This story has two main characters: Rolan (the young clone of Thrawn) and Laira Vorann (the daughter of an ex-bounty hunter). I also have a few other original characters that will be introduced in Chapter 3. But we will see some notable canon characters as well. Admiral Voss Parck and Baron Soontir Fel will come into this after a while. And, Starknight, Boba Fett will make his appearance in Chapter 4 (but I already have that part partially written, so don't worry about having to wait months to read it.)
ANOTHER NOTE: Here, in chapter 2, I will introduce Rolan (the
clone). Now, remember, he's fourteen in this chapter (he'll be older in
Ch 3). So, needless to say, he's not going to be the genius Grand Admiral
we're familiar with--he's young, naïve, and painfully inexperienced
(for now). However, you will occasionally find him displaying certain habits
of his original. Please, tell me if (despite the fact that he's younger)
Rolan/Thrawn seems out of character or anything.
"What do you think he'll be like? I mean, how close to the original Thrawn will he be?"
"That's an argument that's been going on for decades. With the same genetic structure plus a flash-learning pattern taken directly from the template, a clone should theoretically be completely identical to the original person. But, despite that, they're never exactly the same. Maybe some of the mental subtleties get blurred over in transition, or maybe there's something else unique inside us that a flash-learning reader isn't able to pick up. He'll presumably have all of Thrawn's memories. But will he have his genius, or his leadership, or his single-minded drive? I don't know."
--Mara Jade and Luke Skywalker, in Star Wars: Vision of the Future,
by Timothy Zahn
"Do not trust your memory; it is a net full of holes..."
-Georges Duhamel, The Heart's Domain
Chapter 2: Forgotten Memories
"Are you sure we didn't tell the bounty hunter too much, sir?"
"No, we told him the perfect amount of information to make him useful."
"I don't understand, sir."
"Derano Vorann now knows enough to be sympathetic to the young clone's situation. Besides, he is a former bounty hunter with a strong sense of guilt and justice...I knew, even as I was walking away, that he would agree to help us. To right one of the wrongs he committed so long ago."
"Ah, I see."
"Know your enemy, lieutenant. That's what it boils down to. You must always know the mindset of the person you're dealing with. The late Grand Admiral Thrawn had his ways of learning about his enemy, namely through the study of art. And I have mine."
"I...I heard you were one of his protégés, Captain Tiers."
"You heard correctly, lieutenant. I served under him in the Unknown Regions. When I was but a lowly technician, he noticed my unusual...aptitude. He took me on as his student."
"Sir, exactly how much does the clone remember?"
"Nothing, at the moment. It is believed that some of his memories will resurface in time, but as for now, they are buried deep inside the clone's subconscious. If they were even transferred at all. The clone is much like a person with amnesia: he knows how to speak, read, and such, but he doesn't know his true name."
"So the clone is useless."
"How did you reach that conclusion, lieutenant?"
"Why...he is being raised in a Rebel orphanage! Who knows what propaganda they are filling his mind with! Even if we could get him out and off-planet, he wouldn't want to help us!"
"As for the first problem, propaganda can always be disproved. The clone, Rolan, will still be trainable by the time we get him. He will come to see the cause we fight for. As for the second problem, actually getting him offworld, well, that will pass in time. Now the New Republic is on high alert, with undercover operatives guarding him from all sides. But as time passes, they will see Rolan growing older and becoming just like any other child, and they will relax. As they see him growing into a teenage boy interested in odd music and females, they will let their guard down. I guarantee that in ten years the clone won't be guarded by a tenth of the people he is now, if the Rebels spare someone to watch him at all. And it is then that we will take him."
"It makes sense, sir."
"Good. Now, we must depart before one of those undercover operatives
finds us."
Setting: Eight years later (and one year after VotF--Rolan is fourteen):
"Red alert!" someone cried. "They're coming in from all sides!"
The floor shook fiercely, and Rolan's hands tightly gripped...something. The armrests of a chair, it appeared to be.
They were being attacked, Rolan's dream-self knew, though the real Rolan wouldn't have guessed. However, Rolan's dream-self was much more experienced in such matters.
Everyone was looking to Rolan, waiting for him to say something. It was as if they depended on him, as if they needed his direction. Rolan's dream-self found their attitudes perfectly natural--Rolan's real self found them confusing.
Rolan's dream-self knew exactly what to do, as he always did.
He stood confidently and opened his mouth to speak--
"Wake UP, Blue!" the boy in the bunk above Rolan shouted. "Hey, Blu-ey! Time to get up!"
It was Physicals Time at the Derian-Coems Children's Home on Relcar.
Dek jumped off his bunk and cheerfully pulled the covers from Rolan's bed. Rolan inwardly winced at the sudden burst of cold air.
"Okay, Blue, I'm leavin'--you can follow if you want!"
'Blue' was what all the other orphans called Rolan. It wasn't a very imaginative nickname, in his opinion.
Dek, after doing "lightning" with the glowlamp switch, left.
Rolan sat up and shook the last remnants of the dream from his mind. He tried to remember the dream, but it was already fading from his memory. Rolan could only recall that he had been on some sort of spaceship. Its walls had been gray-colored and dull: coldly functional, and not meant for esthetic pleasure. A warship.
Rolan wasn't able to remember much else. He had seen dim outlines of other people in his dream, but he couldn't tell their age, gender, or even their species. Rolan's dreams lacked visual clarity as well as sense.
The ship had been attacked. Rolan had no idea who had been attacking, he only knew that another ship had been shooting at the one he was on. In the dream, he had known the attacker's identity, but he couldn't remember it now that he was awake.
But then again, Rolan's dream-self always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. If only Rolan could be that confident in real life.
(A good commander must always show confidence)
Now where had that thought come from? Rolan was confused and ignorant--the two emotions he hated most of all. He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind.
Rolan forced the last vestiges of the dream from his thoughts and automatically groped for a clean shirt in his dresser drawer. He found it and quickly changed his clothes, pausing only to fold up his night-clothes and place them neatly inside the drawer. Rolan, unlike his roommate, was organized. Meanwhile, Dek was fond of putting his dirty clothes in piles around the room, only washing them when they started to smell. The rest of his stuff was likewise strewn about the ground.
Such disorganization annoyed Rolan. Was it really so hard to wash one's clothes and keep them from collecting dust and strange moldy growths while piled on the floor? Occasionally he would stop to clean out Dek's half of the room, much to Dek's annoyance. Dek called him a "neat-freak", but Rolan wasn't fanatical about it or anything. He just liked a little ORDER, that was all.
Rolan stood up, walked to the door, yet paused before exiting, savoring the silence and solitude of being the only person in the room. Rolan liked privacy, a rare and prized commodity in an orphanage. He spent most of his free time in his room or in the library--reading, studying, or even just contemplating on whatever caught his interest. The orphanage's pediatrician and amateur psychiatrist, Dr. Melanie Pryko, had him pegged as "antisocial" because of this. Rolan didn't much care--he didn't respect Dr. Pryko anyway. He firmly believed that the woman was an idiot, though he never voiced this opinion.
Rolan made his way down to the kitchen. The cook was serving oddly-flavored substances that were supposed to be waffles.
Rolan glanced around at the others, watching them eat their stale breakfast, crowd around the two good HoloViewers, or complain about the biannual physicals they'd be getting today. Life as usual at the Derian-Coems Children's Home.
The Derian-Coems Children's Home wasn't bad, as orphanages went. It wasn't overcrowded, there was a bedroom for every two kids, and the kitchen served three large meals a day, as well as snacks. When one thought about orphanages in other parts of the galaxy, where child labor and abuse was common, the D-C wasn't such a bad place to be.
The D-C had a competent staff that was thoroughly background-checked, with a "decent" cook, a capable director, and a full-time doctor who was also an official "child psychology specialist" (however, the last person was actually more of a curse than a blessing...).
The D-C staff had a reputation for "caring about its orphans just as they would care for their own children". In fact, they didn't even call the D-C an "orphanage". Instead, it was a "Children's Home". As if there was a difference. Did they think that calling the D-C an orphanage would make the kids upset or something? Rolan supposed that the name was Dr. Pryko's idea. It sounded like something she would do. He could just imagine her: "Now, we shouldn't damage the children's tender psyches by mentioning their orphan--er, lack of parentage..." Rolan inwardly groaned.
Rolan sat down at a secluded table in the living area. He knew that if Pryko was watching, she'd be making notes about his "antisocial behavior", but he wasn't concerned. She'd been doing that sort of thing ever since he was sent to the D-C at the age of six.
It wasn't as if Rolan really was antisocial. If someone from the other tables invited him to join, he'd go over in a nanosecond. But Rolan did not have many friends among the other orphans.
Maybe it was because he didn't have much in common with the other kids. He was an introvert by nature, studious and intellectual, very different from his rowdy, often superficial fellow D-C residents. He constantly used larger words that others were not used to. (Rolan didn't deliberately do this to make others uncomfortable--his reading level was just higher than theirs.) Also, Rolan actually paid attention in school (gasp). Could he help it if he found the latest Chemistry lesson interesting? Rolan liked learning; or, to be more accurate, he liked the feeling of confidence that knowledge gave him. It was these and other little things that made Rolan so different from the others.
Not least among his differences was the fact that he was an alien among mostly Humans. Even though the D-C was known for accepting alien orphans as well as Human ones, Rolan was about as alien as they got. His blue skin and glowing red eyes were "freaky", as another orphan had once so eloquently put it. Rolan didn't even know what species he was. No one like him was mentioned in the Encyclopedia Galactica. Nor did anyone in the staff seem to know, not even those who had worked there when Rolan was brought in at the age of six.
Rolan himself couldn't remember ever having parents. In fact, the first
thing he remembered was being surrounded by tall people--mostly Humans,
though there other species present as well--
Colors and sounds assaulted his senses, as the boy took his first true breath. At first, it was simply enough to exist--he desired nothing more. He reveled in his new awareness, savoring each new sensation. The table under him was stiff and unyielding, yet strangely smooth. Cold air touched his bare skin, causing him to shiver. And yet, there was something...refreshing about that sensation, the feeling of being cold. He had never been cold before. The air woke him up, made him more alert.
He heard soft murmurs around him, of dozens of different tones and pitches. They seemed to blend together in a strange melody, soothing the young boy. However, the whispers gradually formed into coherent words. At first the boy listened with wonder. He was beginning to understand them! Yet as the voices became more understandable, the less comforting they were.
It was then that he formed his first coherent thought. I wonder where all these voices are coming from. What was going on around him? And, more important, was it dangerous?
He opened his eyes to discover the world.
At first, all he saw was a blinding white light. Once his eyes adjusted, however, he could see dozens of beings. They towered above him and peered down at him with grim expressions. It was almost as if they were...watching him. Examining his every move.
It was an unpleasant sensation.
He blinked up at the people above him, and slowly turned his head to take in more of his surroundings. He was on some sort of table, in a bright white-colored room. (A hospital room.) The bright glowlamps hurt his eyes, and he flinched, as any child would.
"Do you remember anything?" a woman asked him, her sharp voice piercing through the air. The boy was amazed to realize that he could understand her, but his astonishment gave way to other, less pleasant, emotions.
The boy was confused. And cold. And starting to become scared. However, he knew not to let them see his fear.
He stared up at the people and opened his mouth, somehow finding the words to speak.
"Where am I?" he asked, his child's voice small, yet clear.
"Do you remember who you are?" another person pressed. "Do you remember your name?"
Rolan couldn't speak. Nor would he have had anything to say had he been able to. Why, he couldn't remember anything! He didn't know his name! Did he even HAVE a name? What was going on? Who were all these people?
The observers let out a collective sigh of relief, relaxing, even as the boy on the table was panicking. "The memory transfer didn't work," a man breathed. "Evazan failed."
"That is fortunate for us..."
The tall people had argued for a bit, Rolan remembered. He couldn't remember exactly what they were arguing about, only that it had something to do with him. Then they had left.
Eventually he had been brought to the Derian-Coems Children's Home.
Dr. Pryko entered the cafeteria/ living area, her arrival shaking Rolan out of his reverie. She stopped by a table to talk briefly to some of the orphans.
Rolan briefly wondered if he had enough time to make an escape. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was Pryko psychoanalyzing him.
As if by an instinct, Rolan immediately began analyzing his possible escape routes. Well, he couldn't go out the door by the kitchen--it was too close to Pryko. Neither could he go out the door by the water fountain--that was directly in Pryko's line of sight. That only left one choice: the door by the HoloViewers. However, that door was behind a large crowd of kids sitting sprawled out on the various pieces of furniture, gazing attentively at some action Holovid. It would take needed time for Rolan to navigate his way through them.
Oh well, Rolan thought. It's the best option. Besides, a crowd had its tactical advantages; it could help to hide him from Pryko's untrained eye.
Rolan quietly got up and made for the door by the HoloViewers, moving slowly so as to not attract attention.
Then Dr. Pryko looked up.
No...
"Ah, Rolan, you haven't taken your physical yet," she called. "Come with me."
"Riodo d'viel," Rolan muttered under his breath. Then he realized that he hadn't spoken Basic.
Sometimes, when he least expected it, Rolan found himself talking in another language. He knew this language perfectly, as if he had been raised to speak it. He just didn't know how he had learned to speak it.
(Eulakos 'vel trae, Chiss'an derac s'ril.)
The language was strangely musical in sound, yet deceptively complex. Pronouncing it was practically a form of art. Yes, art, Rolan mused. It seemed a fitting analogy, for reasons that he couldn't quite explain.
{Ta 've naer'tu rem sfa're thoreinn miu're.)
Maybe it was something unique to his species. Maybe everyone of his kind knew how to speak from birth. It was a stretch, but it was the only hypothesis Rolan could make.
(Derac chiss'ani s'ril na leichon na sfa're.)
Rolan wished he knew more about his people. In a way, he was more of an orphan than the others. At least they knew what SPECIES they were. While Rolan had no idea.
(Chiss'ani 'vel trae. Chiss'ani 'vel trae.)
"Come along, Rolan," Pryko said, her high-pitched voice jerking Rolan out of his thoughts and back into reality.
Rolan grudgingly followed Dr. Pryko to her office--a small six by eight foot room that she guarded zealously. Inside was room for a desk, two chairs in front of it, and several "inspirational" posters that proclaimed platitudes like: "Go the Distance," "Be Yourself," and "Stay in School".
Rolan glanced at Dr. Pryko. She was a small, round woman with frizzy black hair and an eyebrow-less face (yes, it was true: she had NO eyebrows! Or, at least, they were very faint.) She had a loud, high-pitched voice, and loved to hear herself talk.
"I noticed you were sitting alone, Rolan," Dr. Pryko began, in her "concerned" voice.
Oh, no, Rolan thought. Not this again.
Rolan tried valiantly to tune her out, instead focusing his attention on the stuff in her room. There was a picture of her and a Rodian preelo-dog (apparently the closest thing to a family she had--she clearly didn't have her pick of eager boyfriends). Around that was a mess of notepads and pencils. Next to her computer terminal was an old psychology textbook lying open with pages of it eagerly highlighted in bright yellow ink.
On the wall there was a weird sculpture of a bird with the head of an ugly woman. It was large, bulky, and exceedingly unattractive. One could also call it "nauseating".
(Thoaalan abstract art.)
Rolan inwardly grimaced. Anyone with that weird of a taste in art had to be crazy, he mused.
"...you will, right?" Dr. Pryko was saying, her eyebrow-less face leaning forward. Rolan looked right into her eyes, his glowing stare causing her to look away in discomfort. Exactly the reaction he had been going for.
"Yes, ma'am," Rolan replied, giving her the response she clearly wanted to hear, despite the fact that he had no idea what she had asked. Oh well. Due to the fact that she wasn't making little scribbles in her psychology notebook, Rolan assumed that he had made the correct answer. Dr. Pryko was so easy to read.
"Well, let's get on with the physical then, shall we?" Dr. Pryko asked, leading Rolan into the examination room. "You look fine to me, even though I don't know much about your species' physiology. But let's take a look..."
Rolan inwardly sighed, and prepared for a half hour of torture
and utter boredom.
Well, how was it? Was Rolan in character? Please review and tell me. As always, helpful criticism is appreciated and flames are not.
