Chaos Rising

by Timothy Zahn

  “They destroyed a refugee ship within one of our systems.”

  “So you claim,” Zistalmu said. “The Syndicure has yet to see solid evidence that the Nikardun are the ones responsible.”

  “All of which is irrelevant anyway,” Thurfian said. “If there’s neither attack nor imminent attack, it’s not a military matter but, as Syndic Zistalmu has already stated, a political one.” He turned his glare onto Ba’kif. “Unless you’re prepared to claim that General Ba’kif personally authorized this mission.”

  “Not at all,” Ar’alani said quickly. This tactic, at least, she knew: Zistalmu throwing his net wide in the hope of sweeping in as many people as he could. She and Thrawn were already tangled in the mesh, and she had no intention of letting Ba’kif be drawn in alongside them. “But as I’m sure you’re aware, Syndic, situations sometimes arise where events proceed too quickly for consultation with superiors.”

  “An interesting assertion,” Thurfian said, the temperature in his voice dropping a few more degrees. “Tell me, has Solitair then lost every one of its triads? Has the Ascendancy lost every one of its triads? A ship in deep space may have only one-way communication, but once Thrawn landed on Solitair that excuse disappeared. If he didn’t report to Csilla or Naporar and ask for orders, it was because he chose not to.”

  “Or because the Garwians chose not to let him,” Ba’kif said. He was still angry, Ar’alani could tell, but he could see the two syndics edging their way into military affairs, and he clearly had no intention of ceding any of that territory. “The Syndicure is right to question Captain Thrawn’s decisions—”

  “To question them?” Zistalmu bit out.

  “—but that discussion can wait until he’s returned and able to properly defend himself,” Ba’kif continued. “The immediate issue at hand is how to extract him safely from his reconnaissance.”

  “Why should we?” Zistalmu demanded. “His activities are completely unauthorized. He got himself into this. He can get himself out.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want, Syndic?” Ba’kif asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s Thrawn we’re talking about,” Thurfian said sourly. “The general is suggesting there may be worse political and diplomatic consequences if we let him have his way than if we just go in and pluck him out.”

  “Well, at least he’d no longer be an embarrassment to us,” Zistalmu grumbled.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Thurfian said, his gaze shifting to Ar’alani. “How exactly would you do it, Admiral?”

  “Straightforwardly,” Ar’alani said. “I’d take the Vigilant to the Primea system, contact them, and arrange to pick him up. If I leave immediately, I should be within the time frame he specified.”

  “And if they refuse to give him up?”

  “Why would they?” Ba’kif asked. “We have no quarrel with the Vaks.”

  Ar’alani kept her expression steady. That was true…unless the Vaks were already under Nikardun control. In that case, the simple pickup mission she was pitching could get very ugly very fast.

  “Doesn’t mean they won’t have a quarrel with us,” Zistalmu said. “Particularly if they see Thrawn as a spy. But never mind them. What if these Nikardun of yours have taken over?”

  “We’ve already seen they aren’t yet ready to engage the Ascendancy,” Ar’alani reminded him.

  Thurfian snorted. “No need to engage us when they could simply vaporize the Garwian ship with Thrawn aboard and claim it was an accident.”

  “All the more reason for the Vigilant to get there before that happens,” Ba’kif said grimly. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get this mission under way.”

  “Of course,” Thurfian said. “Just as soon as we resolve the issue of the Vigilant’s sky-walker.”

  Ar’alani grimaced. She’d hoped they’d forgotten about that. “I promised Che’ri’s caregiver I’d take care of her,” she said. “I see no reason why I can’t continue to do that.”

  “You don’t?” Thurfian asked. “The admiral and commander of a Nightdragon man-of-war, and you think you’ll have the time to cater to the needs of a child, too?” He shook his head. “No. We need to find a new caregiver before you can leave Csilla.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Ba’kif said. “All sky-walkers and caregivers are already committed to other ships.”

  “Let me propose a solution,” Zistalmu offered. “My wife served as a caregiver for two years before we were married. Her record of that time is very clean. Reinstate her, and she and I can travel aboard the Vigilant together.”

  “Thalias chose me,” Ar’alani said firmly. “As Che’ri’s official caregiver, she has final authority to shift that duty while she’s aboard my ship.”

  “But she’s not aboard your ship now, is she?” Zistalmu countered.

  “She was when she named me as her replacement,” Ar’alani said. “I have no intention of giving up that mandate, and you have no authority to take it from me.”

  “I have every authority—”

  “Enough,” Ba’kif cut in. “Syndic Zistalmu, how far away is your wife?”

  “She can be here in two hours.”

  “Call her now,” Ba’kif ordered. “Admiral, I agree that regulations support your position. But Syndic Thurfian is right to remind us of your other responsibilities. I’m therefore ruling that Syndic Zistalmu’s wife will share caregiver duty with you, and will take the primary position whenever you’re otherwise occupied. Any questions?”

  Ar’alani suppressed a scowl. The last thing she wanted was a strange woman suddenly entering Che’ri’s life—the girl had enough problems socializing with other people as it was without disrupting things further.

  And she absolutely didn’t want a syndic on her bridge, watching her every movement and undoubtedly gathering ammunition to be used against her somewhere down the line. Couldn’t Ba’kif see this was yet another attempt by the Syndicure to intrude on the fleet’s sphere of authority?

  “No questions, General,” she said stiffly.

  “Good,” Ba’kif said. “Thank you for your interest and input, Syndics. Syndic Zistalmu, you and your wife will report to Admiral Ar’alani’s shuttle in three hours for immediate transport to the Vigilant. Admiral, another moment of your time?”

  Ar’alani stayed where she was, her eyes locked on Ba’kif, as Zistalmu and Thurfian walked through the doorway behind her. She waited until the door closed—

  “Don’t say it,” Ba’kif warned before she could speak. “No, it’s not ideal. In fact, it’s about as far from ideal as it could possibly be.”

  “Then why did you agree to it?”

  “Because I didn’t have any choice,” Ba’kif said. “Because if I’d tried to keep Zistalmu off the Vigilant he’d have tied us up in procedural twist-wire until Thrawn died of old age.” He paused. “And because you don’t have a mandate…because Thalias is not, in fact, an official caregiver.”

  Ar’alani felt her eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that she sweet-talked her way aboard the Springhawk,” Ba’kif said. “She’s a former sky-walker herself, which made the sweet-talking a little easier, but the fact is that she has no official credentials.”

  “But she’s Mitth,” Ar’alani said, trying to sort it through. “Are you telling me that someone with Thurfian’s connections and suspicions hasn’t figured that out?”

  “On the contrary,” Ba’kif said darkly. “He apparently showed up at the last minute to help get her aboard in that position.”

  “Really,” Ar’alani said. “What was the cost of that assistance?”

  “I don’t know,” Ba’kif said. “But there was a cost, or will be one somewhere down the line. With Thurfian, that’s practically guaranteed. My point is that all he had to
do was throw that into the conversation, and you’d have been out completely. But he didn’t. The question is why?”

  “Possibly because he’d prefer having me involved with our sky-walker over turning her completely over to the wife of an Irizi syndic.”

  “Normally, I’d agree with you,” Ba’kif said. “But you’ve surely noticed that despite their families’ rivalries, he and Zistalmu have shown remarkable unity in their attempts to get Thrawn out of the fleet, or at least out of any position of influence. I don’t think he’d have a problem with Zistalmu’s wife being in complete charge.”

  “And of course, leaving Thrawn abandoned on Primea would be a permanent solution to their perceived problem.”

  “Exactly,” Ba’kif said. “No, I think he didn’t denounce you because that would also have gotten Thalias thrown off the Springhawk when she returns, and there’s something he still wants her to do. Probably something connected to the price of getting her aboard in the first place.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “But that can wait. Right now we need to get Thrawn off Primea before the situation becomes too much to handle.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Thrawn, sir,” Ar’alani said. “He’s expecting me, of course; but if I don’t show, I’m sure he’ll find his own way home.”

  “Thrawn’s not the one I was worried about,” Ba’kif said tartly. “It’s the Ascendancy that may wind up in a situation we can’t get out of.”

  “Point taken, sir,” Ar’alani said, wincing. “I’ve got Wutroow working on flight prep. We’ll be ready to go by the time Zistalmu and his wife arrive.”

  “Good,” Ba’kif said. “And watch him, Ar’alani. Watch him very closely. I know Zistalmu, and he wouldn’t voluntarily walk into possible danger unless he thought there was a way to turn that to his and his family’s advantage.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Ar’alani assured him. “Whatever game he’s playing, I think he’ll find that his cards aren’t nearly as good as he thinks they are.”

  * * *

  —

  There was a right way to do things, Qilori fumed to himself as he hurried toward the bridge, and there was a wrong way. In this case, the right way was to keep on schedule, do a proper ship prep, and ensure that the captain, the crew, and especially the navigator were moving along at a steady but relaxed pace. The wrong way was exactly the opposite of all those.

  That wrong way was what was happening right now.

  “Pathfinder?” someone called from down the corridor in front of him. “Pathfinder!”

  “I’m coming,” Qilori called back, cursing under his breath. Yiv’s whole plan to eliminate Thrawn hinged on the Garwian ship being exactly where it was supposed to be when it was supposed to be there. Qilori’s job was to make that happen from the Garwian end of the ambush.

  But even he wasn’t good enough to stall an entire day just because the Garwian envoy had suddenly decided to cut short the negotiations and head home early.

  Now what was he supposed to do?

  The bridge was the typical scene of chaos when he arrived. The captain was barking orders, the officers and crew were scrambling to get their boards up and running. Off in one corner—

  Qilori felt his winglets flatten as he headed for the navigator’s seat. Off in the corner, the Garwian he’d heard the others refer to only as Officer Frangelic stood silently, watching the commotion like a director overseeing a stage performance.

  “There you are,” the captain growled as Qilori settled himself into his seat. “How soon can you be ready?”

  Qilori glanced at the status boards. They were still deep within Primea’s gravity well. Several minutes at least to get far enough out that they could access hyperspace, more like a quarter hour if they made a more leisurely departure. If he insisted on an additional status check of the hyperdrive, the engines, and the environmental systems before they left, it would buy him a little more time.

  His winglets stiffened in frustration. A little more time, but not nearly enough. If Yiv hadn’t spotted the prep work, the Benevolent would have lost all chance to capture or kill Thrawn.

  Which was undoubtedly the whole point of the sudden change in schedule. Thrawn, the envoy, Frangelic—maybe all three together—had decided to sneak Thrawn away from Primea before the Benevolent could launch his attack.

  And then a movement on the aft display caught Qilori’s eye. Yiv’s flagship, the Deathless, had appeared over the horizon behind them, running a lower orbit and casually gaining on the Garwian ship.

  He felt his winglets relax fractionally. So Yiv hadn’t been caught napping after all. Perfect. Now Qilori could let the Garwians move out of the gravity well on their own schedule, then make sure he didn’t take them into hyperspace until Yiv made his move—

  “Officer Frangelic?” the Garwian at the communications station called. “The Vaks send an answer to your query. They’ve done a complete search of the diplomatic offices and guest quarters, and neither Artistic Master Svorno nor his companion are anywhere to be found.”

  “Tell them they must be mistaken,” Frangelic said tersely. “If they’re not here, they have to be there.”

  Qilori’s winglets froze in place. Thrawn wasn’t aboard? No—that couldn’t be. He had to be here. If he wasn’t—

  Then Yiv was about to attack a Garwian ship, and almost certainly kill everyone aboard, for nothing.

  “The Vaks are very insistent,” the comm officer said. “They’ve searched everywhere the Chiss might be. There’s no sign or trail of them.”

  Qilori stared at the display and the Nikardun Battle Dreadnought coming steadily up into attack range. He needed to get word to Yiv, and he needed to do it fast.

  Only he couldn’t. With this many Garwians milling around, there was no way he could get to any of the comm panels without being seen. But without comm access, he couldn’t talk to the Deathless.

  Or rather, he couldn’t talk to the Deathless. “Officer Frangelic?” he called, turning toward the officer. “Excuse me, but I remember Artistic Master Svorno talking at length with General Yiv the Benevolent at the reception our first night on Primea. I believe that among other things they discussed Vak art and art displays. Perhaps the Benevolent will have some idea where he might have gone.”

  “Perhaps,” Frangelic said. “Comm, you heard?”

  “Yes, Officer Frangelic.”

  “Signal to General Yiv,” Frangelic ordered. “Put the question to him.”

  Qilori took a deep breath, his winglets finally relaxing. Thrawn might have slipped out of Yiv’s immediate trap, but all he’d really done was postpone his fate. Even though the Vaks weren’t yet under full Nikardun domination, Yiv had enough forces in the region to quickly isolate Primea and keep the fugitives on the ground. Sooner or later, either he or the Vaks would run them down.

  And really, how long could a pair of blueskins hide among a planetful of aliens?

  Thalias had known from the start that Thrawn’s plan was doomed. Their blue skin was nothing like the pale-amber skin and black stub hairs of the indigenous population, to say nothing about the contrast between glowing red Chiss eyes and the Vaks’ dull brown. The hooded cloaks that many of the people wore would make things less obvious, but Thalias had no illusions as to how well that would work in the long run. How many of the locals actually used the hoods, she’d argued, instead of letting the sun and breeze wash over their faces?

  The answer, it turned out, was pretty nearly all of them.

  “You’re just lucky it’s raining today,” she said as she and Thrawn walked along the street, the light drizzle beating gently on the tops of their hoods and dripping off the fronts.

  “Not at all,” he replied. “Up to now we’ve always traveled the city in vehicles, where the hoods are unnecessary. But during those trips I observed that most pedestrians used their hoods nearly a
ll the time, protecting against rain but also against sunlight.”

  “So really the only danger we were in was if today was just cloudy?”

  He chuckled. “A point. But even then, wearing hoods would not be so rare as to attract attention.”

  Thalias peered past the edge of her hood into the diner they were passing. Inside, she noted uneasily, the Vaks had all laid their hoods back. “That’s fine out here,” she said. “But eventually we’re going to have to go inside somewhere. What happens then?”

  “Let’s find out,” Thrawn said. Taking her arm, he steered her toward a door with a faded sign above it. “In here.”

  “What is it?” Thalias asked, peering at the sign. She’d made an effort to learn the Vak script over the past few days, but she was a long way from being able to read any of it.

  “Hopefully, answers,” Thrawn said.

  And then they were at the door, and Thrawn had pushed it open and ushered Thalias inside. She blinked, ducked her head forward sharply to shake some of the water from her hood onto the mat at their feet, and then looked up.

  To find they were in an art gallery.

  Thrawn was already walking slowly forward, the back of his hood moving rhythmically as he turned his head back and forth, studying everything around him. Thalias followed more slowly, looking surreptitiously at the handful of Vak patrons wandering among the easels and pedestals or gazing up the wall hangings and paintings. All of them had their own hoods thrown back—would they notice that she and Thrawn were still wearing theirs? More important, would they wonder why?

  A harsh voice rattled off some words behind them. Apparently, they would.

  “Good afternoon,” Thrawn said calmly in Minnisiat, not turning around. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your language. Do you speak this one?”

  Thalias grimaced. Everyone in the place was now gazing at the visitors. So much for slipping by undetected.

  “I speak it,” the voice came back. “Who are you? What do you want here?”

  “I came to see Vak art, and to thereby understand the Vak people,” Thrawn said. “As to who we are—” He paused, slid off his hood, and turned around. “We are friends.”