MITTH'RAW'NURUODO
It is entirely possible that Thrawn did not believe as deeply as some in the ideals of the Republic. I myself did not believe in them—and I still do not believe in some of the more naïve promises the early leaders and manifestos made—for many years. But Thrawn's devotion to the men under his command, and those he regarded as his people, can not be questioned.
—From Thrawn
by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired
Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY
The Millennium Falcon smeared into existence as it dropped out of hyperspace within bare kilometers of the Alliance Navy's rendezvous point. The Falcon drifted free for a moment, before her powerful sublight engines roared to life, though the noise was unheard in the vacuum of space.
All around the small YT-1300 light freighter, running lights and welding drones gave shape to the shadowy silhouettes of the Alliance Navy.
"Unknown contact, this is Knight actual, identify yourself immediately or you will be fired upon," a voice squawked over Han Solo's headset. Moments later, the active sensors mounted aboard Alliance warships were lit off and focused on the Falcon, and a squadron of T-65 X-Wings—serving their turn in the combat air patrol rotation—began burning toward them as well.
Solo tapped the side of his headset to activate his audio pickups. "This is Captain Solo, Knight actual. I have a wounded officer aboard and Admiral Thrawn." He tried to put a bit of swagger in his voice—for he was acutely aware that Princess Leia Organa was sitting in the seat behind Chewbacca—but found that he couldn't. Not after having seen all of the death and destruction on the frozen hell known as Hoth.
There was a moment of silence. "Confirm, Solo," the signal officer aboard Knight, a captured Imperial-class star destroyer, ordered.
Solo swore under his breath, hoping the Princess hadn't heard. Thrawn's shakeup of the Alliance had included the addition of proper security procedures, and Solo was already missing the happy-go-lucky days of the early Alliance's security.
"Admiral!" he called from the cockpit, leaning around Princess Organa to do so. "You might want to get up here; I need some rank-pulling!" Getting shot by their own side was the last thing he was interested in.
"Understood, Captain," Thrawn answered from the infirmary, sparing one final glance for the unconscious Navy commander lying on a surgical table. "On my way."
As he reached the cockpit of the ancient freighter, he motioned Princess Organa aside and accepted a headset from Chewbacca, the Wookie co-pilot. The same signal officer was speaking, responding to one of Solo's queries: "Solo; please refrain from—"
Thrawn cut into the exchange, pulling rank as Solo had requested, "This is Admiral Thrawn, identification code: Seven-alpha-zero-two-eight-five-baker. Acknowledge."
There was a moment of silence as the code was entered into the main computers, "ID codes are green. How's the weather?"
"Cold."
"How's the jacket?"
"Torn," Thrawn responded. The countersigns were simple, but randomized every other day.
"Alphabet Squadron will escort you in. Welcome home, Admiral."
The signal officer's voice shifted in tone instantly, upon confirming Thrawn's authenticity, becoming much friendlier.
"Thank you." Thrawn pulled his headset off, hanging it on a rack in the cockpit. "Bring us in, Captain. Aboard the Knight," he said, knowing that the Knight had the most advanced infirmary in the fleet.
Solo was technically a freelance pilot, holding no rank in the Alliance. He treasured being just barely important to warrant sitting in on the Alliance's war council—or what passed for it—but just far enough outside of it to pack up and leave once he got bored. Despite that flaunted independence, when Thrawn spoke, his response was an automatic, "Aye, sir." The response bothered him, but it was a holdover from his days as an Imperial Naval officer.
Thrawn retreated from the cockpit, noting that Princess Organa moved back into it after he did so. There was no reason for her to to be in the cockpit, nor any reason she shouldn't, but his mind automatically began working through the possible reasons she was spending so much time around the freelance pilot.
As he retook his seat back in the Falcon's infirmary, he studied the unconscious commander with pursed lips. Commander William Sheplin had been his friend for over fifteen years, the pair having met after Thrawn had been assigned command of the Ark Royal, a Victory-class star destroyer, when Sheplin—then a green midshipman—had been assigned to the same ship straight out of the Naval Academy.
Sheplin had been as green of an officer as could be imagined, but, despite the awkwardness of the gangling midshipman, there was a degree of command, of instinctive decision-making, that had prompted Thrawn to take a closer look at the young man.
What had begun as a clear attempt of Thrawn's to cultivate yet another young prodigy had suddenly gone sideways, when Thrawn had realized that he had become genuinely fond of the man. Drastic differences in rank had made the friendship difficult, but there was little doubt in Thrawn's mind that Sheplin would walk through Hell without hesitation if Thrawn asked him to. And, by the same token, there was nothing Thrawn would not do if his friend required it.
So, when Thrawn had made his decision to abandon the Empire, Sheplin hadn't even hesitated to follow.
Now, nearly a year after the decision had been made, The Alliance was on the run—technically, at least—Sheplin had been scarred and then wounded in a desperate firefight, and the Empire was undoubtedly hot on their trail.
Thrawn never even considered that he might have thrown his lot in with the losing side; the die had been cast by another's hand even before he'd made his fateful decision. Long before.
The usual side party—complete with bosun's pipes—had been postponed by Thrawn, and the four uninjured bipeds descended the Falcon's loading ramp without any ceremony. A pair of Navy corpsmen with a stretcher ran past them, up the loading ramp, and returned moments later with Commander Sheplin's unconscious body.
Thrawn left his three companions and returned the salute of the captain of the Knight, Michael Baldor, who had come to welcome him aboard personally.
"Welcome aboard, Admiral," Baldor said, not a hint of concern in his voice, though it had been clear on his face.
"Thank you, Captain." Thrawn's gaze turned to the Navy corpsmen rushing Sheplin to the infirmary for a moment, before moving on to the most senior Navy man in the hanger; Rear Admiral Gial Ackbar.
"What is the condition of the fleet?" Thrawn asked, directing his question at Ackbar.
"Intact, sir," the Mon Calamari admiral responded. "Upon my own initiative, I've been stripping men from the cruisers and placing them aboard the star destroyers in order to bring them to combat strength."
"Excellent." Thrawn nodded. "What is the combat-effective strength of the SDs?"
"I managed to steal enough men to crew six star destroyers, but I would hesitate to call them entirely combat-effective." Ackbar's facial expressions were difficult to read, being so alien, but it was obvious that the Mon Calamari was wondering if Thrawn would continue to act as if nothing untoward had happened on Hoth.
Thrawn's expression became less severe than usual. "Thank you, Admiral. You acted as I would have."
That was unusually high praise, and Ackbar became embarrassed. "Thank you, sir."
"What is the state of our government?"
It was a question that demanded a less pleasant response. "Worse than our Navy," Ackbar answered. "Senator Mothma has reorganized it to something resembling a government, but half of the bureaucrats are still aboard evacuation transports."
Thrawn nodded, though he hardly cared about the remainder of the sentence. All he could think about for a moment was that she was alive. Mon Mothma was alive.
Inside the flag briefing room, Ackbar sat stiffly in a chair, afraid to relax, lest he fall asleep—it had been a long two days. "It isn't as cheery as I made it sound in the hanger, Admiral," Ackbar said finally.
"I didn't expect it was," Thrawn answered truthfully. "But you were right to keep it positive in public."
Ackbar nodded in agreement. "The Navy's intact, thankfully, but the Army and Marine Corps' been chewed all to kanway."
"How bad?"
"The Third Division—" the Alliance Army's Third Division had born the brunt of the Empire's assault on Hoth "—doesn't exist on anything but flimsi." Ackbar rubbed his amphibian face. "They sustained seventy-three percent casualties, and I wouldn't be surprised if General Trantor deactivates them.
"The Marines got off lighter, but every frontline Marine unit on Hoth suffered an average of thirty-six percent casualties."
Thrawn was silent as he absorbed the information. Over thirteen thousand Alliance ground-pounders were dead, wounded, or captured.
"Strike-craft?"
Ackbar grimaced at the question. "Most of the surviving units have already returned, but nearly three-hundred strike-craft—X-Wings, Y-Wings, and airspeeders included—were not recovered."
Thrawn was silent again, but before he could get too deep into his thoughts, Ackbar interrupted again, saying, "Rogue Squadron hasn't reported back yet, sir."
The implication was clear, and Thrawn's lips flattened and became thin at the thought of Rogue Squadron's potential destruction. He glanced at a bulkhead-mounted chronometer, calculating. "We will remain on station for another four hours, Admiral, before moving."
It was an unspoken dismissal, and Ackbar stood. "Aye, sir."
Before Ackbar could leave, Thrawn stopped him, saying quietly, "I am glad you survived, my friend," he said.
Ackbar nodded slowly, before saluting. "Likewise, sir."