by Timothy Zahn
Thrawn looked down at the double ring in his hand. “Not right away,” he said. “No, I think we’ll go to a Navigators’ Guild concourse and hire ourselves a navigator.”
Thalias frowned. “You already said we’ll have Che’ri.”
“In case we need her,” Thrawn said. “But the Paccosh indicated there may be more Nikardun ships arriving in the near future. There’s something I want to do before that happens.”
“Ah,” Thalias said carefully. Unless the fleet had changed the rules since she was a sky-walker, a captain who wanted to expand the scope of a mission was supposed to first get authorization.
But that really wasn’t any of her business. “You’re looking for a Void Guide?”
“No,” Thrawn said. He fingered the ring one last time, then put it carefully into a pocket. “No, I think there’s someone who will be far more useful to us.”
“Chiss diplomatic cruiser coming in,” Pathfinder dispatcher Prack called above the buzz of conversation filling the Navigators’ Guild lounge. “Who wants it?”
The conversation broke off like a door had slammed shut over it, and everyone did their best imitation of being somewhere else.
Including Qilori of Uandualon. He sat unmoving on his bench, his shoulders hunched, still gripping the rim handle of his mug. Chiss. Just his pathetic luck to be on duty when a Chiss rolled in.
“Qilori, where are you?” the dispatcher continued. “Come on, Qilori—I know you’re here.”
“He’s over here,” someone two tables over called helpfully.
Qilori sent the other navigator a glare. “Yeah, I’m here,” he growled.
“Good for you,” the dispatcher said. “Grab your headset, sash up, and sashay down. Your turn for the hot box.”
“Yeah,” Qilori growled again, his cheek winglets snapping flat against the sides of his head with disgust as he stood up and crossed the room to the dispatcher. The other Pathfinders wanted to jeer at his dirt assignment, he knew—he’d certainly done his share of jeering when the situation was flipped.
But none of them dared. Prack wasn’t above changing assignments at the last second if someone higher on his gripe list caught his eye. “So where are they going?” he asked.
“Bardram Scoft,” the dispatcher said.
“What are they going there for?”
“Don’t know; don’t care. Board gate five; fifteen minutes.” He gave Qilori a smirking smile. “Have fun.”
Fifteen minutes later, his travel bag slung over his shoulder, Qilori watched the boarding gate swing open and a couple of black-uniformed blueskins step out. “You our Pathfinder?” one of them asked in the Minnisiat trade language.
At least this bunch weren’t expecting everyone else in the Chaos to speak Cheunh. “I am,” Qilori said, waving a hand over his ID sash. “I am Qilori of Uandualon. I’m a Class Five—”
“Yes, fine,” the blueskin said. “Come on. We’re in a hurry.”
He turned and strode back through the gate. Qilori followed, silently cursing Prack for dropping this assignment on him.
No one out here liked the Chiss. At least, no one Qilori had ever met who’d worked with them liked them.
It wasn’t just that they considered themselves better than everyone else. Most species had that delusion, after all. No, it was that the Chiss didn’t seem to think there was even anyone else out here for them to feel superior to. They had a strange and infuriating blind spot where the rest of the Chaos was concerned, as if every other species was entirely composed of particularly clever animals or else had been brought into existence solely for the Ascendancy’s benefit.
They barely saw anyone. They certainly didn’t care about anyone.
The bridge was pretty much the same as on every other Chiss merchant ship and diplomatic cruiser Qilori had seen: small and efficient, with helm, navigation, defense, and comm consoles. The captain was seated in a chair behind the helm and nav consoles, with other Chiss at all but the nav position.
That seat, of course, was Qilori’s.
“Pathfinder,” the captain said, nodding in greeting. “As soon as you’ve taken your place, we’ll be off.”
Qilori’s cheek winglets flattened as he sat down and flexed his fingers over the controls.
Right. Have fun.
* * *
—
The trip was uneventful. On the captain’s command Qilori put on his sensory-deprivation headset and slipped into his trance, letting the Great Presence whisper into and around and through him.
As usual, the Great Presence was miserly with Its wisdom and insights, making for a somewhat slower trip than Qilori would have liked. Fortunately, the space in this part of the Chaos was relatively smooth, with only a few of the anomalies that made navigators like the Pathfinders necessary for long-range interstellar travel. They reached Bardram Scoft a few minutes ahead of the captain’s proposed schedule, and in a whole lot less time than a jump-by-jump trip would have taken. All in all, Qilori decided as he slipped off the headset, he’d earned his pay.
He blinked away the post-trance cobwebs, flexing the stiffness out of his fingers. The planet loomed large in the viewport as the ship settled into orbit. The bridge had mostly emptied out, with only Qilori and a pilot still there. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
“Preparing the ambassador for the welcoming ceremony,” the pilot said. “Scoftic culture requires the highest-ranking military officer to accompany the ambassador, and there may be other protocols to be observed.”
“May be?” Qilori asked, frowning as he scanned the sky. There were a lot of ships out there, more than he’d ever seen at a backwater world like this. “I thought you Chiss liked to be prepared for everything ahead of time.”
“We do,” the pilot said. “The Scoftic government has changed again, and with it the protocols. Our ambassador must relearn them.”
“Ah,” Qilori said. So that was it. New government, and everyone nearby had sent emissaries to offer their best wishes and size up the newcomer. “I didn’t know the old Prefect had been unwell.”
“He wasn’t,” the pilot said. “He was assassinated. What ship is that?”
“What?” Qilori said, his winglets fluttering with surprise. Assassinated? “And everyone’s okay with that?”
“It’s not unheard of among the Scofti,” the pilot said calmly. “That ship. What nation does it represent?”
Qilori peered out the viewport, still struggling at the casualness of it all. “I think it’s a Lioaoin.”
“Is it a new design?”
“I don’t know. How should I know?”
“You’re a navigator,” the Chiss said. “You see many ships, from many nations.”
“Yes, but I mostly only see the insides,” Qilori said, frowning. “Why the sudden interest?”
“That vessel shows many of the same characteristics as a group of pirate ships that have been attacking freighters at the outer edges of the Chiss Ascendancy.”
“Really?” Qilori asked, trying to sound surprised. There were dark rumors among the various navigator groups that the Lioaoin Regime had turned to piracy to prop up their failing economy. Most of the stories came from the Void Guides, who did more work in that particular region, but he’d heard a couple of his fellow Pathfinders talking about it, too.
He couldn’t tell the pilot that, of course. The Navigators’ Guild rules of confidentiality and neutrality were unbreakable. “Sounds pretty unlikely.”
“You don’t believe a pirate group would buy their ships from a local manufacturer?”
“Oh,” Qilori said, feeling a slight sense of relief. So the Chiss wasn’t even thinking that the Lioaoi were officially involved. “No, I see what you mean. I suppose that’s possible.”
“Yes,” the pilot said. “Have you ever traveled to Lioaoin space?”
<
br /> “Once or twice, yes.”
“You could find your way there again?”
“From the Chiss Ascendancy? Of course. I could find my way to any system you wanted. That’s what navigators do.”
“The Lioaoin Regime will do for now,” the pilot said. “Suppose I wanted to approach from a different direction than the Ascendancy? Say, from here at Bardram Scoft?”
“Are we heading there?”
The pilot gazed out the viewport for another moment. “Not yet,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Perhaps later. What’s your name?”
“Qilori of Uandualon,” Qilori said, frowning. Where was the Chiss going with this line of questioning?
“Are you normally to be found at the Navigators’ Guild station where we hired you?”
“I move around a lot between the various guild stations,” Qilori said. “Obviously. But Concourse Four Forty-Seven is my official base station, yes.”
“Good,” the Chiss said. “Perhaps we shall work together in the future.”
“That would be wonderful,” Qilori said, studying the Chiss’s profile. Few of them even bothered to learn his name, let alone want to know how to find him. Fewer still would bother to study another species’ ship design.
Who was this Chiss, anyway?
“And your name?” he asked. “In case you specifically ask for me?”
“Junior Commander Thrawn,” the Chiss said softly. “And yes. I shall most definitely ask for you.”
Qilori had never expected the Chiss named Thrawn to ever blacken his sky again. He’d certainly hoped he wouldn’t. But yet here he was, back at Guild Concourse 447, asking specifically for Qilori of Uandualon.
And a senior captain now, to boot. Qilori didn’t know a lot about Chiss military ranks and promotion schedules, but he had the distinct impression that Thrawn was younger than most Chiss who’d achieved that rank.
Considering what had happened at Kinoss a few years ago, he supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised.
“It’s good to see you again, Qilori of Uandualon,” Thrawn said as Qilori was ushered onto the bridge.
“Thank you,” Qilori said, looking around. He’d never been on a Chiss warship before, and the difference between this and his usual freighter and diplomatic cruiser assignments was like the difference from sweet to sour. Weapons boards, defense boards, status panels, multiple displays, a full complement of black-uniformed blueskins—
“Are you familiar with the Rapacc system?” Thrawn asked.
Qilori jerked his attention back from the lights and displays, fighting to keep his cheek winglets still. Rapacc. That was one of the places Yiv the Benevolent had under blockade, wasn’t it?
Yes—he was sure of it. Qilori didn’t know Yiv’s final plan, whether the Benevolent would directly annex the system or leave the Paccosh as tributaries. But either way the Nikardun were certainly already there.
What in the Great Presence’s Name did Thrawn want with Rapacc?
“Pathfinder?” Thrawn prompted.
Abruptly, Qilori remembered he’d been asked a question. “Yes, I know the system,” he said, again trying to keep his winglets steady. “Difficult to get into. Nothing very interesting once you do.”
“You might be surprised,” Thrawn said. “At any rate, that’s our destination.” He gestured to the navigator’s station. “At your convenience.”
There was nothing for it. Guild rules apart, Qilori could hardly tell Thrawn that the Nikardun would be as happy to cut a Chiss warship to ribbons as they would any other unwelcome intruder. Apart from all the other considerations, a warning like that might prompt Thrawn to wonder how Qilori knew so much about Yiv and the Nikardun, and where he’d learned it.
So Qilori would take the Chiss to Rapacc as ordered. And he would hope to the Great Presence that the system’s Nikardun overseer would take the time to pull the valuable and totally innocent Pathfinder out of the wreckage before ordering the ship’s final destruction.
He would hope it very, very much.
* * *
—
The bridge was quiet as Samakro came in, with only the command, helm, primary weapons, and primary defense stations occupied. Plus, of course, the alien Pathfinder sitting at the navigation station, and the two charric-armed guards standing on either side of the hatch keeping a watchful eye on him.
Mid Commander Elod’al’vumic was seated in the command chair, her fingers tapping noiselessly and restlessly on the armrest as she gazed through the viewport at the undulating hyperspace sky. She looked up as Samakro came alongside her. “Mid Captain,” she greeted him.
“Mid Commander,” Samakro greeted her in turn. “Anything to report?”
“The Pathfinder came out of his trance again an hour ago, took a ten-minute break, then went back under his headset,” Dalvu said. “He said another three-hour shift should bring us to Rapacc. We took a location reading while we were in space-normal, and it looked like we were in the right position.”
“I presume you reported all this to the captain?”
Dalvu’s shoulders gave a small twitch. “I sent him the message. Whether or not he noticed is something you’d have to ask him.”
Samakro felt his eyes narrow. A disrespectful comment that managed to be not quite over the line into something actionable.
Dalvu wasn’t the type to come up with such opinions on her own, let alone have the audacity to speak them. Apparently Kharill had been sharing his displeasure regarding the new command structure with his fellow officers. “I believe you’ll find Captain Thrawn on top of the situation,” he told her. “Hold things as is for another hour, then start bringing the Springhawk to combat status. I’ll want us at full battle—”
“Combat status?” Dalvu cut him off, her eyes going wide. “We’re going into combat?”
“I’ll want us at full battle stations thirty minutes before we reach Rapacc,” Samakro finished.
“But combat?”
“Probably,” Samakro said. “Why, did you think we had some other reason for going back to Rapacc?”
Dalvu’s lips curved in an almost-scowl. “I assumed Captain Thrawn forgot something and we were going back to get it.”
Samakro gazed down at her, counting down five seconds of silence. Dalvu’s scowl was gone after the first two seconds, and by the fifth she was starting to look distinctly uncomfortable. “I suggest you keep any derogatory thoughts about the captain to yourself,” Samakro said quietly. “His mental state is not your concern, nor is his fitness to command, nor is his authority to issue orders aboard this vessel. Is that clear, Mid Commander?”
“Yes, sir,” Dalvu said in a more subdued tone. “But…are we even authorized to fight these people?”
“We’re always authorized to defend ourselves,” Samakro reminded her. “And given the blockade ships’ reaction on our last incursion, I suspect we won’t have to wait very long on that count.”
“Yes, sir,” Dalvu muttered, lowering her gaze.
Samakro pressed his lips together, his annoyance at her reluctantly fading away. Unfortunately, she had a point. They’d been fine on their last run into the system; but that time they’d had a Nightdragon running backup. Now it was just them. “You weren’t aboard the Springhawk back when Thrawn was first in command, were you?”
“No, sir,” Dalvu said. “But I’ve heard stories of his…recklessness.”
“Best to take those with a sideways look,” Samakro advised. “Just because Thrawn doesn’t lay out his tactics in advance for everyone to see doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them. Whatever he’s got planned for today, he’ll get us through it.”
He took a deep breath and looked again out the viewport. “Trust me.”
* * *
—
It was time.
The shimmering disk of the Great P
resence loomed large in Qilori’s unseeing eyes. The undulating rumble echoed in his unhearing ears. Reaching blindly to the hyperdrive lever at his right, he squeezed off the locking bar and wrapped his fingers around the lever. He waited until the disk filled his vision, then delicately pushed the lever forward. He waited another moment, savoring the experience one final time, then shut down the sound-blocking part of his headset.
The Great Presence vanished as a quiet hum of Chiss voices filled his ears. He pulled off the headset, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the muted bridge light, and peered through the viewport.
They had arrived.
Casually, he looked around him. All the stations were occupied, but none of the Chiss seemed to be watching him. Keeping his movements small, he reached into one of the storage pouches built into his ID sash and keyed his comm. He’d spent the last three rest periods recording a message for the Nikardun ships lurking out there and then figuring out how to tap into the ship’s short-range transmitter.
A sharp voice from the Chiss at the sensor station cut through the conversational hum. Qilori ran his eyes quickly over the displays, found the tactical one—
He felt his cheek winglets flutter. Three ships were angling in toward the Springhawk, one from starboard, the other two from behind. The markings on the display were all in unreadable Cheunh script, but he knew the ships had to be Nikardun.
His winglets fluttered harder. If the attackers had gotten his message—and if the blockade commander decided a Pathfinder was worth saving—they might go easy on their prey, at least until they’d battered most of the life out of it.
If the commander wasn’t feeling so charitable, Qilori had seen his last star-rise.
The deck gave a sudden jolt. Qilori jerked in response, fully expecting to see a flash of laserfire or a wall of flame from a missile blaze through the bridge wall. But nothing. He looked at the tactical again, frowning.
And tensed. The jolt hadn’t been a Nikardun attack, but the recoil as a shuttle separated from the Springhawk’s flank. Even as he watched, it headed toward the inner system and the planet Rapacc at an incredibly high acceleration.
