One of the advantages of being a VIP guest, Wynssa had to admit to herself, was her suite's lavish private 'fresher, complete with running water instead of mere sonics. She lowered herself into the ridiculously large Xiquinian marble bathtub and sighed in sheer pleasure as the kinks of her sleepless night and hard day's work on the forklift hovercar dissolved in the steaming water. Not even the thought of Thrawn and Mikam preparing for the next space battle could raise more than a vestigial twinge of guilt. I'm really a selfish, frivolous creature. She did trust Commander Piett, though—if he said the battle was a foregone conclusion, she believed him. She'd met enough studio bosses, holo directors and Coruscant bigwigs eager to date a successful actress to recognize a good leader. The First Officer was plain-spoken enough that people probably missed out on his obvious intelligence, something that would never happen to Thrawn, no matter how prejudiced anyone was against him.
Thrawn's a virtuoso, that's what he is. His unique situation may force it upon him, but I just know he enjoys the thrill of it, enjoys confusing everyone. She was certain he was just as much of an oddity in his own society. Corellia was a hub for dozens of breeds from all over the galaxy in addition to its three indigenous peoples, enough of whom had made their way to her parents' refueling-station that young Syal Antilles had stopped paying attention to species before she'd started going to school. In whatever shape or color, this one is completely off the charts.
She stretched luxuriously in the vast tub and let herself float, eyes closed, remembering their kiss. It had felt so perfectly right. She trusted her instinct there. He wasn't faking, wasn't playing. If I'm wrong, he's the best liar in the universe.
And yet how naïve could she get? She'd just had strong evidence that Thrawn was a consummate liar whenever it suited him. But he believed I was in love with Rory. She smiled fondly. No, he could get things wrong at times. That was the most reassuring part.
***
Commander Piett looked up from the annotated diagrams Thrawn had transmitted to his command console to check on the bridge crew. They were as ready as they could hope to be. He'd set a double maintenance crew to clear all traces of the previous engagement, and asked Janred to personally oversee the choice of replacement gunners and combat techs. The "Empire's Revenge" officers stood at battle stations, their terminals updated with the latest sensor reports and ship's resources. He only needed to press one key, and the battle plan would be uploaded to every data display on the bridge.
He knew perfectly well why he still hesitated. Vader. As he'd more than expected—come to rely on, really—Thrawn had delivered a remarkably competent blueprint, especially considering it had taken him barely half an hour. It still looked unconventional, but alternatives were all set out in logical progression, and due attention had been paid, with an interesting degree of creativity, to integrating the "Judicator" 's formidable firepower and heavy-duty guns. Wonder if Mordon'll realize he's being made to play straight guy to us. The Admiral might not, but Lord Vader was a question mark. In more ways than one. The Emperor's mysterious right-hand—man? sorcerer?—had a fearsome reputation as a warrior, although Piett had no idea whether he had ever been involved in Fleet strategy. Worse was the Dark Lord's notoriously lethal temper. Demerits for mistakes, he'd heard, had a way of being permanent. It looked bad enough that the "Revenge" had had to ask for the "Judicator" 's help. That, no doubt, had been the underlying reason why Corlag had rejected Thrawn's earlier plan. Well, there were times in life when you didn't have a choice.
Corlag. Piett dialed sickbay on his personal comlink. If his inner self chose to call it procrastination, he would simply not listen. "Calling for a report on Captain Corlag's medical status," he told the Too-One Bee who answered.
"The Captain's life signs are satisfactory, consistent with cranial concussion and three-and-a-half grams alcohol blood-level. Recovery should be total in a few days. I'm not sure the Captain is yet capable of coherent communication, but do you want us to try?"
Great stars. "Certainly not. Your priority is to ensure the Captain's complete well-being and recovery. We especially don't want him to experience the mildest discomfort. Please act accordingly." He disconnected with a retrospective shudder. In all likelihood, the meddroid would now dispense some amount of chemical paradise. Sometimes procrastination is good.
But there was such a thing as overdoing it. The "Judicator" should be dropping out of hyperspace any moment. Piett decided to take a gamble on both Thrawn and Vader, and hit the "send" key.
***
Watching the battle in fascination from her cabin's viewport, Wynssa couldn't help feeling guilty. This is not a holodrama. This is not a ballet, not an opera. People are dying out there.
But it was all of those things, silent and magnificent against the starry backdrop of black space. By chance, she had been facing the viewport when the "Judicator" reverted to realspace only a few klicks from them. As the huge arrow-shaped, predatory mass suddenly filled the transparisteel panels, she'd jumped back, overturning the comm center. So this is what we look like to others. Not quite—Rory had told her the "Judicator", a more recent design, outmassed the "Empire's Revenge" one and a half times. Still, it must be awe-inspiring. She'd only see Star Destroyers in orbit, and had boarded the "Revenge" from a windowless shuttle. Now squadrons of starfighters swarmed between the two huge destroyers as they majestically left the shadow of the dying star in formation.
She had seen the coherent rays and explosions of the battle before being able to make out the enemy. Then, suddenly, the stars in the viewport elongated into a thousand lines and turned milky-white for only a moment, before changing back to normal—and now the battle was all around them, and she could feel in her entire body the vibrations of the turbolaser shots from the "Revenge" 's batteries. Was that a hyperspace jump? So short? One of the alien pirate ships exploded in front of her in a short burst of molten durasteel, startling her. There were sentients on that ship, many of them, and now they're light and fire instantly doused by the vacuum. Green shafts of light fired from a spot below her viewport scythed a wing of strange-looking starfighters, then another, and then the starscape stretched once more into starlines, turning to white fog before reverting to immutable, star-studded blackness. How very strange, like switching holochannels. The "Empire's Revenge" shuddered under her, several times, and she guessed they had fired yet another type of weapon. This time, she couldn't even see the target. The vibrations eventually stopped, but she couldn't have told if they'd had any kind of result. She sat down somewhat abruptly on one of the sofas. It was a strange feeling, witnessing this slaughter from the same overplush setting where the previous evening, Corlag had tried to seduce her, and she didn't like it.
She knelt down on the deep pile carpet to pick up the comm center's elements, hoping they weren't damaged, and started stacking them back on a surprisingly steady side-table. Everything's bolted to the floor! Makes perfect sense. The comm center must be a later addition. The remote had slid under the other sofa, and as she retrieved it, she flicked it on to check if it was working. A virtual flatscreen materialized in the holo viewspace, showing—
Oh my stars, they forgot the ISB datadisk.
She hit the "eject" command and grabbed the small card-chip. Where could she hide it? Not in the now-pristine cabin—as she waited for first shot to be fired, she had become so nervous that she'd packed all her things, telling herself she was preparing just in case she might have to transfer to the "Judicator" after the battle. Who are you fooling, my girl? You needed something to do in order not to go completely mad. Her large trunk was locked, and she didn't care to reopen it. She ran the tip of her index finger on the fingerprint clasp-lock of the small personal carryall which contained the few things she didn't want to lose, and cast a critical look inside. Her identicards, her one good necklace, a pair of insulated running boots, a thin Hoth-polar overcoat, her toothbrush and overnight things, the rushes from the Chandrila shoot—
That would do fine. She slid the datadisk into a pouch among two dozen others exactly like it. When she'd fingered her carryall safely locked again, she stowed it next to the door, then looked up across the stateroom at the viewport. Everything looked becalmed at last. The "Judicator" hung motionless in space at a short distance, hiding one full third of the starscape. She had been right to believe Piett—they must have won the space battle.
At that very moment, a blast stronger than she'd ever felt shook the "Empire's Revenge" like an erupting volcano, throwing her to the floor as alarms blared across the ship.