Turning Point
A TIE Fighter: Resurrection Prologue
Six Years After Endor, Imperial Fleet Staging Near Bilbringi
(In other words, the later chapters of The Last Command)
"Bridge to Captain Pellaeon?"
The voice on the comm interrupted both Pellaeon's train of thought and what he had been saying to the Grand Admiral. He flinched, both at the voice and at the narrowing of glowing red eyes. "Lieutenant Tschel, I am in conference with Admiral Thrawn," he said. "Unless this has to do with the shipyards–"
"I'm sorry, Captain, but we have a ship coming in, requesting immediate docking, and the security code it's transmitting is . . . sir, they have a priority-one override and the pilot's demanding to come aboard. But . . . Captain, it's an A-wing."
Pellaeon froze. "An Alliance fighter?" Could Jade have given the Rebellion codes now that the former Emperor's Hand was apparently working with them, or at least trying to keep herself out of a detention cell? "Go to red alert-"
"Belay that." By now, he ought to be used to Thrawn overriding him, but rank or no rank it still made him feel like a reprimanded cadet. "What markings does the fighter have?"
There was a pause, in which Pellaeon's brow furrowed and he frowned. "You don't think it's a Rebel scout?"
"Almost certainly not, Captain," and there was a tone in the Admiral's voice that Pellaeon could not identify for a moment, and when he did, he was certain he was wrong. Because he had never yet heard Thrawn sound weary. "Lieutenant?"
"No markings, sir." Tschel sounded as surprised as Pellaeon felt. "At least, no known Rebellion paint schemes. Dark gray, sir, possibly black."
"Put the pilot's audio through to me, Lieutenant." Thrawn had been beside Pellaeon, watching the tactical readout, but now he went to his command chair and sat, looking more resigned than anything else.
There was a pause, and then–"Chimaera, I can override your docking control if I have to," a distinctly female voice that Pellaeon didn't recognize was saying, "but I have transmitted recognition codes that suggest you should be more cooperative if you don't want–"
Thrawn cut her off, but Pellaeon had no idea what he said. The language the Grand Admiral was speaking was fluid, mellifluous, with a rhythm decidedly unlike Galactic Basic. The pilot of the A-wing fell silent instantly, and one thing that did seem to carry across languages was tone-there was no mistaking the exasperation in Thrawn's voice.
The pilot responded in kind, and her voice was abruptly conciliatory, but there was still a distinct sense of urgency to it. Her words were even harder to follow as she spoke rapidly, but Pellaeon watched the Admiral's face as he listened, and what he saw was even more surprising than the idea of Thrawn being weary. Thrawn looked . . . puzzled. And concerned. And then Pellaeon heard one word in the strange lilting alien dialect that stuck out like Huttese amidst Basic. Obviously whatever language they were speaking had no word for ysalamiri.
"Very well," and Thrawn sounded a bit more himself as he switched back to Basic. "Come directly to my command room once you're aboard. There will be time, briefly, before we jump for you to explain yourself. But I cannot delay this assault based on your intuitions."
"You don't have to," and there was no mistaking the pilot's abject relief. "I only need–"
"Once you're aboard," Thrawn cut her off again. "Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir." If Tschel had been listening, he was likely as confused as Pellaeon, but even less likely to question matters.
"Inform docking control the A-wing is to be allowed to board immediately. The pilot is to proceed to my command room without interference. She has the appropriate command cylinders to pass through the ship without escort." Pellaeon started, but if Thrawn noticed his surprise he ignored it.
"Aye, sir." The comm clicked off, and Pellaeon turned to the Admiral, who was staring into the middle distance with his usual pensive expression, and yet . . . .
"Admiral?" It seemed almost rude to interrupt his train of thought. "This pilot is–"
"An agent, acting on my behalf." Thrawn sounded distant, distracted, not as if he was thinking about the pilot or, more critically in Pellaeon's mind, how this might affect the timing of the Bilbringi operation. "Nothing to immediately concern you, or cause us to delay, I'm sure."
"If you say so, sir," Pellaeon said. "But you said she has a command cylinder for the Chimaera-does that cylinder allow access to secure areas?"
"She has a command cylinder that will grant access to secure areas on any ship in the fleet, Captain," Thrawn said, and he seemed at least to be coming out of whatever fugue he had been in. "The Emperor was not the only one who needed agents with the freedom to come and go where he required them. You simply have not had occasion to meet any of mine." He frowned. "I hadn't planned on it being now, either."
Pellaeon nodded, though he wasn't sure he understood. "Will you be requiring my presence here during your meeting, sir?"
The glowing eyes blinked and Thrawn shook his head. "No, that will be all, Captain. See to our final preparations and I'll join you on the bridge shortly." He must have seen the thought reflected in Pellaeon's expression, because he added, "Don't be concerned, Captain. I'm in no danger from this visitor." He tapped a control on the arm of the command chair and the holographic art gallery flickered to life around them. Most of these seemed, to Pellaeon's increasingly-trained eye, to be human-made, flat panels and three-dimensional sculptures all made from some dark wood veined with greenish-blue. Thrawn did not elaborate, though, so he didn't ask. Passing back out through the antechamber, Pellaeon glanced into the corner, for once somewhat reassured by the presence of Rukh in the shadowy alcove.
Thelea had been aboard Chimaera before, but even if she hadn't one Imperial-class Destroyer was essentially the same as another. As a rule, she would have used the Force to locate her father's command room by searching out his presence, but here, his ridiculous new pets meant there were gaps in her perception, odd blind spots that stuck out and distracted her as she scanned for threats. There had been no indication his clone Jedi was aboard, which was both a good sign that he was not the source of the disturbance, and a relief that she would not have to confront the false C'baoth now, alone, without Master Aleishia's backup. The ysalamiri's presence, though, was a reminder of that future confrontation's inevitability in addition to hindering her ability to find her away around the ship.
Stop it, she admonished herself. You survived your entire life without relying on the Force. Six years learning to use it doesn't negate all your other senses. Least of all finding your way around a Star Destroyer!
But the Force was instrumental in her reason for being here and trying to explain that decision to her father would be difficult enough without the distracting presence of the Force-repelling little creatures he'd brought in for his grand plan. Not that she could show him the vision–even trying to show Master Aleishia had failed, been a jumbled, shadowy mess, but she had been in a hurry. And terrified.
The dream-vision had woken her for the third night in a row since they'd returned to the fortress on Nirauan from the latest foray into the depths of what Core-worlders called the Unknown Regions. She couldn't, even now, clearly recall any one image beyond a Star Destroyer's bridge. The rest was a blur of dark gray and teeth, stunning pain, anger, a flash of silver, and the impression that had finally driven her here–a bloom of heart's-blood red against snow-white, and along with it the deep, immovable certainty that her father's life was in danger. It was to Vice Admiral Parck's credit he had not questioned her in any detail, simply accepted her word that Thrawn's life was at risk and she had to find him, and he'd provided her with Chimaera's coordinates. The hyperspace jump in her A-wing had been long enough she'd tried to meditate, but again all the Force showed her was the spreading crimson against the white cloth and by the time she'd come out of lightspeed, arguing with Chimaera's docking control had worn through what little self-control she had left.
The door to the antechamber slid open and she didn't even bother looking into the shadows. "Stay out of my way."
There was a hiss from somewhere behind her. Here, the Force was not blocked, and she sensed the Noghri's position behind and to her left. The command cylinder did not work on the inner door, meaning her options were wait until her father decided to admit her, retreat to the corridor, or see what Rukh had in mind. Her father had chided her for her very Chiss-like distaste for the Noghri in general and his bodyguard in particular, and she was willing to concede they had their uses, but a race primitive enough to be manipulated so easily by one faction could be easily manipulated by another. Not only were some of her race's traits, like disdain for primitives, a little more deeply ingrained than she liked, her father had not seen first-hand what the primitives had done on Endor. Thelea had.
"You are armed," the gravelly mewl said from the shadowed alcove. "And armored. I would not be serving our lord the Grand Admiral if I did not detain you." She saw the glint of silver metal moving from hand to hand.
"You know who I am," she said. "And you are correct, I'm armed." She took the lightsaber from its discreet position on the shadow scout armor's utility belt and ignited it. The crimson blade that made Aleishia so uneasy glowed in the darkness, casting a dull wash of red onto the gray-skinned creature watching her. "I'd be failing in my duty if I weren't."
Rukh hissed, but she knew he would not advance on her. Even in the kind of close quarters that were designed for his sort of combat, against a Force-user wielding a lightsaber it would be suicidal. In any case, helmet on or not, Rukh knew exactly who she was. This was about territory. "Very well, daughter of our lord," he said, and the knife vanished. "You may proceed."
"As if you have any say about that," she muttered, but she deactivated her lightsaber and turned to the inner door. Either Rukh did have a control switch, or (more likely) her father had been listening to the entire exchange, because the inner door opened and she stepped through without even glancing at the Noghri. Her back still felt painfully exposed, though, until the door slid shut again behind her.
As seemed to be usual for him, her father was seated in his command chair, surrounded by the rings of holographic artwork. She registered absently that these were all human works, and all from the same material, before exactly what the material was sank in. Behind the mask, she flinched, but forced the expression from her face and the sudden tension from her body.
If her father noticed the response, he gave no indication, but then, she had to assume of course he noticed. That was the entire point. "In a matter of minutes," he said without preamble, "this ship and the rest of her battle group will be jumping into a fight."
"I'm aware of that, Father." Familial title, rather than rank, would inform him as well as anything that this was not a military matter on her part.
"Then I assume you have an excellent reason for your abrupt appearance." His expression didn't give her any hint of his mood–annoyed, angry, or concerned at this out-of-character interruption.
She pulled off her helmet. It seemed important to look him directly in the eyes. "Yes, Father. Your life is in danger."
One shoulder twitched in a shrug. "A soldier's life is always in danger."
"Immediate and personal danger." She eyed the nutrient frame on the back of the chair, forcing herself not to loathe the placid, sessile creature clinging to it. All life, Master Aleishia insisted, was part of the Force, and that meant even ysalamiri. Thelea agreed in principle, but as the ysalamiri went so far in rejecting the Force, it seemed like they'd forfeited any consideration based on that factor. "If I'm not here, you'll die."
It said a great deal about her father's philosophy of leadership that he did not immediately dismiss her perhaps-overdramatic statement out of hand. "What brings you to that conclusion?"
This was the part he was not likely to give much credence too. "A Force vision. I've had it three nights running, and again trying to meditate on my way here. I see a bridge of a Star Destroyer, a blade, and blood on a white uniform. I sense death and defeat and in the vision I know I'm far away and there's nothing I can do about it, I just see it over and over. The Force wouldn't show me this if I weren't supposed to try and stop it."
She waited, and wished either she were better at reading expressions, or he weren't so good at keeping his thoughts from showing. Or that the damned furry snake blocking her other senses would obligingly drop dead. "You've turned into more of a mystic than your mother ever was," he said, thoughtfully, though not disapprovingly. "She didn't put much credence in Force visions and destinies." He cocked an eyebrow. "Except when you were born. But I wrote that off to a mother's indulgence."
"Well, I don't have a lot of patience for them, either, so if it gets this one to stop, you're just going to have to put up with two bodyguards until the Force stops waking me up every night in a panic." She eyed the nutrient frame again and grimaced. "This would be easier without your new pets, while we're on the subject."
His expression darkened. "For the moment, they are a necessity. If your Master had been more amenable to assisting in this campaign–"
Thelea sniffed and that was to keep from laughing, which would have earned her some sort of reprimand. "She said it herself–you wouldn't be very happy if she decided she liked having that sort of power. Controlling an unstable clone is one thing. Facing down a full-fledged, sane Dark Jedi? You couldn't stop her and neither could I. Where is your mad clone, anyway? I was half-certain the vision was about him."
"Safely away and contained for now, waiting for the Jedi he's certain will come and kneel before him." Thrawn's lip twisted. "Either Skywalker will deal with him, or they will be in a position to be disposed of easily once the campaign situation is stable."
"You've decided he has to be dealt with already? What about the . . . coordination? I still can't help you there." Not that she liked the plan, though if her own talents had run in that direction she would have accepted the task, Aleishia's objections on principle notwithstanding. The memory of Palpatine's grasping Force presence among the Fleet at Endor were still fresh after six years, though. "I would have thought, as the campaign moves closer to the Core–"
"There have been . . . complications. Enough that C'baoth will need to be replaced sooner rather than later, and I believe allowing you to hone your combat skills against him is simply too dangerous. A more prosaic removal will be necessary." By which, she knew, he meant assassins by preference, orbital bombardment if necessary.
"And then a new clone replacement?" She didn't bother hiding her distaste.
"Ideally a more stable one, grown under our newly controlled conditions," he said, deliberately ignoring her disapproval. "You could perhaps have a role in the new clone's training."
"I'll think about it." Rather, about ways to say no that her father couldn't object to. "For now, though, my only concern is your safety."
"I find it hard to imagine how I could be in danger in my quarters, in here, or on the bridge of the Chimaera, the only places I am likely to be in the immediate future," he said, "but, if it will put your mind at peace on the matter–"
"It will." She fought to keep the relief from being too obvious. A good thing he wasn't Force-sensitive and even if he were had that ysalamiri over his shoulder, or it would have been blindingly obvious. "If for nothing else, for mother's sake. If I let something happen to you then no matter where she's gone, she'd find a way back and she'd haunt me."
"Would that she'd had such concern about her own safety." Thelea wondered what her father's officers would think if they saw the expression on his face now. Not that he'd ever allow himself to appear pained, let alone wistful, in front of juniors, and they were all junior officers now. Would they even notice? Human expressions were so broad and obvious, they sometimes seemed to miss subtleties completely. "Has she . . . spoken to you, since that day?"
Now she almost wished she hadn't brought it up. "No. Not even when I meditate. She must have really meant it when she said was using up a lot of energy to appear bodily and she can't manage it any more."
Not even in front of his daughter would he have shown real grief, and she saw the effort to contain it. "Ah, well. Strange as it was, it was . . . pleasant to hear her sometimes."
"I know. I miss her, too." She waited for a reprimand about how that was a very human thing to say, but none came.
Instead her father simply nodded, and rose. "If you are going to insist on following me around, then I'd prefer for now you leave your helmet on outside your quarters. It will prevent some of the inevitable questions. Not all of them, but until this battle is over, enough."
"Another step in the campaign?" She tired not to be impatient, but the longer she was out on the fringes, the more she saw, the more she wondered if even Thrawn understood just how quickly they were running out of time.
"Indeed. The Rebels have been doing their best to convince everyone in this sector they intend to attack the Ubiqtorate base at Tangrene."
Thelea knew her father's propensity for drama, but unlike his officers she didn't bother hiding the fact. "Which means you've deduced their actual target is where?"
His lip twisted just a bit, but that was the limit of his annoyance. "Bilbringi. As such, our battle group will be arriving in time to corner their attack force. Of course, if by some remote possibility their target is Tangrene, the base's loss will be far more minor a setback than damage to the shipyards."
Thelea nodded quietly, then asked, "Is the Defiance involved in this action?"
Thrawn paused, just perceptibly. "No. She is on patrol with the Resolute in the Kessel Sector."
"Indeed." Now she deliberately looked around the room. "So since Telamara is nowhere near Bilbringi I assume this little blackwood art display is for my benefit." He didn't say anything. "That was cruel, Father."
He didn't say anything for a moment. "Fair enough." He touched a control, and the artwork vanished.
Thelea almost regretted it. She hesitated, but then, he'd asked about mother, her own feelings on the subject notwithstanding. "How is he?"
Thrawn hesitated just long enough before answering she almost thought he wasn't going to. "Captain Caelin is well-liked by his crew, and they are consistently one of the most effective ships in the outer fleet."
"Yet you didn't recall them for this campaign."
"The perimeter still requires defense," her father said. "You should know that better than most, and he has demonstrated a certain aptitude for dealing with those particular enemies. That's why he is a captain."
"Yes. Which is why he's going to have to find out about me sooner or later." She tried not to picture Rurik, not to think about how much she missed his smile, his irreverent need to tease her even from the first, the euphoria of flying with him at her wing and knowing he had her back–
Thelea stopped herself. Now was not the time. "They're on the move, Father. We don't have much time any more. This campaign–"
"Will end. And soon." There was no mistaking that tone. "They will not find a unified Core, one fleet with a common purpose, nearly as easy picking as remote worlds on the Fringe."
"I hope you're right." She pulled the helmet back on. More or less, it was typical shadow scout, her choice when working with Imperials who didn't need to ask awkward questions. The slight modifications were only noticeable to the wearer and possibly to a shadowtrooper familiar with the standard equipment. The lightsaber on her belt was more obvious, though hopefully not the second, slightly smaller saber in a more discreet holster on her ankle. Lord Vader had, all those years ago before Endor, been right in that her mother's lightsaber was not truly suited to her. It had seemed right to make her own, even if the crystal she'd chosen (eyes closed, feeling for the one which had resonated most strongly) was a color that for some reason unnerved her Master. She carried Lisetha's gold-colored blade with her half out of sentiment, and half because carrying a spare weapon was only sensible.
As on-edge as the visions had left her, an E-11 and a few plasma grenades would have made her feel much better, too.
So would Father having the good sense to wear body armor, she thought, watching how he absently smoothed the white jacket, lest anyone see the Grand Admiral any way less than flawless. She understood the reluctance-it spoke of a lack of trust in his crew, it was indeed uncomfortable as her own armor attested, but while she'd pared down even the lighter scout arm and leg plating the full chest and back protectors always felt reassuring. He wasn't averse to it in situations where he anticipated danger, but he was also stubbornly resistant to the very notion unanticipated dangers truly factored into his world. Unanticipated setbacks, certainly. But direct personal threats? Even with the Rebellion fully aware of his existence now, and no doubt longing to eliminate him by any means possible, he simply refused to admit the possibility.
What did you say, mother? "Still so stubborn, and me not here to bring you down a peg?" How did you ever manage that, and how can I learn so I don't lose both of you?
There was no answer, but she hadn't really expected one.
The bridge of a Star Destroyer in battle was always too calm for Thelea's taste. She preferred the speed and immediacy of an Interceptor cockpit, or her A-wing, though the shields still felt like cheating. Even now, with the unexpected arrival of a fleet of smuggler ships, the sudden upsurge in the Rebels' fighting ability, everyone had that cool focus on their duty stations, and more, a quiet competence that she knew came mostly from confidence in Grand Admiral Thrawn and his mad battle plans that always seemed to pan out. She knew far too well how easily he inspired that kind of pathological devotion. Usually, it was to their advantage. Sometimes . . . .
All but the Captain, at least. She was standing just at the edge of the ysalamir's range, so she wasn't sure if it was really the Force or she was simply getting more adept at reading human body language, but Pellaeon seemed increasingly anxious as the fight became a much bigger matter than easily trapping an unsuspecting Rebel raiding force. Her father was, too, but of course the humans couldn't tell.
A ping from his command board drew the Captain's attention and Thelea's. "Sir, we have a priority message coming in from Wayland." That human face with its obvious play of emotions twisted.
Time froze. Thelea felt a cold wash through her veins, a certainty, a sudden knowledge that she had seen this moment before. She had seen this moment a thousand times in the last three days. Even in the fog the presence of the ysalarmir caused she knew. The pressure in her mind was like, but unlike, the times her mother had spoken, this was only the weight behind the voice, voices, the power and pressure that she had felt then and when in the presence of the dark ones and their shadowy soldiers. This was bright and burning and utter, complete certainty with the weight of worlds pressing down on her mind.
Now. NOW!
Distantly, she heard her father's order for Pellaeon to read the message, and the captain replying, an attack by natives, Rebel saboteurs . . . and Noghri.
The gray shadow behind her father's chair was moving, but so was she, her lightsaber already in hand.
"And a group of Noghri–"
Pellaeon would never remember precisely what happened next. He saw a gray blur aiming for his throat, and a flash of black as he was shoved hard aside, though he would have sworn neither laid a hand on him. Only one must have, he realized as he staggered against his command board, because suddenly the strange shadow scout agent that Thrawn had admitted to the bridge was between him and Rukh, striking out with her left arm and knocking aside the wiry little alien's assassin's knife. They were close enough that Pellaeon heard what he thought was a hiss of pain from the agent, or perhaps it was the whisper of cloth slicing as Rukh used that nightmare speed of his to change grip and slash between the guards on her forearm. She didn't react beyond the faint sound, though, shoving harder with the wounded left arm while her right swept up with something in it, a weapon, and she slammed the end against the Noghri's chest.
Then Pellaeon heard a sound he had not heard in person since the end of the Clone Wars, which he'd thought he would never hear again:
The distinctive snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting.
For a confused instant he didn't see the blade, and then with a surge of disgust and even faint sympathy he realized why: the red beam was only partially visible, sticking out from where it had pierced through the Noghri's chest. With a show of strength that was almost admirable, in a perverse way, the assassin gritted his teeth and hissed, "The Noghri people will repay this treachery. As I have already repaid you."
The voice filtered by the helmet was female and cold as interstellar space. "You have destroyed the Noghri people today. Take that thought with you to your ancestors, Rukh clan Baikh'vair. You have failed even in treason." She pulled the lightsaber sideways and swung it in an almost lazy arc. There was very little blood, Pellaeon thought, feeling torn between nausea and detachment, just a faint mist in the air as the lightsaber bisected the Noghri and the two halves fell twitching to the deck.
It was silent on the bridge, he realized as the shadow scout turned, except for the hum of the saber still glowing red in her hand. She looked to the command chair. Pellaeon followed her gaze. Thrawn was standing, turned towards the brief scene of combat, and for one terrifying and fascinating moment Pellaeon saw open, unconcealed shock on those alien features. And what might even, just for a second, have been fear.
The scout, meanwhile, seemed to be staring at Thrawn, though of course with the helmet it was hard to say. "He was going to kill you." There was a waver to her voice that had not been there a moment ago.
"So he was." Thrawn's voice was just a trace taut, but he seemed to have contained whatever emotion he'd allowed to show. "The attack on Wayland was a signal, no doubt."
"Indeed." And then Pellaeon realized there was a waver to her stance as well as her voice, as if she couldn't quite find her balance. The faceplate tilted down, and she seemed to be staring at her left arm.
The lightsaber slipped from her fingers and deactivated, clattered to the deck as her knees buckled.
Pellaeon lunged instinctively to catch her but somehow Thrawn was faster, slowing her as she crumpled and kneeling beside her, cradling her to keep her head from striking the deck. "Emergency alert, Captain! Medical team to the bridge immediately!" As Pellaeon, still half-numb with shock and shaking with the adrenaline, hit the alert button, the Admiral carefully eased the shadow scout's helmet free. Pellaeon heard a few gasps from nearby crew, quickly stifled. Perhaps it was simply that he had no energy left to be shocked, but somehow he was not surprised at the pale, powder-blue skin and tangled knot of blue-black hair, or that the eyes blinking and seemingly trying to focus on Thrawn were glowing red.
"Poison," was what she whispered, "on the blade. Not deep but deep enough."
"Quiet." Thrawn's voice had a softness Pellaeon had never heard, in a strange way wished he wasn't hearing now. "Save your strength. We can treat the poison. You know how to put yourself in a healing trance?"
She laughed, or it might have been a gasp. Pellaeon realized the blinking of her eyes was too rapid, and he looked for the medic team. "Can't," she said, and her voice was already weaker. "The ysalamir–too close."
Thrawn looked up, and Pellaeon found himself transfixed by how very, very alien those eyes suddenly seemed. "Captain, you have your sidearm?"
"Sir?" Pellaeon wondered if this was a very strange dream.
"The ysalamir. Kill it!"
The tone was so harsh, so alien, that Pellaeon found himself fumbling for the usually-pointless sidearm which so rarely left its holster before he could truly process what he was doing. With alarms screaming already one blaster shot didn't really add that much to the pandemonium, and he tried push down a trace of guilt as the sessile creature writhed momently and went limp. The change to the girl, though, was instant. She drew in a deep breath, half-rising, but Thrawn held her still, murmuring something Pellaeon couldn't hear but which seemed to calm her.
Then she reached up, pressing her gloved hand against Thrawn's chest, a strange gesture, and Thrawn covered her hand with his own. The glowing alien eyes were fixed on the Admiral's, and she said, distinct enough Pellaeon heard her: "It's all right. Really, it's all right." She fought up against Thrawn's hold and said clearly:
"The Force is with us.We're going to win."
Her eyes closed, and Thrawn pressed two fingers to the pulse point at her throat (internal anatomy, Pellaeon thought distractedly, must at least be similar.) He seemed to sag with relief as the medic team finally arrived. "She's been wounded with a blade coated in a neurotoxin," Thrawn said, and his voice had an odd distant quality.
The led medic was checking the same pulse point, and comparing with the readout of a scanner. "Pulse is slow but present, respiration very shallow." The other medic was preparing the stretcher.
"She can place herself in a hibernation state," and Thrawn still sounded detached, distracted, as if he were thinking aloud. "It should slow the poison. Keep it from spreading to her heart."
"Good to know." The medic moved to support her shoulders, but Thrawn's hands tightened convulsively. Pellaeon could see bones pressing against the skin. The medic paused, and then did something that ought to have earned any crew member, let alone one so low-ranking, a harsh reprimand at the least.
He reached out, and gently touched Thrawn's arm.
"Sir? You have to let us take her now." The tone was soft, and reassuring, and more like speaking to a frightened child than his supreme commander. "We'll take good care of her, I promise, but you have to let her go."
Thrawn, for a brief moment, didn't seem to hear him. Then he nodded, slowly, and his hold relaxed. "Anything you have to do, do it. Save her life." The medic clearly knew his opening when he saw it and he took her shoulders while the other medic came around to her feet. They had her secured on the stretcher and were rushing for the lifts as Thrawn rose, picking up the lightsaber where she had dropped it. He stared at the weapon for a moment, seemingly lost in thought and oblivious to the dark smear of blood her hand had left on the once-pristine white uniform, directly over what would, in a human at least, be his heart.
Pellaeon drew in an unsteady breath and forced himself to be calm. "Admiral?"
Thrawn looked up sharply, as if, despite the noise of the alarms, he had forgotten where he was. "Yes, Captain?" His voice at least sounded stable, normal.
It seemed almost insane to have to say it, but then everything he'd just witnessed beggared belief. "Sir, the smuggler fleet–and Wayland–"
"Wayland will keep," and Thrawn very deliberately looked at the remains of his treacherous bodyguard on the deck plates. "As will this new betrayal." He made a sharp gesture and two troopers rushed forward to remove the body. Or the pieces of the body.
"Admiral Thrawn?" The comm officer sounded as shaky as Pellaeon felt, but he was doing his best to sound confident. "Stormhawk and Nemesis are requesting orders. What shall I tell them, sir?" Pellaeon was wondering much the same thing himself.
Thrawn walked back to his command chair, looking almost entirely composed for having just survived an assassination attempt. "They are to close the perimeter gap left by the Golan II. TIE fighters deploy into the shipyards to run down the Rebels fighters who took advantage of the gap, but the Destroyers' priority is to prevent the capital ships from entering." He continued to stare at the tactical display for a moment. "As for these new forces . . . ." His lips thinned. "If they can be destroyed, do so. But our priority is preventing further damage to the shipyards themselves. If allowing them to escape serves that, so be it."
"Yes, sir." Pellaeon heard the comm officer relaying orders, observed their own repositioning to better allow for a launch of reserve fighters, but . . . . "Admiral, are you sure that you're–"
"As I said, Captain," and from the way he raised his voice he intended for everyone within earshot to hear, "treason can keep. I am uninjured." He looked down at the lightsaber. "She said we are going to win. I think we should focus on making that happen, don't you?"
And much to Pellaeon's surprise (though he thought by now he really ought to have known better) while it was not as clean or simple as they had originally hoped, within an hour, they had.