest now.”
“Oh, fissis,” the momish said, wiggling her fingers like she was throwing away Che’ri’s words. “You did two trips, maybe two hours each. I’ve seen sky-walkers do ten hours at a stretch and come up smiling and ready for more.”
“But—” Ab’begh started.
“Besides, reading is resting,” the momish said. “Come on, come on—questises and chairs. Now.”
Che’ri looked at Ab’begh. If they both insisted, maybe they could talk themselves into at least another few minutes. Che’ri had started a really neat design with her snaps and wanted to finish it before she forgot where all the pieces were supposed to go.
But Ab’begh just sighed and put down her own snaps. She stood up tiredly and went to one of the chairs.
“Che’ri?” the momish said. “You, too.”
Che’ri looked at her snaps. This woman wasn’t Che’ri’s own momish. Maybe she wasn’t allowed to tell another momish’s sky-walker what she had to do.
But Che’ri had had a couple of momishes like her. Arguing with them hadn’t usually gotten her anywhere.
Besides, Ab’begh was looking at Che’ri with pleading in her eyes. Che’ri might get away with defying the momish, only to have that annoyance come back to dump on the little girl after Che’ri was gone. She’d had a couple of momishes like that, too.
Nothing to do but go along with it. Making a face, she went over to where she’d put her things, dug her questis out of her pack, and climbed into the chair next to Ab’begh’s.
She would never admit it to Thalias or anyone else, but she hated reading.
“There you go,” the momish said. Now that she’d gotten her way, she sounded a little more cheerful. They always did. “Reading is very important, you know. The more you practice, the better you get.”
“It’s not study time,” Ab’begh said. “We don’t have to study, do we?”
“It’s study time if I say it’s study time,” the momish said sternly. “Which you know perfectly well. When our ship is on a journey we never know when you’ll be called to the bridge, so we have to study when we have the chance.” She looked at Che’ri. “But since we have a guest, and her classes won’t be the same as yours, no, we’re not doing studies. But you still have to read,” she added as Ab’begh started to say something. “Whatever you want. Half an hour, and then you can play until dinnertime.”
There was a ping from the hatch. “Enter,” the momish called.
The hatch slid open, and Admiral Ar’alani stepped into the suite. “Everyone all right?” she asked.
“Do you need Ab’begh?” the momish asked.
“No, it’s all right,” Ar’alani said, holding up a hand and smiling at Ab’begh as the little girl put down her questis. “I expect the Vigilant to stay where we are for the rest of the night. If we have to go anywhere, we can do a short jump-by-jump. So, no, you girls can relax.”
She shifted her eyes to Che’ri. “I mostly came by to tell you, Che’ri, that Thrawn and the Springhawk have made it to the asteroid where they’ll be hiding for the next few hours.
They’re safe, and it doesn’t look like anyone saw them.”
“Okay,” Che’ri said. She still wasn’t fully clear on what all the fancy flying had been about, but she was glad the Springhawk was safe. “Thalias is with him, right?”
“Yes, she is,” Ar’alani said, her voice sounding a little strange. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to sleep here tonight. I’ll have an extra bed brought in for you.”
“She can sleep in my bed,” Ab’begh said, sitting straight up in her chair. “It’s big enough.”
Che’ri cringed. She’d never ever had to share a bed. And with an eight-year-old? “I’d rather have my own,” she said. She looked at Ab’begh’s suddenly disappointed expression—“I kick a lot when I sleep,” she added.
“Can you put the bed in my room?” Ab’begh asked. “I—” She stopped and looked over at the momish. “I sometimes get scared,” she finished in a little voice.
Che’ri winced, feeling guilty. After talking with Thalias about nightmares…“That would work,” she said. “Sure. We can take some figures with us and play before we go to sleep.”
“Caregiver?” Ar’alani asked.
“If it’s all right with Ab’begh, it’s fine with me.” The woman actually smiled. “I remember having sleepovers when I was their age. Pretty sure I can whip up a few snacks for them, and we’ll make it an event.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Ar’alani said. “But.” She raised a warning finger. “When your caregiver says it’s time for lights-out, girls, it’s time for lights-out. If we need you, we don’t want you so tired you’ll accidentally steer us into a supernova.”
“Yes, ma’am, we will,” Ab’begh promised, her earlier excitement starting to bubble up again.
“Anything else we can do for you, Admiral?” the momish asked.
“No,” Ar’alani said. “I just wanted to let you all know what was happening. Have a good evening—” She gave both girls a pretend frown. “And get some sleep.”
The frown disappeared, she smiled again, and left.
“This is going to be fun,” Ab’begh said, bouncing a little on her chair. “It’ll be fun, right?”
“Sure,” Che’ri said.
“We’ll make sure of it,” the momish promised. “Right now, it’s still reading time. Half an hour, and the sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be done.”
“You want to read a story about tree people?” Ab’begh asked, holding her questis toward Che’ri. “There are lots of good pictures.”
Che’ri wrinkled her nose. A picture book? She might not like to read, but she was way past picture books. “That’s okay,” she told the younger girl. “I’ve got something else I’m supposed to read.”
“She said we didn’t have to study.”
“This isn’t studies,” Che’ri assured her. “Go on, get busy. I want to get back to those snaps.”
“Okay.” Settling herself cross-legged in her chair, Ab’begh propped her questis on her knee and started to read.
Che’ri picked up her questis, her eyes straying over to the low table where Ab’begh’s colored graph markers were scattered. Her last momish had told her graph markers got all over everything and wouldn’t let her have them.
But that was her last momish. Maybe Thalias would let her get some. She’d ask her once they were back on the Springhawk. If she could get some graph markers, and some paper, she could do some real artwork.
Looking back at the questis, she punched up the list. Along with the familiar storybooks—some of which she’d read more than once—she spotted a longer one: some stories about Mitth’raw’nuruodo.
She frowned. She’d completely forgotten about the file Thalias had sent her. It was pretty long, and there were bound to be big complicated words.
But with Thrawn and Thalias and the Springhawk in danger, maybe reading some of it would help her feel better. Thalias had seemed to think it would, anyway.
And just because she started, it didn’t mean she had to read the whole thing.
Settling herself comfortably in the corner of her chair, she braced herself and opened to the first page.
General Ba’kif had told Ziara that she had good instincts. But she quickly learned that good unfortunately didn’t mean perfect.
The first such lesson came very quickly. The weekend after Thrawn was acquitted he called to invite her out, to help him celebrate and as a thank-you for her help. From the enthusiastic way he talked about the evening, she’d envisioned a night of music and food, perhaps a gymnastic or musical performance, and certainly a modicum of drink.
What she got instead—
She looked around her at the quiet patrons and the somber colors, at the neatly arranged hangings, pictures, sculptures, and drapings. “An art gallery,” she said, her voice flat. “You brought me to an art gallery.”
“Of course,” he said, giving her a puzzled look. “Where did you think we were going?”
“You said there would be insight, drama, and the excitement of discovery,” she reminded him.
“There is.” He pointed down a hallway. “The history of the Ascendancy is in these rooms, some of the pieces dating back to Chiss participation in the wars between the Galactic Republic and the Sith Empire.”
“I seem to remember that era not being a particularly glowing time for the Ascendancy.”
“Agreed,” Thrawn said. “But look at how our tactics and strategies have changed since then.”
Ziara frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Our tactics and strategies,” Thrawn repeated, frowning back.
“Yes, I heard you,” Ziara said. “Why are we talking tactics in an art gallery?”
“Because the one is reflected in the other,” Thrawn said. “Art mirrors the soul, from which tactics arise. One can see in artwork the strengths and weaknesses of those who created it. In fact, if one has a sufficient variety of art to study, one can extend and extrapolate to the strengths, weaknesses, and tactics of entire cultures.”
Abruptly, Ziara realized her mouth was hanging open. “That’s…very interesting,” she managed. Maybe, she thought belatedly, she shouldn’t have worked so hard to get him off the hook after all.
“You don’t believe me,” Thrawn said. “Fine. There are alien artworks two chambers over. You pick whichever culture you want, and I’ll show you how to read their tactics.”
Ziara had never been in an alien art wing, in this gallery or any other. The closest she’d ever come to non-Chiss artifacts, in fact, was the twisted chunk of debris from a Paataatus warship that was displayed at the Irizi family homestead on Csilla. “Where did all this come from?” she asked, looking at the various flats and sculptures as Thrawn led the way through the entry arch into the hall.
“Most were purchased by various merchants and traders and subsequently donated to the gallery,” Thrawn told her. “Some are from species we still have contact with, but the majority are from aliens we encountered during the Sith Wars, before the retreat back to our own borders. Here we go.”
He stopped in front of a clear-sided case containing translucent bottles and plates. “Scofti formal tableware, from a governmental regime a hundred years ago,” Thrawn identified them. “What do you see?”
Ziara shrugged. “It’s pretty enough. Especially those internal color swirls.”
“How about durability?” Thrawn asked. “Does it seem sturdy?”
Ziara looked closer. Now that he mentioned it…“Unless that material is a lot stronger than it looks, not at all.”
“Exactly,” Thrawn said. “The Scofti change leaders and governments frequently, often under violence or the threat of violence. Since each new leader typically reorganizes the prefecture’s palace, all the way down to the décor and the tableware, the artisans see no point in making anything for them that will last longer than a year. Indeed, since the
new master often takes pleasure in publicly destroying the personal items of his or her predecessor, there’s a strong incentive to deliberately make everything fragile.”
“Really.” Ziara eyed him suspiciously. “Is that really true? Or are you just guessing?”
“We’ve been in marginal contact with them for the past twenty years,” Thrawn said, “and our records support that conclusion. But I made that assessment from the gallery’s artifacts before I looked up the history.”
“Mm.” Ziara looked at the items another moment. “Okay. What’s next?”
Thrawn looked around the room. “This is an interesting one,” he said, pointing toward another display case nearby. “They called themselves the Brodihi.”
“Called, past tense?” Ziara asked as they walked over to it. “They’re all dead?”
“We don’t actually know,” Thrawn said. “These artifacts were recovered from the wreckage of a downed ship over three hundred years ago. We still don’t know who they were, where they came from, or whether they still exist.”
Ziara nodded as she did a quick scan of the case’s contents. More dinnerware—plates plus elongated flatware, all decorated with angled rainbow-colored stripes—plus a few tools. In the back of the case was a picture of an alien with a long snout and a pair of horns jutting from the top of its head, along with a short description of the creatures and the circumstances of the discovery. “So what can you tell me about them?”
“You’ll note the angled color bars on the flatware,” Thrawn said. “In order for the lines to match, the knives, forks, and spoons must be angled toward the center of the table and then back toward the edge.”
Ziara nodded. “Like a pair of opening bird wings.”
“Or…?” Thrawn prompted.
Ziara frowned and took another look at the alien picture. “Or like the shape of their horns.”
“That was my conclusion, as well,” Thrawn agreed. “Also note that while the spoons and forks will point toward the center of the table, the knives must be pointed backward, toward the edge for the color bars to line up. What does that tell you?”
