Chapter Nine

A/N: So another long one! And yes, even though it's pretty clear already, get out your tissues or crying towels. For anyone wondering, there just isn't space here, I promise, Gir will be back and Thrawn will be discussing proper handling of prisoners and Chiss rules for naming kids after dead relatives (and how that's now a little awkward) soon. Also, new background material draw-I don't PLAY SWTOR myself (I'd need to buy a new computer and move somewhere with non-satellite internet) but I've been watching a few playthroughs/cut scenes on Youtube (from chapter one on Hutta all the way through Eternal Throne.) One poster, suicune2001, played through as a male Chiss Imperial Agent, making decisions mostly based on "What would Thrawn do?" And doing a pretty good job. So no matter what Bioware claims (Jedi, schmedi) as far as I'm concerned that playthrough is 'canon' in this universe, with my own 'after the end' ending explaining what happened to that Chiss outlander's descendants. Mostly it'll play into some deep backstory–why the Chiss have turned into isolationist xenophobes, for example, but it also explains some things for my story, like where Lisetha and Thelea's lightsaber crystals came from. FTR: I picked Lisetha's crystal color (gold) long before any of the games were written. Possibly before Bioware existed. Also, if the impression is I'm ship-teasing Thelea/Stent here, well...evilgrin

Thelea didn't know what was worse: being forced to sit in the copilot's seat or the awkward quiet in the cockpit and the passenger compartment behind them. After pointlessly checking the instruments again (the co-pilot was even more superfluous in hyperspace) she gave Stent a sideways glance.

"Did Father ask for you to come, or did you volunteer?" She spoke Cheunh. Some of the troopers in this particular squad might understand, but their passenger wouldn't and even without the Force to monitor him she'd have bet hard currency Horn was eavesdropping.

"I requested the assignment when I knew it was available." He continued to monitor the controls, and the annoying part was she could tell it wasn't evasion. He simply took his duty that seriously. "You are, whether you wish to discuss it or not, the Syndic's first-daughter, and you are in right if not in fact Aristocra of the Second Family. While the troopers from the 501st will of course protect you at the cost of their own lives if necessary, you are entering a very dangerous situation in hostile territory. I'm sure the Syndic has every confidence in you, but if I am able to provide additional security assistance then it's sensible for me to do so."

"I think it's excessive," she said, and as if she could hear Aleishia chiding her or see her father's pointed look, she moderated, "but I appreciate the sentiment." Stent nodded, but didn't reply, so after a moment she said, "So I take it you aren't . . . displeased I told Father I wasn't prepared to discuss your request at this time?"

Now he looked over at her, brow furrowed just slightly. "The Syndic gave me the impression you had rejected the offer. Not tabled the discussion. And no. While I'm certainly not happy you did not indicate an interest, I am not entitled to your consideration. You are highborn, and it was likely an overreach on my part. Regardless of circumstances."

Gods and ancestors and little green nerfs, she thought wearily. First Rurik, now Stent . . . I appreciate the belated parenting, Va'ti, but my life would be less complicated if you'd stop helping me there! "Well, Father was interpreting things his own way again, if that's the impression he gave you. And it really has nothing to do with you, least of all our relative birth. I just . . . I can't consider any offers, no matter how reasonable, right now. There's the war, there's the fact that neither Father nor I is in a position to return to our own homeworld, and I have . . . other responsibilities. And unfinished business."

"You've been too long among the humans, Lady Thelea," he said. "You do not owe me an explanation. I mistook recreation for deeper interest, and in my defense, a closer alliance with your family would of course be an honor. Anyone would have been tempted. If the Syndic felt it was appropriate to state matters more finally, he clearly disapproves more finally than you do as well."

"What did I say about that Lady business?" She stopped herself; rhetorical questions were another holdover from spending most of her adult life with humans and other species. "And Father doesn't disapprove of you. If he did, you wouldn't be head of his Phalanx. He's just overprotective where I'm concerned these days. To be fair, I sometimes give him reason to be."

"Perhaps he also wants to consider your preference," Stent countered. "The stories some in the Phalanx still tell suggest your mother did not choose him out of political motivation."

"No, it wasn't a political match at heart," Thelea said softly. She doubted whatever rumors still circulated among those loyal to her father and those who'd fled her own family even halfway conveyed the depth of feeling she'd seen in her father's expression when he'd stared at her mother's apparition, reaching out in a futile attempt to touch her before she vanished. No one would have believed Mitth'raw'nuruodo could look, even for an instant, as if half his heart had been ripped away. In her own admittedly-limited experience, her people didn't even have words for that kind of devotion in a marriage. "But he isn't sentimental. He just knows that for now I can't think about . . . that sort of thing."

"And if we can at some point return you to your rightful role, being contracted to someone could be awkward if a better match were required."

He said it so matter-of-factly it took a minute for the meaning to register. "Neither my father nor I have any plans for my taking my mother's Council seat, whether it should have been mine or not. I don't want it anyway. I think Imperial officer turned Jedi is enough."

"Whether you want to or not is beside the point," Stent said. "And there's the Empire of the Hand as well. The Syndic may not intend for the leadership to be hereditary, but expectations may force his hand."

Thelea gritted her teeth. "If it's not what he intends, then I'm the last person who's going to challenge it by acting like heir apparent. Sorry if you were angling to be the co-ruler or an Aristocra's husband."

Stent blinked, the furrow between his brows deepening. "I had thought a match with someone who is intelligent, attractive, and compatible in . . . several respects," and she hoped her face wasn't coloring along with the warm flush she could feel, and that she was in error about the similar rush of color creeping up his neck, "would be both politically wise and personally, mutually, satisfying. Again, my apologies."

She'd forgotten just how subtle Chiss sarcasm could be until she'd joined her father's Empire and begun spending time around Cheunh speakers again. Even her father's sense of humor was downright broad by comparison. "I didn't mean to insult you. As I said, the fault is mine." She unstrapped her harness and rose. "I'm going in back to have a talk with our guest. Notify me if there's any trouble, otherwise let me know when we're fifteen minutes out from reversion."

"Yes, my lady." She didn't bother with the correction this time.

The Zeta-class was more comfortably configured for a long flight than the Lambda and it seemed to be making the stormtroopers uncomfortable. It was hard to maintain a rigid, intimidating attitude when not only was nothing happening, but the seats were encouraging you and your prisoner to relax. Something their Rebel passenger was excelling at–Horn was slouched casually in his seat, apparently unhindered by the binders, eyes closed as if he were taking a nap. He wasn't, she could tell–his mind was still active, and he'd been listening even without being able to understand.

Slumping down in the seat opposite Horn, she rested her head in her hands. "You can stop pretending to be asleep, Lieutenant Horn. I know you're not."

"Hard to sleep with all the bickering going on," Horn said, sitting up. "Or with these." He raised his wrists. "Kind of hard to stretch out."

Thelea closed her eyes for a moment, feeling in the Force for the latching mechanism of the binders, and they fell away to the floor. She felt Horn's barely-controlled surge of surprise, and the startled but more muted reactions of the troopers. They had probably at least heard about what she and Aleishia were, though the non-humans among them might not have understood without seeing what "Jedi" meant. "More comfortable, Lieutenant?" She opened her eyes.

Horn was rubbing his wrists and staring hard at her in a way that would have been offensive if it weren't refreshing. For once, she had the distinct impression that her race wasn't the issue. "I'm not sure." Once again, he was eyeing the lightsaber on her belt. "There were rumors Thrawn had a Dark Jedi working for him. No one mentioned multiple Jedi, or that one was related to him."

Thelea ignored that last bit. "Dark Jedi, really." She knew now it was a human-Chiss difference that her own dry delivery was often taken as sarcasm. Sometimes that just meant not having to exert extra effort. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, the fact you're working for the Empire is a tip." Horn was no slouch in the sarcasm department himself. "I don't see a lot of room for alternative interpretation there."

"There's a lot of things you don't see yet, Lieutenant." That there were more sides than Rebel and Imperial in the galaxy, for a start. "My own 'lightness' or 'darkness' is only one of them. If you're lucky, you won't see too many of the others any time soon."

"These threats from the Unknown Regions and beyond," and she couldn't blame him for sounding skeptical. "The ones your . . . father? . . . is so worried about he's willing to take over where Palpatine left off to be ready for them."

"If Palpatine had worried less about consolidating power to play personal games and your Senate had worried less about fighting among themselves, Father could still be there fighting, not trying to put the rest of the galaxy back in some semblance of order," Thelea grumbled, and she saw a flare of triumph, quickly smothered but distinct, on Horn's face. Oh, damn it. Point to you, Lieutenant Horn. You're as bad as Rurik for making me blurt things.

Rurik. Where did that thought come from? She looked up towards the cockpit and forcibly ended that train of thought.

"All right, stop smirking," she said, focusing on Horn. "Fine. Grand Admiral Thrawn is my father. You win whatever obscure point-scoring game you two were playing about that."

"Private joke," and he didn't even have the grace to acknowledge how ridiculous that sounded. "Anyway, it's not like your names weren't a hint and you take after him."

"Says everyone but him," Thelea muttered. She thought she saw one trooper's shoulder plates shaking as if he were trying to contain a laugh, and she glared at the anonymous faceplate until it stopped.

Horn, meanwhile, was still studying her with that analytic expression that reminded her of something midway between her father's 'art look' and an ISB interrogator on the job. "So unless you're some sort of odd gender-swap clone or your species is very different, there must be a mother involved. Not that we have even a data tape's worth of information about the Grand Admiral, but there was definitely nothing said about a family."

Thelea felt a tightening in her chest, the specter of the old pain. "My mother died when I was very young. Even if we were among our own kind, Father wouldn't speak of her much. Living among aliens?" She shook her head. "I doubt he ever mentioned her to anyone. Not much point, and anyway he doesn't like to talk about her, even to me. I don't remember her very well, but for him I think sometimes there's too much to remember."

Horn looked faintly nonplused, as if the notion of Thrawn (or possibly any Imperial) grieving was the most alien thing he'd seen yet. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I know . . . well, when Mom died it hit Dad and me hard. It got easier for me, but I don't know if Dad ever really got over it before I lost him, too."

"Thank you." Strangely, he was sincere. And even stranger, it was almost a relief, the normal human response, the humans' innate instinct to empathize. "The Imperial Court, though, wouldn't have viewed it as anything but a weakness. As for me, it was safer if I was going to be in the Navy if no one knew we had any connection beyond species." Including me. Damn Father for being right.

The Rebel pilot, at least, looked more pensive than derisive. "So the uniform's not just to blend in?"

"I went to the Academy, if that's what you mean, but none of our uniforms are for show, even those that aren't Imperial." She glanced down at the black, and the empty spot over her heart where the rank plates would have gone. "I was a pilot, though, not a bridge officer."

That seemed to pique his interest more than anything. "Shuttles or cap ships?"

In spite of herself, and knowing it wasn't very Jedi-like, she wrinkled her nose. "Interceptors. Mostly. I started on the old base TIEs."

"Since when did the Empire let women fly strike fighters?"

"Since about the same time they made aliens Grand Admirals," she retorted. It was oddly familiar, this sort of conversation. Oddly refreshing, too. It had been a long time since someone had challenged her credentials, rather than carefully tip-toed around her, afraid either of the lightsaber at her side or worse, her running to her father.

"Point made." Horn slumped back in his seat, glancing at the stoic forms of the troopers to either side. "Ever fly against Rogue Squadron?"

"I wasn't at Bilbringi, at least not a fighter, if that's what you're really asking," she said. "Otherwise, not that I know of, though I gather I must have flown against its leader, Antilles, at Endor. No idea if I ever got close to him, though. That was a cluster of epic proportion."

"You were at Endor?" Now he definitely sounded intrigued.

"207th Interceptor Assault Squadron, attached to the Executor," she said, still feeling a flare of pride. "We weren't the 181st, but we held our own." Until the end.

"You might have run across quite a few of Rogue Squadron, then," he said. "I wonder how many of them are even still alive."

"Well, you," Thelea pointed out dryly. "And our other guest from Bilbringi who was across the detention block from you, Major Klivian."

"Hobbie's a prisoner? And you didn't let him go with me?" It was a swirl of relief, happiness, and anger all doubled, knowingly or otherwise, by his Force-sensitivity.

"Father knows you and he trusts your judgement," she said. "He didn't give any details about why. How did you meet? I gather it was on Corellia."

"The smugglers he mentioned were blundering around Treasure Ship Row, probably in retrospect part of some plan of the Grand Admiral's since he was with them. My father and I noticed them when two of the crew decided to jump in when some local heavies were threatening a tavern owner and his granddaughter. Dad and I decided they could use some backup. Your father, as I recall, shot a blaster out of one thug's holster." He shook his head, with the distracted look of someone not quite believing their own recollection. "We–Dad and I–worked our way into the plan after that. It ended with us arresting Zekka Thyne, a Black Sun crime lord. In the short term, anyway, that was a good thing." He shrugged. "What makes your father think he can trust me based on that, I have no idea. We did have a strange conversation about Chassu's art, though."

Thelea nodded slowly, considering the pieces. "You jumped in to help prevent innocents being victimized by criminals, though it didn't directly involve you. Father isn't fond of pointless violence, criminal violence even less so. Then if you managed to keep up with one of his operations and come out of it alive, you're obviously not incompetent. Gross incompetence is probably the only thing he hates more than waste. And if you could talk about art?" She had to suppress a laugh. "No wonder he considers your politics misguided, but you basically decent. Now, Major Klivian, he doesn't know. In any case, consider him, and the other Rebels we have in custody, as hostages for your good behavior. Just as I, and to a lesser extent Kres'ten'tarthi and Alpha Squad, are hostages for Father's good intentions."

"Releasing more than one person would go a long way to convincing everyone of his good intentions," Horn retorted. "And Kres-ten-what?"

"Commander Kres'ten'tarthi," she repeated, knowing he was going to mangle it again if he tried. Rurik had made a solid effort with her various names, but something about the aspirants seemed to defeat human vocal cords. "Our pilot. He's also head of my father's Household Phalanx, and since this trip isn't several weeks I don't have time to try and explain what that means. Suffice to say, he serves my father, and if you want to address him, I'd suggest going with 'Commander', as you don't know him well enough to use his core name and mangling our full names is almost as offensive as presuming."

"But your name isn't a tongue-twister, and I doubt everyone in the galaxy is on a first-name basis with the Grand Admiral."

"My name, if you want to be pedantic, is Mitth'ele'arana. I'm used enough to humans I don't mind strangers using my core name. My father's name is Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Apparently the first Imperials he met found that difficult, so he gave them the courtesy without the normal formalities" Parck . . . . She shoved aside the thought. "At the academy I used my core name and a . . . identifier that served a similar purpose to a human surname." If there's such a thing as labeling yourself an orphan bastard of low birth in human cultures. "Stent has always lived primarily among our people. It would be rude for someone he didn't know, even if they were the same species."

"But the boss's daughter can call him whatever she likes?" Horn's smile was somewhere between a smirk and the kind of teasing grin she'd always wanted to smack off Rurik's face. She wondered if CorSec or the Rebels trained their agents to be irritating, or if it just came naturally to born pilots. "Or something else? I could follow an loader droid's chatter easier than your language, but that sounded like a personal argument."

"Did you moonlight as an advice columnist for the sludgenews net?" At least with humans, one didn't have to waste much time on subtle. "Keep it up and forget core names, you can start calling me Lady Thelea, too."

Horn's eyes narrowed. "Being the future Emperor's daughter doesn't rate 'princess'?"

"No, but being my mother's firstborn means I could start demanding certain formalities if I really wanted to be obnoxious and when it comes to obnoxious, being around humans always leaves me feeling I need to keep up." She sighed in spite of herself. "Not that I have any chance of claiming what's rightfully mine. Or plans of lining up for another inheritance–now, if Mother were here, she'd make a proper Empress. I'm too much like Father. Only instead of a fleet, I'll settle for a fighter. Other issues aside, I was glad Father picked someone from the Rebel's most famous squadron for this. Stent was rather impressed that you're Rogue Squadron, too. He spends most of his time back home–well, at our home base–flying with Colonel Fel. You people are something on a legend to them."

The flicker of pride, not quite acceptance of flattery, was practically a shout. Thelea wondered whether he'd actually notice if she tried planting a suggestion, just as an experiment, but given her own weaknesses in that area, it was probably not the best idea. "I never met Baron Fel–joined the squadron after he was gone. But I've heard stories. So he's back to flying for the Empire? Some people I know will be disappointed to hear it." Then his face darkened again. "If they're still alive, that is."

"If it's any comfort," and she made sure her tone gave no indication whether she cared if it was or not, "five of your fighters escaped at Bilbringi and we had no indication they were at Yag'Dhul. Intelligence reports indicate Commander Antilles, at least, is alive and in command."

"Good. I'll be glad to rejoin them. Not to mention my wife. My father-in-law is going to be disappointed, though. He probably thought he was off the hook." There was a slight closing-off, as if the topic had reminded him exactly where he was and whom he was speaking to.

"He didn't approve of you?" It would have been an unspeakably rude question to a fellow Chiss, but humans seemed to enjoy talking about themselves regardless of topic or circumstance, and if she kept him going, the better the chance he'd come around just a bit before they arrived.

"My father got him sent to the spice mines for smuggling and piracy." The grin was a bit lopsided, but there. "All things considered, the fact he didn't burn me down the first time I even looked at Mirax is pretty amazing."

"And I thought I had awkward family problems," Thelea said.

"Can't be easy being a Grand Admiral's kid." Horn didn't sound overly sympathetic.

"Would that Father's side were the problem," she retorted. "I'm afraid my mother's relatives make the old Imperial Court look like rank amateurs at backstabbing and treachery. But then we've had thousands of years of selecting for very smart, very strong, very capable, and very cold-blooded people. Mother's relatives apparently got more than their fair share of the last part."

"Who are your people, anyway?" Horn shifted forward, elbows on knees. "There's a lot of races that come through the Corellian system and I've never seen anyone of yours before, unless your father's not the only one who makes a habit of wandering around in armor."

Thelea felt her lip quirk halfway to a smile and quashed the instinct, reluctantly. "It's possible, but not likely. We're very insular. There are always . . . deviants like me, who run away, and I suppose at some point some exile besides Father must have survived and escaped from wherever they were put, but it's been millennia since our people have collectively sought out the outside world. We aren't taught the details, or at least I never was, but I gather there are reasons, or were." It was a conscious effort not to reach for her lightsaber and feel for the energy of the ancient crystal inside it. Someday, perhaps, she'd learn the details of how it and the gold crystal in her mother's had come to Csilla. Perhaps the Imperial Archives on Coruscant went back four thousand years, assuming the Rebels hadn't rewritten everything.

Or, a cool, logical thought poked through, your father didn't wipe any ancient references to home when he had the chance.

"Is part of that deviancy thing where you can do Force tricks and carry that?" Horn pointed to the lightsaber.

"If my so-called guardians had realized I was Force-sensitive, instead of hiding me away as a poor relation they'd have simply branded me a defective freak and killed me. Even Father half-hoped if no one ever trained me my abilities would wither. He was one of the few who knew my mother had those abilities, too, and I think in part he blamed her death on them." She sighed. And he's right, in part, but Mother couldn't have sat by and let our people suffer any more than Father could have sat down on that backwater and died instead of trying to get home any way he could. "But I am what I am. I use my abilities to serve Father's Empire and protect others. It's not as much fun as flying most of the time, but there are a lot of great fighter jockeys out there. There aren't a lot of Force-users."

"Because the guy your father used to work for wiped most of them out." Horn was superficially back on the defensive, but she could feel it was not as hard as it had been before. He was no longer entirely on his guard or thinking of her as dark to his light. It was a start, if a small one.

"Most. Not all." She glanced at the troopers and tried to keep from smirking. "And as your leaders are going to find out soon, considering the Grand Admiral just another of Palpatine's subordinates is perhaps not the correct point of view. There are many things that even the Emperor didn't know, or only thought he understood. Our current enemies are only one of them."

"Call me skeptical." Horn would have said more, but Stent was climbing down from the cockpit and Horn fell silent.

The Chiss pilot glanced at Horn, and deliberately took a seat two down from Thelea and well out of Horn's reach. He gestured to the discarded binders. "Do you think that's really wise? Rogue Squadron is notorious for many of them not only being dangerous in the cockpit of an X-wing."

"Even a Kur'il'ian," and she used the Cheunh pronunciation, "isn't stupid enough to chance these odds. In any case we're giving him what he wants: we're taking him home." And then switched languages. "And speak Basic, Stent, we're being rude to our guest."

He gave her a faintly tight-eyed expression, puzzled but not nearly enough to let subordinates or a human see. "My apologies." He turned in his seat. "I am sorry, Lieutenant Horn. I am not entirely accustomed to working with humans who don't speak our language."

"Apology accepted, Commander," Horn said, and Thelea mentally gave him a point for remembering his manners. "Lady Thelea says you're a pilot."

"Don't you start," Thelea muttered, but he ignored her. She suspected that was a species trait of humans, to go with the smart-mouth option.

Stent, meanwhile, only nodded, though she detected just the faintest amused twitch of his lip. "I have the honor of being Baron Fel's wingman, when I am not forced to attend to other duties of the Phalanx. He speaks very highly of Rogue Squadron. It is an honor to meet one of its pilots."

"I'd rather have met you the way I usually meet Imperials, fighter to fighter," Horn said. "But I suppose this will do."

"I concur. It's more appropriate to settle matters between warriors as warriors," Stent said. "The Syndic, however, wishes us to cooperate."

"Syndic?"

"My father," Thelea interrupted, "and remember I said this trip isn't long enough to explain internal politics." She gave Stent a side-eyed, narrow gaze and he nodded, taking the rebuke almost as imperceptibly as she gave it. "And he does want us cooperating, so we will."

Stent nodded. "I hope, Lieutenant, you will be able to introduce me to Commander Wedge Antilles. I have a message for him."

"I'll see what I can do," Horn said, and Thelea thought he sounded only halfway sarcastic. "Assuming all of you don't get to check out our version of detention cells. I don't think they're quite as bad as yours, but . . . ."

Thelea saw the stiffening of Stent's muscles and said, deliberately blandly, "I certainly hope it doesn't come to that. Father would not be in an agreeable mood if he had to bring the main fleet to Coruscant to rescue us. It would make negotiations quite awkward. And short."

Horn looked as if he were going to disagree, but a flicker of something in his sense in the Force said he'd stopped himself. Instead he turned back to Stent. "So you're a pilot, too. And you fly with Fel. What kind of stories is he telling about Rogue Squadron?"

For a moment Thelea was afraid subtle prompting wouldn't work and she'd have to resort to either flat-out ordering Stent to have a civil conversation or kicking him in the ankle, and she wasn't sure which would go over better. But after a momentary pause where he only stared at the Rebel pilot he said, "That your pilots are as reckless and insubordinate as they are talented. And that's what makes you dangerous." His mouth twitched just slightly in what one of his own species would recognize as a trace of humor.

Horn gave him that same analytic stare he'd fixed on Thelea for a moment, and then he gave Stent a broad human grin. "Just the right amount of rebellion is good for the spirit. And it gives us an edge. You should try it some time."

Thelea had to actively cough down a giggle as Stent drew himself up. "To serve loyally is the highest form of honor," he said, his accent making it sound even more pedantic in Basic.

She couldn't help herself. "Oh, I don't know. I'm not always the best at obedience myself. Father certainly wasn't or the Council wouldn't have exiled him. Speaking of which, aren't you technically a fugitive, at least as far as our own homeworld is concerned?" She glanced at Horn. "Maybe we aren't so different from the Rebels after all."

Stent didn't look as if he agreed. "It is hardly the same situation."

"Sounds more like she might have a point," Horn said, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. His elbow bumbled the shoulder plate of the trooper sitting beside him and Thelea could feel the man's mental wince has he restrained the urge to discipline the prisoner. "Maybe you'd fit right in with Rogue Squadron."

It was worth the nearly day-long trip in hyperspace, Thelea thought, just to see the look on Stent's face at the thought.

The Defiance was hailing the Chimaera almost the instant the Imperial flagship dropped out of hyperspace in the Ord Trasi dockyards. Thrawn, in his usual position on the bridge, was scanning the assembled ships, some in airdock, some drifting with mobile crews scattered over their hulls like mynocks. The slight upward curve at the corners of his mouth was the only indication of any pleasure in the number of Rebel ships being repaired or retrofitted but inwardly he allowed himself a lingering moment of satisfaction. Foremost among the captured warships was the great curved bulk of Home One, half-concealed by the docking gantries and construction droids swarming its surface. Defiance, with her minimal battle scarring, only the sort any ship of the line might have, looked out of place floating on her own some distance from the main station. A single EV crew was working on one of the starboard turbolaser towers, but otherwise, she looked serene.

Her captain, on the other hand, sounded more than a bit tense. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Admiral," the one-eighth holo of Captain Caelin said when the connection was established. "The prisoner-specimen-I don't even know what to call him–is deteriorating quickly. We've managed to move him to the medical bay, but without the ship he was connected to, he's fading. Medical is doing everything they can, but this technology isn't anything the droids or humans have ever seen, or have reference to in Imperial databanks. Just trying to run diagnostics was dangerous, for him and for us."

"Understood. Stand by to receive our shuttle. I'll be aboard shortly." He glanced at the wan figure standing wraith-like near the viewport. "Has the . . . patient been able to speak?"

"Not much, sir," Caelin said, his brow creasing with Thrawn took to be concern. "When he does, it's in the Chiss language, but the translation programs can't make much out of it. We do know he's said your name, though."

Thrawn gave himself an instant to consider that, then shoved the thought aside. Speculation wasted time they did not have. "Captain Pellaeon and I will be aboard momentarily," and once again he looked to the viewport, "and . . . a guest."

"Yes, sir, we'll be ready," Caelin said, and with that same look of someone analyzing quickly and deciding to gamble he'd had when they'd met in person for his promotion to Captain, said, "Please hurry, sir. I don't think he has much time left."

"Stand by for our arrival. Chimaera out." Thrawn turned, but Pellaeon was already relaying orders to the shuttle bay. Instead, he focused on Aleishia. She had recovered from her collapse on seeing the message from Defiance, but for once she'd accepted the Captain's over-chivalrous offer to have her escorted to her quarters. She'd been a long time in returning and when she did, he noted the dark robes she'd adopted were her old camouflage-cum-servant's garb from her days masquerading as Lisetha's attendant, or something very like them. The color flattered her even less now to his eye, her skin having grown paler since first he'd known her, and now there were dark circles under her eyes.

Charity, he chided himself. He'd known about the attachment between Aleishia and his wife's aide and bodyguard, Ser'halis, and while he'd never especially understood or approved of such a bond between a Chiss warrior and an alien, he'd had no doubt it was sincere. Aleishia'd grieved him as dead, and to now discover him like this could only be agony.

"Are you prepared, Master Jedi?" was all he said aloud.

For a moment, she didn't appear to hear him, but he knew she had. Finally she turned, her hands folded in front of her. "No, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, I am not. But waiting any longer will not help."

Pellaeon was waiting, and once again his features creased with that courtly concern. He wasn't foolish enough to suggest she remain behind, another credit to his growing observational skills, but he did offer, "Perhaps you were mistaken. You only saw the holo for a moment, and given the conditions–"

"Thank you, Captain," she interrupted softly, but she did at least manage a faint smile, "but there is no mistake. Not now, anyway." She turned those dark eyes on him, and Thrawn almost was unable to restrain a flinch. "I believe Captain Caelin said we had little time to spare. We should go."

The shuttle ride over was silent beyond the usual, if subdued, communications between the pilot and the Defiance's docking control. From his seat in the copilot's chair, Thrawn couldn't see Pellaeon or Aleishia, but he could almost feel the Jedi's presence, shrunken in on itself and closed away as it hadn't been since–

Don't think about it. She's wrong. You're wrong. This is a coincidence. A horrible one, but nothing more. We did everything we could have done to save them. We couldn't know.

Except Serhal and Lisetha had gone together, chasing shadows and rumors and half-heard cries for help when she hadn't had the patience to wait for the Defense Force or the sense to at least send to him, to know he'd listen, persuade her to wait . . . he stopped himself. They had gone together and as far as anyone could tell, had died together, both their fighters (toys, really, flyers that were more playthings for the nobles than true fighting vehicles) gone. There had been so few pieces, but enough debris that the search parties had estimated at least one was destroyed. If Serhal were here, that meant Lisetha's had been the debris and he had been captured along with his. Or in the other order–nothing else short of death would have stopped the guard from defending his lady.

Lisetha was dead. She was not trapped in a tangle of wires, enslaved to a machine and twisted to serve its will, waiting for him to rescue her if he'd only known where to look . . . .

What if you're wrong? The voice sounded like a twisted version of his own, a tone he'd never use, not with the most useless, unrepentantly inept conscript or clone. What if she could speak to you because she was trapped, imprisoned in one of their ships? "I don't know where I am," that's what she said the first time. And the last, she said we could barely reach, and she has never returned. What if that's because she was in one of those ships, and it was destroyed? What if you gave the order yourself to the crews who did it? Worse . . . what if the dark ones discovered she was speaking to you and tortured her? Killed her?

What if it's your fault?

Thrawn shoved the thought aside and ruthlessly silenced the voice. Whether her fighter had been obliterated years ago and she'd always been an ever-weakening ghost, or she'd been twisted into an imprisoned servant and killed after she'd appeared to them was irrelevant. Minor details. Lisetha was dead. The dark ones had taken her away from him. He would destroy them and they would never threaten another being in this galaxy again, never rip families and whole races apart. And then he would face the threat after that, and the one following, on and on until the galaxy was finally at peace. It would never bring her back, but it would mean she had not given her life in vain.

The shuttle barely jolted as it settled onto Defiance's docking-bay floor. Through the cockpit transparisteel, Thrawn could see Caelin waiting, not at proper attention but shifting from foot to foot, his fingers drumming on his thigh as he watched the shuttle ramp descend. Thrawn didn't waste any time unstrapping his harness, or making sure that Pellaeon and Aleishia were following as he descended the ramp.

Caelin had gained a few stress lines around his eyes since the last time they'd met in person. Thrawn wasn't surprised; Wild Space and the borderlands could do that to a person. His salute, though, was crisp and correct. "Welcome aboard the Defiance, Admiral."

"We can dispense with the formalities, Captain Caelin." He heard the others coming down behind him. "The . . . prisoner is in the medical bay?"

"Yes, sir. We were able to partially disconnect the . . . interface, and the medics are doing their best to keep him alive and undo what damage they can, but nothing seems to work for long." He glanced over Thrawn's shoulder. "Captain Pellaeon," he said, nodding respectfully, "welcome aboard. And–you!" His pale blue eyes widened, and he took an involuntary step back.

Damn. He had forgotten that Rurik had met Aleishia once before, in circumstances were he was unlikely to forget the experience. "I'm sure, Captain, you recall Master Aleishia Zei-Venah. I believe you met before."

Rurik blinked, discipline obviously warring with shock and more than a bit of suspicion. Finally, though, with a visible stiffening of his spine, he said, "Yes. It's been a very long time. I do remember, though, you never mentioning you were acquainted with the Admiral. Thelea would have said." He flinched, and glanced at Thrawn, and for an instant Thrawn wasn't sure what the issue was and then, of course, he remembered. As far as Caelin was concerned, Thelea was dead.

You're more distracted than she is. "Former Jedi not mentioning Imperial connections? And that surprises you?" He kept his voice cool and level, as if this were any other insubordinate fleet officer. "In any case, the only pertinent relationship she knew of was between myself and Thelea, and she was instructed not to speak of it. Not to Thelea, and certainly not to you. Now, if we may–"

Aleishia interrupted, not with a word, but with a soft gasp. Even as she wavered on her feet, Pellaeon once more offering a steadying hand, Caelin's comm chirped. "Captain, Specialist Muro," the tinny female voice from the speaker said. "If our visitors are here, they need to hurry."

"On our way," he said, pocketing the comlink. "Admiral, if you please . . . ."

Thrawn noted with approval that there were troopers stationed at the entry to the medical bay. A harried-looking medical technician was waiting for them, and behind her he could see the lights looked abnormally dim. "Captain, thank the stars," she said, then caught herself, straightening to attention. "My apologies, Grand Admiral Thrawn. No excuse–"

"As you were, Specialist," he interrupted. "The prisoner?"

She glanced uneasily at his companions, and then at the door to the medical bay. "His life signs are fluctuating, sir. The droids are interfaced with the connections we had to sever to remove him from the fighter, but we have to be careful there–some sort of integrated systems are still active and they keep trying to . . . communicate with our ship's computers."

"Can they determine how these implants were attached? Or how long he's been like this?" Thrawn fought the urge to look over her shoulder.

Muro shrugged uneasily. "Sorry, sir. Best guess would be not recently. Years, but I couldn't say how many."

Suddenly Aleishia was pushing past them, and she was through the doors before the troopers could even react. Thrawn followed, not waiting to see if the others joined him. The medical bay had been evacuated other than the droids and the figure on the diagnostic bed.. A sheet covered the lower half of his body, and the upper was half-hidden by a network of wires, cables, and medical tubes that linked him to a 2-1B unit standing beside the bed. Thrawn could see pressure marks where fine leads or worse, thicker cables, plunged under the pallid blue skin, sometimes visibly running beneath the surface for centimeters before disappearing. Even with part of his face obscured by the borg implants, Thrawn could see the darkened eye socket and the familiar profile.

Aleishia had gone still, her emotions playing openly across those human features. "Serhal," and he doubted anyone else was close enough to hear.

Except, maybe, Serhal himself. The lights in the medical bay flickered and dimmed, and electricity crackled across the half-exposed leads, making his body arch and eliciting a scream. He heard stumbling behind him, Pellaeon and Caelin taking involuntary steps back, but Aleishia reached out and to her credit, Muro pushed past them and bolted to the droid. "Stay back, please. We already lost an FX unit to electrical overload and I'm not the only medic with minor burns. Some sort of defense mechanism, or the cyborg tech has some programming to seek out systems and the arcing is a byproduct, I don't know. But you don't want to be grounded if you're touching him and it goes off." She studied a few monitors and adjusted something. Serhal twitched again, but the shocks stopped. "I can't believe he's withstood this so long."

Thrawn fought down a surge of unreasonable guilt. Serhal had always been Lisetha's retainer, not his. He couldn't have stopped the bodyguard from following her if he'd tried.

But if you'd been there . . . .

"He is a Chiss warrior," was all he said aloud. "He is strong."

Serhal lashed against the restraints again, his head twisting. This time, the cry of pain resolved into words. "The machine . . . cannot hear . . . it calls . . . ."

Thrawn moved forward instinctively, despite the warning gesture from Muro and a startled, "Admiral, please!" from Pellaeon. But Aleishia was faster, stepping closer, hand outstretched. He recognized the distracted expression on her face, the same looking-away impression she always gave when utilizing those Jedi abilities. She kept moving forward as Serhal thrashed, his back arching, the single eye wide and unseeing. Something in the 2-1B crackled and its photoreceptors flickered.

"Please . . . ." His voice was a creaking rasp of pain. "We join . . . we cannot fight . . . I must . . . the machine . . . .the pain!"

"Serhal." Her voice was soft, gentle, barely a whisper. "Let me help you," she continued in Cheunh. "Let me stop the pain."

For a moment, he went very still. "The voice . . . we . . . I know the voice. In my mind . . . . the machine blocks it in my mind!"

"I can help you," she murmured, now within a handspan of his side. "I can block the machine. Let me help you, Serhal. You know me, my rial'ech'yone." Thrawn was torn between flinching and pity at the endearment, heart's-flame, such an old, intimate term. So close to nar'ech'yon, with its roots in 'half of my heart.' "Let me help you."

"Ser'halis," he said, and the other twisted again, the single eye scanning, fixing on him. "You know me. I am Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Your Lady's husband. You are on a ship under my command. You're among friends. You're safe."

The single eye blinked, his movements stilling. Aleishia took a final step and rested her hand on his, to all appearances without noticing the fine wires and scars. "Let me help you, dear one," she murmured. "Let me block the voices."

He shuddered, and Thrawn saw Specialist Muro poised to spring and push Aleishia clear of another round of electrical flares. Then, Serhal's fingers flexed, curling around hers, as his breath came out in a sigh. "Aleishia," he said, "my snow maiden."

"I'm here, heart's-flame. You're safe now." She leaned close, gently stroking his forehead with her free hand.

For an instant the good eye closed and Thrawn looked uneasily to the medical monitors and the medic's tense expression. Then Serhal said, his voice still rough as if with long disuse, "I must . . . before the machine stops me again . . . Mitth'raw'nuruodo, you must know . . . ."

Thrawn moved closer, careful not to touch the diagnostic bed. "I am here, Serhal."

"The ship we . . . the machine . . .destroyed, it was coming to warn you," he gasped. "The machine . . .they are building a great machine. Our people are being used. Resources . . . lives . . . siphoned away to feed the machine. Its reach goes all the way to the Council. We . . . I . . . heard the message. Heard your name. I remembered . . . ." His eye closed again a moment and there was a faint buzz form the medical droid, though Aleishia didn't relinquish her grip, apparently not fearing another shock. "They will strike . . . first our people, then these, then all . . . ." His jaw tightened.

"Do you know where?" It was cruel. This was not a prisoner to interrogate, his conscience said, this was a prisoner rescued. They should be easing his pain, not asking questions. But there was no time. "Or what it can do?"

"Borderlands," Serhal gasped, his hand tightening convulsively around Aleishia's. If the Jedi noticed, she gave no indication. "Empty system, one of the ancient graveyards. . . If they finish, we are all finished. They could reopen the gate, draw power from so many places . . . we stopped them before, she stopped them, but now the machine rebuilds."

Thrawn closed his eyes against the sudden, tearing pain. "She–your Lady–she wasn't captured?"

"I failed her," Serhal said, and clenched in pain even as Aleishia murmured comforting words. "We tried to stop them, I tried–but my flyer, damaged, captured, the weapons were useless . . . Lisetha had no choice. She flew . . . into the gate. Shattered it. I failed her, Commander." He didn't bother correcting the rank. "I should have died with her. Died for her. Should have sent her back to you, to the little one . . . ." He opened his eye and tried to sit up, straining the connections. "Mitth'ele'arana–she lives? The Council-she must take back the Council. She lives?"

"She lives," Thrawn said quietly. The Defiance's systems were no doubt recording, when the tapes were reviewed the translation computers would know Cheunh and spell out the truth for Caelin to know, but it didn't matter now. He did not remember precisely how, but as with most Council-Aides and close guards Serhal had been of Lisetha's Family. He was blood. Thelea's blood, too. He had a right to the truth. "She thrives. She has her mother's heart."

For a moment, in a motion that must have been painful, Serhal's mouth curved in a smile. "Tell her I'm sorry. I failed her, too. Tell her . . . ." His whole body clenched again, the readouts all flickering ominously. "Forgive me, Mitth'raw'nuruodo. I should have died for her. Forgive me for not dying for her. She should have come back to you. I saw, you know, saw early on . . . her heart was always yours. Forgive me for failing you all, for becoming . . . this."

The foul part was, some hateful voice in his mind agreed. Loathed Serhal for being here, even dying, when Lisetha wasn't. But, and Thrawn forced himself to think it, not remotely as much as he hated himself for the same reason. "There is nothing to forgive," he said. "You gave your life as a true warrior. She was proud, I am sure, to die fighting by your side. Thelea will remember your name with honor, and her children and their children will know it. And I . . . I am glad Lisetha did not die alone."

Serhal shuddered, his breath coming out with a sigh. Specialist Muro moved closer, adjusting something, and the lines of her face deepened. "We're losing him, Admiral."

"There's nothing you can do?" Basic felt strange, sounded wrong in his own ears in this moment.

Muro shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. Some of the circuits and wires run deep into his organs. The shocks have weakened him more than he already was, but if we remove them, we'd only kill him faster, with more pain." Her gaze turned to where Aleishia was still beside Serhal, his hand in hers, her other hand stroking his forehead. "I could . . . there are ways to ease his passing, if you think that would be best."

There were probably a thousand ways in Imperial medical databanks, Thrawn thought. Most were probably not designed to be gentle, simply effective. And he too watched Aleishia, saw the bright signs of tears in her eyes. They had so little time as it was. He knew how precious even seconds could be. "No, Specialist," he said quietly. "Thank you for suggesting it, but it will come soon enough."

Aleishia looked up, and didn't even bother to conceal the surprise or the pain. "Thank you, Thrawn," she said softly. No rank, no fullname, but he couldn't bring himself to take offense, and only nodded.

Serhal's mouth quirked in that painful smile, his one good eye now fixed on her. "My snow maiden," he whispered, reaching up as far as he could to touch her face, her hair. "Still exotic. Still beautiful."

"And you are still my noble warrior," she replied, just as soft. "I have never forgotten you, heart's-flame."

Thrawn made a sharp gesture to the medic, and turned as soon as he saw her moving to follow. "Captains, if you'll both follow me," he said, the Basic once again feeling strange. "We'll leave them. We have enough to discuss without intruding now."

Pellaeon, looking appropriately somber, only nodded and fell in beside him as Thrawn turned. Muro was setting up a privacy screen, not that it was really necessary, and Caelin . . . the young captain had a very odd look on his face. Concern, yes, the appropriate sobriety as well, but also what looked disturbingly like suspicion. He couldn't possibly have taught himself enough Cheunh in a year to have followed even every tenth word, but clearly something beyond watching a painful death had disturbed him.

Remembering how Caelin had pieced out Lisetha's core name from simply hearing her fullname, Thrawn had a grim suspicion he knew what the problem was.

In the corridor outside medical, he stopped and both captains followed suit. Thrawn remained silent a moment, partially out of respect as he knew what must be happening, the loss Aleishia more than anyone was about to suffer a second time, and partially to think. A great machine–a ship? A battle station? Some other superweapon made with the organic technology? He would have to order the medics to have the droids remove and save every piece of the borg implants before the remains were denatured after the funerary rites. He'd recite those himself if he had to-no warrior had ever earned them more. The implants, and the fighter wreckage, would have to be studied. There had to be a weakness that could be exploited even with the living components. Perhaps that was the weakness. Ser'halis had said he'd broken away when he heard the Thrawn's name. The name had overridden whatever conditioning they'd used, the 'voices' he'd mentioned that Aleishia was blocking.

"Sir?" Caelin's voice broke through his thoughts. "If I could, sir, a question."

Thrawn hesitated a moment, hoping the silent glare would make the young captain think better of it, but Caelin didn't flinch. Mentally cursing his own child for teaching the boy not to find their stare so alien, he said, "Yes, Captain Caelin?"

There was that hard, rebellious edge in his eyes again. "I heard her name. Thelea's name. What was that about, sir?" The formality was clearly tacked on as an afterthought.

But there was no getting out of it. "Ser'halis is-was-Lady Lisetha's aide and bodyguard. He knew Mitth'ele'arana from the day of her birth. He asked after her. Whether she would answer their message. If she was all right."

Caelin's pale eyes darkened, and he looked away. "What did you tell him, Admiral?"

Behind them, the doors to the medical lab opened, and Aleishia stepped out. Her face was damp from tears, but she looked calm again, a cold new resolve to her features. Thrawn met her eyes briefly, and she nodded once, before taking in the scene here.

Thrawn waited until Caelin was looking again before answering. "I told him that she lives. She thrives. That she is like her mother–a warrior at heart."

Caelin's gaze darted away again, his gloved hands clenching at his sides. "So you lied to him."

It would have been easy to say yes. To delay the inevitable for a little while. But he saw the way Aleishia was watching him, saw the puzzled look in Pellaeon's eyes. Loyal, decent Pellaeon . . . he wouldn't ask, he had never asked, just as Parck hadn't, about why Thelea was a secret from Caelin. But unlike Parck, he questioned, in privately if not yet to Thrawn's face. There were far too many questions for everyone to consider now to leave another hanging purely for his own selfish reasons.

"No, Captain Caelin." Caelin's head snapped up. Pellaeon once again looked confused but there was comprehension dawning.

Aleishia, though her eyes were still glistening, gave him a very thin smile.

Thrawn continued: "I did not lie to him. I am afraid I lied to you. My daughter is very much alive."