Chapter Four
A/N: Thank you for the lovely horrified reviews! Reviews are love, catnip to authors, and reviews involving screams of grief are even better. This must be what George R.R. Martin feels like every day! I confess to being concerned the deceased character in question was not 'major' enough but apparently I was happily mistaken. And yes, it hurt to write, but someone had to go. To the anonymous reviewer I couldn't reply to who was apparently stunned, why, yes, yes I did ram an SSD with an ISD decelerating from hyperspace speeds. As you will see, your analysis of what could happen is pretty spot-on. Grand Admiral Sean and I talked over that part quite a bit, including the various attack-angle scenarios (I ultimately went with hitting at an angle from the bow end) and while there were several possibilities for the Lusankya's damage, there were absolutely no scenarios in which the Admonitor came out of this in even recognizable pieces, let alone survived. So as I have warned, when I said dead, I meant it.
Thelea screamed into the void even as she fought to keep her fighter from tumbling end-over-end in the shock wave from the massive collision. Her computer had twenty kinds of alert shrieking and flashing and she also was receiving an overwhelming amount of emotion from the Force. It was disconcertingly like Endor, when the shock of the Death Star and the Executor's destructions had sent her tumbling from the tree she'd crashed in. This time, though, as she forced herself to pay attention, the worst was not the number of dead. The worst was the emotions of those watching, already afraid or resigned or in pain and now numbed, horrified, unable to process what their eyes and sensors were telling them.
The Lusankaya was not obliterated. At least, not completely, and not yet. The actual impact had been so fast, the ship-cum-missile traveling so quickly, it had been impossible to process. She'd had a fleeting impression of an Imperial Star Destroyer and then . . . the Super Star Destroyer had been shattered into pieces. "Unzipped" was a good term, if it weren't horrifying to contemplate where a starship was concerned. Her bow end was mostly particulate debris, including whatever the massive weapon they'd mounted on her under the construction girders. The stern end, including the conning tower, was in slightly better shape, but only in the sense there might be survivors. Undoubtedly a few of the ysalamiri frames had come through, as there were still null pockets in the sections of the ship that were now broken almost apart, momentum from the colossal force of a ship only barely at sublight and the resultant explosions of its ordinance, engines, hyperdrive core, all the matter making it up reentering normal space within essentially the same spot as the Lusankya had occupied, slowly twisting the half-joined remnants further apart. The Judicator and Relentless were helping it along, presumably in absence of other orders from the still-maimed Chimaera, turbolasers broadsiding the largest remaining pieces despite no further response from any weapons systems. Whether that was because the crew had more pressing concerns, or because the crew were all dead, she couldn't be sure.
Of the ship that had inflicted the fatal injury, absolutely nothing remained. Perhaps somewhere in the twisted hulk at the center of the damage, there might be a few identifiable fragments embedded in plassteel, but certainly nothing larger. Nothing of whomever had programmed and controlled the mad, suicidal jump, nothing to give a proper funeral in space–final disintegration was already accomplished. The timing had been flawless, the jump exquisitely precise, and the results catastrophic for both target and attacker.
And there was only one ship, one commander, who could have, would have, done it.
Thelea was distantly aware of a buzzing in her mind, and abruptly she had a ghostly impression of the Interdictor's bridge, and Tam, hesitantly and with an awkwardness rivaling her own first attempts at initiating speaking mind to mind (though already more articulate; given her own inept first attempts it would be difficult not to be), she heard him ask, Was that on purpose? What ship was that?
Thelea didn't want to form the thought, but she already was. Couldn't help it. It was Admonitor. It had to be. They had been with her father since his false exile from the Core, their crew had even gradually acquired some representatives of her own people from the Hand, they were her father's first experiment at holding a mostly-human crew to the standards he expected. Those of the Defense Force. Including, Force help them all, precision short-range hyperspace jumps. And of all the Imperials who had come with him, no one had embraced every teaching Thrawn had to offer as fully as Voss Parck.
And no one save herself would be as ready to sacrifice his life for his Admiral.
An alert, non-urgent, chirped, and she looked at her tracking computer. Three Destroyers, quickly identified as Hydra, Manticore, and Gorgon, had dropped out of hyperspace at a much safer, more rational distance, pulled in by Constrainer's gravity-well generator. Home One began what looked like a half-hearted turn towards the new threats, but even as the Imperial reinforcements opened up on the Rebel ships, the flagship's response seemed belated. Rote. Stunned.
Well, you deserve it! She had realized the thought was so loud until she felt Tam's flinch in the Force.
Another flicker of pseudomotion and Basilisk joined her sisters. Thelea wondered at the delay, and opened a comm channel. "Basilisk, Talon One. Tell me you were late because you were picking up life pods."
To her everlasting relief, the response was in a familiar gruff voice, though she thought there was a pained rasp to it that she had never heard before. "They were, Talon One," Captain Niriz said. "We have most of Admonitor's . . . survivors aboard. Some of her TIE squadrons will need a pickup at the staging point."
She wanted, desperately, to ask what had happened, but on an open channel it was impossible. So she only said the obvious, "And Admiral Parck?"
There was the faintest pause. "I can see now what he had in mind." Niriz's voice was suddenly very hoarse indeed. "Is Chimaera badly damaged?"
Thelea banked around, aiming for the wounded flagship as she replied. "I'm not sure if their comm is back on-line, but no evacuation, no hull breach." Master? Tentatively, she reached for Aleishia's mind.
The stunned, pained, dully horrified sense that reached back nearly overwhelmed her. Apprentice. Aleishia felt . . . old. Old and tired and numbly horrified. We are alive. And unharmed. Physically, at least. It's still some minutes before the comms will be functional. As for the rest . . . .
Talk about your answers that left plenty of room for interpretation. Thelea kicked her engines hotter, closing the distance to the Chimaera and scanning her with the targeting computer. Shields were coming back up, hull integrity good . . . . She reached farther with her mind, searching for her father's cold-stone sense in the Force.
She wished she hadn't. She could tell his facade was unbroken and no hint of the turmoil showed, but she could feel the stunned, horrified anguish beneath. He had already puzzled out what had happened, what must have happened, and he knew who had taught Parck how to control a hyperspace jump with that degree of precision. He had personally given Parck the instrument of his destruction-and in the process saved himself and the Chimaera and likely the entire campaign.
A red bolt slashed past, close enough to ding a percent off her shields and she snapped her focus back to the world around her. The Rebel Dreadnaught–Peregrine–was aiming for the crippled Chimaera, a belated closing maneuver now that their main plan had been so catastrophically foiled. Pivoting the A-wing she released her last two concussion missiles at the Dreadnaught. "Basilisk, order your group to engage the Rebel capital ships. Judicator and Relentless will finish the Lusankya, Nemesis can mop up the freighter traffic. We need to keep everything away from Chimaera until her shields are at strength again." Tam, have them move Constrainer to block the Mon Cal cruisers' best escape vector. True, she hadn't technically been given those orders, but no one save possibly Tam knew that.
"Is the order still disable, not destroy?" There was a certain note to Niriz's voice that suggested he very much hoped the order had changed. Thelea couldn't blame him.
But she didn't have to check with her father to know that was not the case. "Yes. Take their shields down, disable hyperdrives, try to keep fighter destruction to a minimum. We just need to keep them from escaping until Chimaera's systems are on-line." Her targeting computer picked up three X-wings on an attack vector for the flagship, and she kicked her engines to the maximum and set an intercept course.
Pellaeon focused on the status reports being flung left and right at him, fixing his mind on the numbers and the voices and the countdown for each system as it came back on-line. There were casualty reports, too, mostly injuries, and it was a small mercy after what they had witnessed through the viewports. And if he was dealing with the details, listening to the damage reports and injury lists, then he was filtering it before Grand Admiral Thrawn had to deal with them. Because right now, he was not certain his Admiral was truly in a frame of mind to deal with anything other than what had just happened.
Neither Thrawn nor Aleishia had moved from the viewports since all of their vision had recovered from the brilliant flash of the impact. Thrawn was staring at the rapidly-disintegrating pieces of the Super Star Destroyer, watching the battle unfold in the only way available to him until the sensors came back on-line. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back and at a cursory glance he did not appear any different than normal beyond not having his normal tactical displays available and therefore relying on visual scanning. But Pellaeon thought there was a very unnatural rigidity to his stance, a stiffness of his back and shoulders that bespoke pain more than discipline.
Aleishia was not bothering to contain her reaction. One hand was pressed over her mouth, her other arm clasped across her body almost defensively, and she seemed to struggle to hold herself upright. Her eyes, too, were on the debris that had once been Lusankya and her attacker. Pellaeon was still unsure what he'd seen, but he'd heard Aleishia cry out a name and seen the stark expression on Thrawn's face when he heard it. She looked so pale, he wondered if he ought to call for a medic.
"Master Jedi?" When Pellaeon received no response, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Please, Master Aleishia, you need to sit down."
Carefully, as if she might release a scream, Aleishia lowered her hand from her mouth. "No, Captain," and her voice sounded very faint. "I will be quite all right, and I am needed here." She looked at Thrawn, staring hard as if looking for some sign. "Look to your Admiral, Captain. This battle isn't over yet."
Pellaeon wasn't sure whether the comment was really meant for him, or for Thrawn. The other hadn't moved, so he took a deep breath, and said, "Admiral, navigation reports the computers are functional again, and comm estimates no more than two minutes to full communications restoration. Shields are at 68% now. We are able to jump and we have some maneuvering capabilities. What are your orders, sir?"
Thrawn didn't reply for a moment, but only a brief one. "As soon as the comm is functional, inform Basilisk of our condition and pass along the orders to the other ships–focus on the Rebel warships, but especially Home One. To the point of shield failure, not hull failure. Notify me as soon as the comm is restored."
"Yes, Admiral." Pellaeon wanted to ask. He'd seen the Destroyer's shadow and knew it had to be one of the reserve ships, and there was little to no chance that anything of the ship had survived. Somehow more numbing was the realization this could not have been an accident in the hyperspace jump. The Imperial-class Destroyer had made the jump deliberately, shattering the Lusankya and the superlaser it carried at the cost of its own survival. An entire Destroyer, its crew . . . he didn't dare ask which one yet.
The tactical displays were lighting up again, information returning as the sensors recovered from the ion blasts, and he could see the identities of the inbound Destroyers. Manticore, Hydra, Gorgon . . . . that left two absent, and when a moment later Basilisk joined her sisters, he knew which it must have been, confirmed his suspicions, really.
"Comm system on-line, Captain," and like the rest of the crewers the man-boy, really-at the station sounded both anxious and relieved, as if he weren't quite sure whether the danger was over or only postponed. "Transmission from Talon One–"
"Put it through," Thrawn interrupted. Pellaeon hadn't even heard him move from the viewport. Aleishia was watching them, but she had not moved, and she had that faintly distracted expression that she seemed to have when attending to Jedi matters. A vast improvement, he was forced to admit, over C'baoth's arrogantly confident serenity.
Thelea's voice sounded raspy, as if she were struggling to contain her emotions. "Niriz is aboard the Basilisk, F-Admiral," and Pellaeon knew she'd used the rank formality only at the last second. "So is most of the crew. Some of the TIEs will need a pickup." There was a sound of a long breath being drawn. "There was only one aboard when she jumped."
Thrawn closed his eyes a moment, but when he replied his voice was as cool and steady as always. "Noted. Fighters are to focus on the Rebel dreadnaughts and any remaining Rebel fighters. Constrainer, prevent the Mon Cal cruisers from escaping. Destroyers are to disable them." The glowing red gaze, impassable and unreadable as always, was fixed on the tactical readouts. One of the Rebel dreadnaughts was drifting, the crippled tilt of a ship trying to maneuver for an escape vector but whose helm was hampered by severe battle damage. "Comm, I require two standby channels. The first is to all Imperial combat vessels. The second is an all-channels transmission. Any frequencies which the Rebels might be using."
Pellaeon frowned as the comm officer programmed the two communications bands, but Thrawn gave no explanation, instead turning back to the tactical display. The clearly-crippled Mon Remonda was turning as well, rear batteries trying to dive away both Nemesis and her reinforcement, the Hydra. It would be a futile attempt, however–her clearest path to hyperspace was once again closed off by the Interdictor Cruiser's gravity well. Home One, meanwhile, was not even attempting to flee, which was likely the wiser course as Manticore and Relentless were closing on her, Gorgon nearby and addressing the dreadnaught escorts. A quick scan told him Judicator had joined Basilisk and both were closing on Chimaera's position, clearing away the smaller Rebel ships as they approached. The remains of the Lusankya were spreading apart, the larger pieces creating their own navigation hazards among the smaller debris and the battle traffic.
Chimaera shuddered as one of the Rebels' converted freighter-warships realized she was coming back on-line and opened fire at distance. A massive salvo from Judicator's guns silenced the threat and left the ship a drifting hulk. One of the dreadnaughts, he thought one of bel Iblis's own group, was also making a run, but not only did a wing of TIEs with that incongruous A-wing dive in, one of their own Carrack cruisers put on a burst of speed and flung itself at the Rebel, batteries blazing, and despite the size disparity threw itself between the oncoming Rebel warship and their flagship.
Thrawn's brow furrowed and he appeared genuinely nonplused. Thelea's A-wing shot between Chimaera and the Carrack's target, clearly taunting the Rebel gunners and daring them to shoot at her, the small capital ship, anywhere but her father's flagship. "That," Thrawn said, the irritation clear in his tone, "needs to stop. Your apprentice is taking unnecessary risks again."
"Not 'my apprentice' at the moment," Aleishia said. Her gaze was still fixed out the window. "And hardly alone."
Pellaeon followed her gaze, and compared what visual scanning told him to what he was seeing on the tactical readout. The Imperial fleet had rearranged itself, not entirely in keeping with Thrawn's orders. Other than Constrainer maintaining her blocking position, the other capital ships and their fighter support were reorienting themselves, still assaulting their targets but all moving so that they were creating a barrier, shield and weapons status notwithstanding, between any still-active hostile ships and the Chimaera. Even as he watched the Relentless swung as hard as an Imperial-class Destroyer could on a pivot point, grabbing with her tractors and slowing a Rebel dreadnaught that was moving for a broadside before unleashing her own turbolasers on the hapless ship. His eyes sought out those same numbers he'd consulted long ago, and he felt the same unease as he had that first time C'baoth had coordinated them.
This time, though, the notion seemed even harder to believe. "Master Aleishia?" His tone was far more hesitant than he liked, but it seemed far less believable even than before.
Thrawn, of course, missed nothing. "This is your doing?" He didn't bother with the honorific and there was real danger in his tone. Pellaeon wondered if he was thinking of the ysalamiri, now concentrated in their aft cargo bays.
Aleishia, though, only smiled, Pellaeon thought a bit sadly. "I said no battle meditations. I doubt I'd know how to even try. This is none of my doing, Mitth'raw'nurodo," she said, her gaze turning back to the battle. "This is entirely yours."
Pellaeon did not understand. The fleet was showing that same coordination, that same efficiency, exceeding even the best of their training standards. Thrawn, though, wore an expression Pellaeon had never seen on the Grand Admiral's face before: incomprehension. The Captain turned and looked down the crew pit, watching the quick, disciplined actions of officers and their subordinates, finally truly hearing the tone in their voices as they called out status reports, targets, requests for orders . . . cool. Confident. Even eager. They were functioning to a standard even in the old days he might only have dreamed of, especially in a situation where they'd been moments from total destruction. His crew was at their absolute peak, giving their all, and they were supremely confident of victory.
Not for themselves. For their Admiral.
Thrawn was staring, too, incomprehension giving way to genuine astonishment as he traced the new trajectories the Imperial ships were following, realizing what the new priority was–defend their flagship until she could defend herself. Protect their Admiral, no matter the cost. And it was at cost, as an explosion from the Carrack who'd put herself between the dreadnaught and the Chimaera showed. Judicator and Basilisk were taking stations to either flank, using their port and starboard batteries respectively to cover for Chimaera's damaged defenses. "This was not the priority," Thrawn said, fainter than Pellaeon ever recalled hearing his voice. "The priority is the Rebels' flagship."
"You are going to have a very difficult time convincing any Imperial officer of that now," Aleishia said quietly. "After what . . . he did, they won't hesitate. They aren't fighting to achieve a tactical goal, though they will achieve it because of who asks them to." She closed her eyes, and a serene smile curved her lips. "They're fighting for you, Grand Admiral Thrawn."
Amazing how a name and rank could sound so entirely different depending on the speaker. C'baoth had made the full rank into an insult. Aleishia made it a proclamation. Or a prophecy. But whether it was her Jedi intuition or simple fact, she was correct. Pellaeon had known already that the Chimaera's crew was prepared to die for their Admiral, but after seeing the Admonitor's sacrifice they had turned imminent disaster into a rallying point. The entire fleet, even the resentful Dorja, were making it clear to the Rebels in terms no one could mistake: If you want our Admiral, you go through us. All of us.
"Admiral Thrawn, we have a report from Manticore," and Pellaeon had to fight the instinct to beam with pride at the crisp, professional tone from the comm officer. "Home One has shields at 14% with damage to her sublight systems. Mon Remonda shows shields at critical, hull damage at 5%."
Thrawn nodded, his composure apparently returned. "Signal all ships: hold fire and hold position. Act only to prevent further damage to our ships. When they've complied," and he stared hard out the viewport, his gaze clearly settling on the drifting form of the Rebel flagship, "open the all-ships frequency."
Somehow, some way, it had all gone wrong.
Bel Iblis was still not certain he had seen what he thought he had. The Lusankya had jumped in perfectly in spite of worries about her restored hyperdriver, the mass laser mounted on her bow (heavy Hapan technology with some inspiration from the Imperials' own famous superweapons) and worked exactly as intended, Chimaera had been and clearly in some respects still was disabled as they planned, it had only required a minor shift in position even the hastily-repaired maneuvering thrusters could manage, if slowly, and the threat of Grand Admiral Thrawn would be over. Instead, in a blaze of hyperspace deceleration, the entire battle had gone straight to hell.
Home One's sensors had barely even registered the ship entering from hyperspace before the Lusankya ripped apart, apparently from within. He couldn't believe it, couldn't comprehend the notion–Thrawn ordering a Star Destroyer to make a suicidal run to save himself, sacrificing so many lives to protect his own. And then he realized that it could not have been an order, at least none relayed by conventional means, as Chimaera's comm had still been down. They monitored no transmissions, in or out, and that meant unless Thrawn really did still have Jedi or Jedi clones or whatever C'baoth had been working for him, he was mute and deaf to his fleet. Some commander of the reserve fleet (and where had those come from? Four more Destroyers, five if you counted the one that had struck the Super) had taken it on himself to make the ultimate sacrifice, and the rest of the fleet clearly had taken that as inspiration. Simply destroying Chimaera was abruptly off the table, and a head to head battle with the bulk of the Imperial fleet was once again the only apparent means of victory.
And, as he steadied himself against yet another rattling blow from a Destroyer's turbolaser, the chances of achieving that were dwindling by the minute.
"General bel Iblis," Teuthal said, "our shields are at twelve percent, and we are showing critical damage to our sublight engines. If we are to withdraw–"
"Withdraw?" Even as he said it, on the tactical readout the Peregrine tried to maneuver out of range of the Carrack-class cruiser that had intercepted their run on the disabled Chimaera. He felt his heart clench and willed his people to get clear-they were farther from the Interdictor, if they could get a clean vector they might have a chance. "Captain, if we withdraw–"
"We may survive to fight on," Teuthal interrupted, and bel Iblis contained a flare of temper. The Mon Cal officer would never have interrupted Ackbar . . . but then, he wasn't Ackbar, was he? Ackbar had already lost the confidence of the New Republic's Inner Council. They had, truth be told, largely lost confidence that this war could really be won at all. "If our shields are lost, our drive will be next. We will be at their mercy."
"If we run now, Thrawn holds the galactic crossroads. He has a clear path to the Core and our choices will be run or die trying to hold Coruscant." He tried to see some way, some reserve they could call on, some last-minute miracle like Yavin or at least the desperate escape as at Hoth, or so many of his own group's vanishing acts. Some hope that they would at least live to fight another day.
The Mon Remonda's icon on the targeting computer began blinking an alarming yellow, her shields gone, engines at critical risk. Deep within the Interdictor's gravity well, there was nowhere for her to run. Another of the fire ships vanished in a cloud of debris as the Imperials, no longer trusting anything not broadcasting one of their cods, targeted it long-range and blasted it before it could close on any of their ships. That stolen A-wing, whoever was flying at it, lead one of the remaining fighters on a breakneck chase among the Republic dreadnaughts, nearly catching the pilot in a friendly crossfire.
"There is another option." Teuthal spoke so quietly, the gravelly Mon Cal accent so thick, bel Iblis barely understood.
Didn't want to understand, really.
"Captain," and the interruption came from the comm station. "Chimaera is transmitting an all-frequency hail. I think it is meant for our ships."
Teuthal looked at bel Iblis and for a moment his instinct said to ignore it. There was only one thing Thrawn was likely to be broadcasting now, and he was not in the mood to hear Imperial threats and ultimatums, no matter who was issuing them. But he forced the thought aside. It was impossible to fight a battle without knowing as much information as possible, and this was, of course, being offered. "On speaker," he said finally, "bridge only."
He didn't know what he'd been expecting. There were few recordings from battles and nothing in the records on Coruscant to say what Grand Admiral Thrawn was like. The voice spoke with a flawless Coruscanti accent, no hint of alien origins, in tones that were cool and modulated and not even slightly hostile.
"Rebel ships, this is Grand Admiral Thrawn." No gloating. Of course, not. Whatever else this Grand Admiral was, he was a consummate professional soldier. No hint he'd been seconds from destruction, either, which made him either a fool or a supremely cool customer. Recent battle statistics argued strongly against the former. "You have fought bravely and well. There is no need to die in a desperate sacrifice for a lost cause."
Bel Iblis barely contained a snort of derision. "Lost causes are what we do," he muttered in the general direction of the Chimaera. But unnervingly, none of Home One's bridge crew were moving at all, to deride or deny. They were listening.
That was not a good sign.
"My intention is pacification and order, not extermination." If he hadn't known better, bel Iblis would have thought the son of a Hutt actually believed that. "If you stand down and surrender, there need be no further destruction today." There was the briefest pause, letting that notion sink in. "My conditions are simple: all Rebel warships will stand down immediately. You will lower your shields and shut down your sublight engines. All fighters are to return to their carriers and power down. Your crews will surrender your vessels to boarding parties, who will not be met with armed resistance. Captains and senior officers will be taken into temporary custody." Temporary, and that got a shuddering reaction. Too many Mon Cal knew what Imperial custody was likely to mean. "Crews will be temporarily confined to quarters until the ships are secured by the prize crews. At that time, any crew members wishing to resume their duties will be permitted to do so, provided they understand the cost of resistance. Yag-Prime will submit to temporary occupation by an Imperial garrison, on the same terms. Any action against Imperial officers and crew will be punished swiftly and severely. Those who cooperate will be permitted to continue in their duties until the status of Imperial Center is resolved."
"Like hell they will," and bel Iblis could see he was not the only one skeptical. He did, however, appear to be the only one who was overtly defiant.
As if he could hear them across the void of space, Thrawn said, "This could be greatly expedited by your commander. General bel Iblis, if you are listening, I invite you to personally surrender your flag. If you and you senior officers surrender yourselves into Imperial custody, you will be treated as honorable prisoners of war, if that is what you wish after our meeting."
Prisoners if we wish, as opposed to what? Does he think we'd really want to defect? Bel Iblis shook his head, the blood pounding in his ears, but one thing was certain: they could not submit to Imperial capture. If Thrawn was talking, that meant for some reason he wanted to end the battle now, not to continue the fight, and that meant it was in the Republic ships' best interest to fight on. Rattled, most likely, he'd put together why the Lusankya was-had been-here, and the Chimaera had been damaged. He wanted to stop the fight now, before further risk to himself . . . .
"Consider my officer carefully." Now there was ice in that voice. "If you chose to continue this battle, we will have no choice but to destroy you. Your greatest ships are only moments from complete systems failures. We can defeat you and easily. But there is no need for any more to die today. Comply with my terms, and none will."
There was a long pause. Clearly, Thrawn was waiting for a reply. Looking around the bridge, bel Iblis saw far too many doubtful expressions, hard as it was to tell with Mon Calamari. His eyes returned to the tactical readout. For the moment it appeared the Imperials were complying with Thrawn's plan. The turbolaser batteries had fallen silent, the fighters were moving through the ships and debris without shooting, only evading the now-hesitant Republic ships instead of engaging or nagging at them. In the heart of it, the Chimaera hung in space, her bow oriented in the general direction of Yag-Prime, and bel Iblis could imagine the alien admiral standing on the bridge, staring out across the void between them, waiting for his answer.
Before he could order the comm officer to open a channel so he could tell Thrawn precisely where he could put his so-generous officer, the comm speaker cracked. "Chimaera, this is Mon Remonda," said a hesitant voice. "If we comply, the crew will not be imprisoned? Or . . . enslaved?"
"What the blazes is he doing?" bel Iblis said, not sure if he meant Mon Remonda's captain or Thrawn.
"Her shields are down," Teuthal said, and it was impossible to tell if there was reproval in the tone, or if that reproval was meant for the other Mon Cal captain or for bel Iblis. "Her hull is compromised. If she attempts to fight on, she will die."
On the comm, they could hear the reply from the Grand Admiral, in a tone that was almost soothing, in an eerie way. "There will be no enslavement," and it certainly sounded sincere. "Crew who wish to remain at their posts may do so once the prize crews have secured the vessels. Those who do not wish to cooperate will be treated as prisoners of war. The Empire no longer deals in slaves."
There was another brief pause. "Acknowledged, Chimaera," and more frightening than the resignation in the captain's voice was the relief. "Mon Remonda stands down."
Bel Iblis felt light-headed. He wasn't sure if it was shock, rage, or some combination of the two. Before he could gather his thoughts another voice came on-line, one of the Dreadnaughts, repeating the acknowledgment and the stand-down declaration. Thrawn's reply he heard through a roaring of blood in his ears, that gracious, cool, supremely-controlled voiced accepting their surrender with condescending courtesy. On the tactical display he saw the fighters vanishing, returning to their hangars, and more ships lowering what was left of their shields. Peregrine had not and he willed them to fight back, show the rest what fools they were being, as he fully intended Home One to do.
He looked around the bridge. The crew had gone very still, most looking at their stations, some turned slightly, watching him for some hint of his intentions. The atmosphere was strange, and not just the higher humidity the majority of the crew required. Finally, speaking for them all, he suspected, Teuthal said, "What are your orders, General?"
For a moment, he didn't know how to reply. On the tactical display, Peregrine was maneuvering, slowly, as subtly as a ship her size could, and her drive signature was increasing. Go on, run! Blast your way out and send word. It was more a wish than anything; if he tried to actually send the message, of course the Imperials would hear it. Come on, Irenez. We've been in tighter spots than this.
The Dreadnaught's sublight engines flared to life, and the heavy forward cannons unleashed a salvo at the nearest Destroyer. Even as she was turning to fire, though, that stolen A-wing came racing about, trailing TIE Interceptors in its wake, made a vicious strafing run down the Peregrine's midline, its lasers targeting far too many important systems to be random firing. The Destroyer which had been the victim of the Peregrine's sudden resumption of hostilities returned fire, its own blasts clearly targeted carefully as well There was a bright, terrible explosion near the Dreadnaught's nacelles and lights within the ship began to flicker and die. Even worse, and he felt real pain stabbing at his gut, he could see clouds of crystalizing gas swirling away from spots on the hull. Not enough to have vented the entire ship, but his people were dying. Better death than surrender to the Empire, but . . . his people . . . .
"Shall we continue, General bel Iblis?" There were ice worlds somewhere with surfaces colder than that voice, bel Iblis was sure, but for the moment he couldn't name one. "I assure you the need for ships and crews is not so dire we cannot spare another Dreadnaught. It's their decision, and yours." The Destroyer was once again holding fire, the fighters circling back to a greater distance, Peregrine now keeling over as the venting air and damaged engines skewed her momentum.
"Damn him to all nine hells." Bel Iblis turned to Teuthal. "Our weapons are still on-line?"
The Mon Cal hesitated. "Yes, General." Something in the tone, even in the gravelly accent, seemed . . . off. "Our weapons are operational, as is the hyperdrive, but our shields and hull–"
"We don't need to hold long, only enough to damage those Destroyers and give any other ships time to break free with us." Any hope of taking the damaged Chimaera was remote. The rest of the Imperial fleet had made clear the cost of any assault would be fatally high. Further open battle with the rest was futile. Escape was their only option. "If we target the Interdictor, even a momentary loss of the grav well can buy us an escape route. Something of the fleet must survive."
Teuthal's wide, lidless eyes rolled, one focusing on the tactical readouts and the other fixing on him. "It is unlikely we would ourselves survive the attempt."
"But some of the rest of the ships might!" It was slipping away faster than he'd realized. Victory was long gone, and it was only survival now, another hit and fade and bolting to safety to fight another day, but from the way Teuthal and the mostly-Mon Cal bridge crew was looking at him . . . how had their Rebellion come to this? "What other option do we have?"
There was a long, long pause, in which the entire galaxy felt oddly suspended. Finally, Teuthal said quietly, "The Grand Admiral has offered us one." She must have read the look on bel Iblis's face because she spoke quickly, before he could reply, "To fight on means certain destruction, with no guarantee it will facilitate escape for others. If you order us to, we will fight, but, General, I must advise against it. For my crew's sake. We do not fear dying, but I cannot in good conscience condone their dying when the cause is hopeless."
Part of him railed against the word 'hopeless', at the notion that their cause was lost, whether that meant the battle or (as seemed increasingly likely) the war itself. He glared at the captain, but she did not look away, and the crew was watching him now with skepticism, reluctance. He wanted to shout at them, or beg them, to point to the Peregrine and her crew, still trying to fight, knowing after all their long years with him that he would not want them to give up. And then part of him thought, All those years. And he looked at Home One's crew. Some were Ackbar's veterans, true, but some were young, come to the Republic Navy after Endor, after the alleged beginnings of peace. On other ships it was the same–young people, many of whom hadn't been born when he and Irenez and the others had left the fledgling Alliance and struck out on their own private campaign. Even among his own crews . . . there were children of people who had been with him for those same decades. They had been with him literally their entire lives. They'd end those lives now if he asked, but what would he gain in return?
What kind of commander asked his troops for such sacrifice purely for the sake of being in the right rather than a hope, however faint, of victory?
He never had. He had learned of late that Mon Mothma did not.
And it seemed, much as he hated to accept the evidence before his eyes, even Grand Admiral Thrawn would consider it a waste.
Bel Iblis turned away. Has it really come to this? My home, my family, the Senate, the Alliance . . .how has it come down to nothing but my pride?
He stared out the viewport at the two fleets, suspended mid-battle, and drew in a deep breath.
"Open a channel to the Chimaera," he said. Teuthal shivered visibly, but nodded to the comm officer. Bel Iblis barely noticed, willing his voice to be steady and calm. He had stood before Palpatine himself. He had fought Mon Mothma on matters of principle. This, he could do with the same dignity. "Grand Admiral Thrawn," and the rank nearly choked him, but he kept his voice level. "This is General bel Iblis."
In cockpit of her A-wing, Thelea, listening on the open channel with the rest of the fleet, held her breath.
On the Chimaera's bridge, Pellaeon turned from the tactical readout as the voice, one he knew as well as any who remembered the late Republic and the Senate, came over the comm. Aleishia was turning from the viewport and he caught her eye. She was still pale and drawn, but he saw that like him, she was suddenly catching her breath, and there was a hint of a hopeful, disbelieving smile in her eyes.
Thrawn was once again seated in is command chair, his posture almost at ease, expression as alien and unreadable as ever save for the faintest curving upwards of his lips. "I am listening, General bel Iblis," he said, his tone still the epitome of cool courtesy.
Bel Iblis closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. When he spoke, he was, distantly, proud that his voice was firm and steady. "We accept your terms, Grand Admiral. Home One stands down. Wesurrender."