Please Note that this chapter is a Part of the end of the book The Last Command By Timothy Zahn. I do not own any charecters represented here, those belong to the Star Wars Franchise. Please Comment if you think anything should be improved or if you like it so far.
The two Rebel Assault Frigates broke to either side of the beleaguered Golan II, delivering massive broadsides as they veered off. A section of the battle station flared and went dark, and against its darkened bulk another wave of Rebel starfighters could be seen slipping past into the shipyards beyond.
And Pellaeon was no longer smiling.
"Don't panic, Captain," Thrawn said. But he, too, was starting to sound grim. "We're not defeated yet. Not by a long shot."
Pellaeon's board pinged. He looked at it— "Sir, we have a priority message coming in from Wayland," he told Thrawn, his stomach twisting with a sudden horrible premonition. Wayland—the cloning facility—
"Read it, Captain," Thrawn said, his voice deadly quiet.
"Decrypt is coming in now, sir," Pellaeon said, tapping the board impatiently as the message slowly began to come up. It was exactly as he'd feared. "The mountain is under attack, sir," he told Thrawn. "Two different forces of natives, plus some Rebel saboteurs—" He broke off, frowning in disbelief. "And a group of Noghri—"
He never got to read any more of the report. Abruptly, a gray-skinned hand slashed out of nowhere, catching him across the throat.
He gagged, falling limply in his chair, his whole body instantly paralyzed. "For the treachery of the Empire against the Noghri people," Rukh's voice said quietly from beside him as he gasped for breath. "We were betrayed. We have been avenged."
There was a whisper of movement, and he was gone. Still gasping, struggling against the inertia of his stunned muscles, Pellaeon fought to get a hand up to his command board. With one final effort, he made it, trying twice before he was able to hit the emergency alert.
And as the wailing of the alarm cut through the noise of a Star Destroyer at battle, he finally managed to turn his head.
Thrawn was sitting upright in his chair, his face strangely calm. In the middle of his chest, a dark red stain was spreading across the spotless white of his Grand Admiral's uniform. Glittering in the center of the stain was the tip of Rukh's assassin's knife.
Thrawn caught his eye; and to Pellaeon's astonishment, the Grand Admiral smiled. "But," he whispered, "it was so artistically done." The smile faded. The glow in his eyes did likewise... and Thrawn, the last Grand Admiral, was gone.
"Captain Pellaeon?" the comm officer called urgently as the medic team arrived—too late—to the Grand Admiral's chair. "The Nemesis and Stormhawk are requesting orders. What shall I tell them?"
Pellaeon looked up at the viewports. At the chaos that had erupted behind the defenses of the supposedly secure shipyards; at the unexpected need to split his forces to its defense; at the Rebel fleet taking full advantage of the diversion. In the blink of an eye, the universe had suddenly turned against them.
Thrawn could still have pulled an Imperial victory out of it. But he, Pellaeon, was not Thrawn.
"Signal to all ships," he rasped. The words ached in his throat, in a way that had nothing to do with the throbbing pain of Rukh's treacherous attack. "Prepare to retreat."