"Care…?" Ezra guessed, gritting the syllable out between his teeth. He opened one eye and caught a sneak peek of Thrawn's impassive face, giving absolutely nothing away.
"Caaaaare…?" Ezra tried again. When Thrawn still didn't help him out, he dropped the pained-and-confused act and scowled. "Well, it starts with 'care,'" he said.
"A strange name in your part of the galaxy," Thrawn noted.
"Well, maybe it's short for something," Ezra said. Actually, that theory seemed pretty plausible now that he thought of it. "Like maybe it's not 'Care.' Maybe it's Karé or Cara, or like Carey or something like that."
"Hm," said Thrawn, not sounding impressed. "And you're certain this is my aide's name?"
"Dude," said Ezra, who was not at all certain, "it's the only name I've found in two whole days. What else could it be?"
Thrawn seemed to be fighting an internal battle. After a long pause — and with obvious reluctance — he said, "In the interest of saving time…"
Ezra flopped back down into his seat with a dramatic, "Ugh."
"Would you rather I say nothing so you can continue down the wrong path?" Thrawn asked, spreading his hands out palm-up. He rushed to explain before Ezra could get a word in. "Commodore Karyn Faro was my first officer aboard the Chimaera. You may remember her from earlier — you saw her at the holodeck with me, discovering the Grysks had almost infiltrated as far as Coruscant. And you saw our confrontation over Koja."
"Ugh," said Ezra again, scrubbing at his face. "I didn't know her first name was Karyn. So she's not your aide?"
"She is now an admiral in her own right," said Thrawn a little primly, sounding like an uptight protocol droid. "No, she was never my aide."
"I've been circling that thread for hours," Ezra said. He removed his hands from his face and shook his fingers out, trying to dispel the build-up of frustration currently clogging his veins like so much lactic acid. "Were you thinking about her on purpose?" he asked Thrawn semi-hopefully. "To throw me off?"
Thrawn hesitated, but eventually shook his head. "I was not deliberately attempting to throw you off," he said. "But I was thinking about her. Admiral Faro has some experience with … non-traditional forms of signal communication. I was contemplating whether she might be within range."
Ezra blinked at that. A moment later, looking out the window at the wind and rain, he snorted. "You really think anyone we know is in range?"
Thrawn reached up, rubbing his own shoulder — his sore shoulder, Ezra remembered from their first mind-reading encounter — as he looked away. "I think it is possible some of your colleagues will look for you," he said. "And I think it is possible some of mine might search for me in time. But in both scenarios, I do not believe we are their priority — until the conflict between the Empire and your Rebel Alliance is over, I don't believe we should pin our hopes on any sort of rescue mission."
It sounded reasonable enough, but Ezra couldn't be sure how much of it Thrawn really believed. It didn't seem very much like Thrawn to waste time thinking about a scenario he didn't think would come to pass; was he planning something, something with Faro? Something Ezra didn't know about? Or was it just that Thrawn, like everyone else in the world, sometimes let his mind wander to unimportant things? Somehow, that seemed less likely than the possibility that he was plotting something.
Thrawn's eyes tracked up again, scanning Ezra's face. He let his hand drop from his twinging shoulder and sat up straighter.
"I assure you," he said gravely, "if I had a way to signal Faro or anyone else, I would tell you. Not only out of courtesy — your Force abilities are too valuable, particularly in the area of signal-boosting, to be wasted purely for the sake of deceit."
Ezra rolled his eyes, muttering a quick, "Gee, thanks" — but Thrawn's words had the ring of truth about them, even if it was a little unsettling how he'd read Ezra's mind like that. Well, read his face, at least.
"Speculation and planning are rarely wasted efforts," Thrawn added, as if he could see every single one of Ezra's thoughts written clearly in the air. "Even if a particular strategy never comes to pass, the act of planning can be seen as practice or even exercise; and without exercise, every muscle eventually grows weak."
He nodded at the array of carved figures and puzzles a meter or so away from him. Ezra glanced at them but said nothing, his eyebrows furrowed — they looked fine to him.
"You're telling me you used to be a master sculptor?" he guessed. He could just barely hear Thrawn exhaling — it could have been a chuckle, but it was probably a sigh.
"I'm telling you I used to be much faster at this," said Thrawn, taking up his knife again. "Wood is not generally kept in supply on Imperial starships."
And just like that — somewhere in the middle of Thrawn's sentence, so quickly it was impossible to tell exactly when it happened — a signal pinged inside their connection, fast and bright like a flare unleashed against a night sky. Without thinking — without even pausing to garble out an explanation to Thrawn — Ezra threw himself after it, chasing the fading light into the dark antechambers of Thrawn's mind.
The thread spiraled out ahead of him, twisting and flashing at a rate that was almost impossible to follow or see. Out of instinct alone, Ezra followed it, refusing to let it slip out of his grasp. This was his first potential breakthrough — his first possible lead — since Thrawn first asked him to find the aide's name, and if he didn't catch it now — if he failed here, same as he'd failed before—
And suddenly, just like that, the thread was in his hands, vibrant and glowing and warm.
He stands not far away from Cadet Vanto — Ensign Vanto now — both of them in the stiff dress uniforms of Imperial officers. There's no mistaking the family resemblance between Vanto and his parents; he has his mother's eyes and the same unhappy furrow between his eyebrows when he is vexed, and though his father is balding now, it's clear from his sideburns that he once had Vanto's unruly hair.
Around them, he sees other cadets embracing their families just as Vanto is embracing his parents now. They glance at Thrawn; he gets a good glimpse of that too-familiar furrow between the mother's eyebrows when she sees him standing nearby.
—that alien, she says in a whisper, and Thrawn tactfully moves away, bringing himself out of earshot. The gesture is lost on them; Vanto is facing the wrong direction to see it but his parents notice and their expressions only grow more sour. He's slighted them somehow by stepping back; he isn't sure how, and it doesn't seem to matter that they slighted him first.
He still hasn't mastered human social situations, he notes ruefully. In a better world, perhaps the Aristocra would have sent himself and Thrass together — the perfect team for a mission like this, the best examples of Chiss military strategy and diplomacy working side by side. But there's no point imagining how he and Thrass might have avoided this situation; he attempts to correct his mistake, moving closer to the Vanto family again.
Just in time for Ensign Vanto to turn around, see him lingering nearby, and scowl.
Of all the foul-tempered humans to get stuck with….
Well, there's no point going back now. Thrawn greets the Vantos with a measured smile, the most expressive smile he can force himself to turn toward a stranger. This is a gesture he was forced to iron out of himself not long after his acceptance into the Mitth family; it is something Thrass harped on over and over again — the importance of not smiling, the duty of each Mitth family representative to show a controlled and dignified expression at all times. It is difficult to adapt to new rules once again, especially after so long following the old ways — but it is not impossible.
Only the Vantos do not smile back. Rather, Mrs. Vanto attempts to, but her husband and son do not. In any case, it is a pale imitation of a smile.
You must be the one who's pulled our son off the supply track, Mr. Vanto says.
This is not an ideal conversation. Thrawn swallows his smile at once, reverting to the commanding, regal mask he learned in childhood. It comes across as cold to humans and Chiss alike; he knows this, is firmly aware that he's never been able to master the expression of warm neutrality that Thrass was so skilled at, but this knowledge isn't useful in the slightest. What else can he do? More friendly expressions have already been proven pointless.
He glances at Ensign Vanto, who is schooling his expression — not particularly well. There is embarrassment there, discomfort — but he shares his parents' dissatisfaction with Thrawn. Rightfully so, perhaps, but of course he does not see his own potential. Nonetheless, he has the right to be angry.
Ensign Vanto has proven himself to be a capable officer, Thrawn says, inclining his head in a minute bow; he sees from the distasteful twitch of Mr. Vanto's lips that this is not a common or acceptable gesture on Lysatra. I believe he will succeed in whichever path his career takes.
This is evidently not the ideal response, either. Ensign Vanto's features have settled into a distant contempt; his parents are less reserved, wearing their anger openly on their faces.
How uncomfortable to be raised by people with so little control, Thrawn thinks. But he must remember the cultural values are different here, with more emphasis — or so he's gathered — on interpersonal warmth and less on competence and dignity. Perhaps this difference is not as damaging as it seems; Vanto is indeed capable and intelligent, standing out even amongst the Empire's best (and wealthiest) recruits, with a streak of independent thought not common for young humans.
Or for young Chiss, really.
He is preparing to extricate himself from the situation when Ensign Vanto overcomes his contempt — perhaps his sense of embarrassment wins out — and distracts his parents voluntarily, pulling them into another hug. He mutters his goodbyes at the same time, making excuses. The ceremony is over; family members have already been asked to leave twice; he must hurry if he wants to retrieve his orders before the line forms.
His parents accept the farewell readily — not a surprise. Thrawn remembers in detail the tales Vanto has told him of their family shipping company — the long weeks running missions with his uncles and aunts, or waiting at home for his parents to return from a mission of their own. Their discomfort with an alien lieutenant standing nearby is apparently strong enough to overpower their desire for more time with their son.
In a sense, this is one of very few behaviors from the Vantos which Thrawn secretly approves of. If his own parents were still alive when he joined the military, he suspects they would have acted much the same way — no outrageous shows of emotions like some of the other families around him, no dramatic farewells. His father likely would have said nothing; his mother likely would have pushed for a speedy goodbye in order to return to the day's work as quickly as she could.
He hears Mr. and Ms. Vanto's goodbye: We love you, Eli. And then they are gone, and for a moment, the tension between Thrawn and Vanto dissolves. They walk to the distribution stand in silence, queuing behind one other Imperial ensign who already stands at the window. Their conversation is idle, unimportant; Vanto seems to have forgotten his anger.
Until he receives his datacard, of course, and slots it into the pad to see his orders.
The Thunder Hawk? he reads, voice strangled, eyes wide in horror, heat rising. Aide to Lieutenant Thrawn?
He says it like it's a death sentence, Thrawn notes. Vanto is beyond displeased; perhaps this has been a miscalculation, but Thrawn doesn't think so. Vanto just needs another push in the proper direction.
I will tell them I don't accept, Thrawn says firmly, pretending to be just as displeased as Vanto is. He sees Vanto considering this option, his eyes flickering as he weighs the benefits and drawbacks one at a time. Just as quickly, Vanto's lips settle into a grim line and Thrawn knows he has rejected a career in supply.
Temporarily, Vanto thinks.
No, he says slowly. There's no point. They don't go back on orders; once they're loaded into a datacard, these things might as well be set in stone.
He takes a deep breath, his chest expanding, and looks up at Thrawn again. Unhappy, perhaps. Resigned, but forcing himself to be optimistic, to think of the benefits this might bring him. Right now, Thrawn knows, he can think of none.
In the future, he'll know this was for the best.
Ezra swam out of the memory, gasping for air as the shelter came back into sight around him — the exact same way he'd gasp while surfacing from the river. Across from him, Thrawn sat entirely unharmed — no new cuts on his hands, no nosebleed, no lines of pain tightening his face. He was watching Ezra, his eyes wide with open curiosity; there was nothing in his hands this time, nothing to distract him while Ezra rooted around inside his head.
"Dude," Ezra breathed, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. "You're such an asshole."
Unbelievably, Thrawn smiled.
"Perhaps," he said. "What did you find?"
The name was clear — in fact, Ezra felt a little stupid for not remembering this cadet earlier. Though really, how could he have known Thrawn's Academy roommate eventually became his aide?
"Eli Vanto," Ezra said. His teeth were practically tingling from a sense of accomplishment. "That's him, right?"
Thrawn inclined his head. He'd seemed like the very picture of rigidity when Ezra first resurfaced, but now he was in languid motion again, crossing his legs and leaning back against the shelter wall, his eyes drifting away from Ezra.
"His parents were assholes, too," Ezra said, as a sort of half-hearted apology. "But you didn't have to manipulate him like that."
Thrawn just shrugged. "You seemed to lose awareness mid-sentence," he said softly, changing the subject. "I said, 'Wood is not generally kept in supply on Imperial starships,' and immediately I sensed the change in you; your eyes were glazed, as though you were unconscious. What happened?"
"I… I don't know," Ezra said. "For some reason, it was just like … the channel opened up again. Only I didn't realize it was actually closed. Suddenly I saw this thread — like I told you about before — and I knew I needed to follow it." He looked at Thrawn, feeling half-proud and half-uneasy, and shrugged. "So I did."
For once, Thrawn actually seemed to share his enthusiasm. He stood and moved to the window as quickly as an uncoiling spring, glancing outside at the grey sunlight and light drizzle of rain. The wind was still high — higher than ever before, really — but otherwise, the storm was granting them some leeway today, and it was abundantly clear from the look on Thrawn's face that, although he'd hidden it well so far, he was tired of being shut inside. Maybe that had something to do with who he was stuck inside with, maybe it didn't.
He glanced at Ezra, a contemplative slant to his eyebrows and a frown on his face. "We should attempt it at a distance," he said, looking outside again. His eyes darted across the distant tree-line and the river — which, thanks to all the rain, seemed to have crept right up to the edge of their clearing. "Or perhaps first we should escalate. Practice with more important information first. Build your confidence before moving on to more difficult tasks."
He seemed to be talking to himself, but it wasn't like Ezra couldn't hear him standing there talking about Ezra's lack of confidence.
"I can handle it from a distance," he said, trying not to sound indignant.
Not looking away from the window — in fact, he leaned out farther, allowing the rain to mist his hair — Thrawn said, "You're certain?"
Ezra gave a hollow-sounding scoff. He wasn't certain he could, no — not after struggling for so long to find Eli Vanto's name. But he was excited about the new breakthrough — excited and nervous all at once — and he could feel the Force singing in his blood, and he wanted to try.
"Then let's not waste time," Thrawn said. His voice was flat, but a faint smile touched his lips as he turned to face Ezra again. With the channel wide open between them, Ezra could feel Thrawn's peculiar enthusiasm emanating toward him — different from Ezra's excitement, more intense and somehow not quite as happy. There was a strong-willed undercurrent to it, a determination that was almost intimidating — more like the excitement of a hunter about to nab his prey than that of a small child looking forward to a treat. Ezra could taste a long-fought-for goal behind Thrawn's change in mood, but he couldn't see well enough to tell what it was.
"Okay," he said aloud, jumping off the bed. "Let's go for it."
"I'll go to the river," Thrawn said swiftly, almost eagerly. He was already heading for the door, removing the interior braces that kept the wind from blowing it open. Ezra helped him, following Thrawn outside a moment later; the wind nearly threw him off-balance, and it took a great deal of physical exertion and help from the Force to stay where he was.
"Find the code to my aft bridge holopod," Thrawn said to him almost as an aside, yelling to be heard above the wind.
Before Ezra could even acknowledge the command, Thrawn pushed ahead, fetching one of their unused basket traps and a fishing pole from his own shelter. With his head down and his shoulders hunched against the wind, he made his way toward the deep water on the edge of the clearing. Ezra grabbed a basket as well and followed at a significantly different angle, aiming for the far end of the forest — by the time he reached it, he'd be right by the river, too, meaning he could fish while maintaining a distance of at least half a kilometer from Thrawn.
The ground was wet and soft beneath him, tilting him from side to side as he walked — but he could tell at a glance what the rain was doing to the vegetation. All around him, everything was a lush, vibrant green — and what Thrawn had said several days ago was right. He could recognize plants and trees he'd seen a dozen times before on Lothal or in holos. Growing wild all around them were the distinctive leaves of bazolh root, a bulbous yellow vegetable used for extra spice that used to sell for high prices at the Lothal market. He could see the serrated leaves of roumon-gui sprouting up knee-high in the clearing, catching on his trouser seams as he pushed through them. They left a spicy-sweet odor in the air, the same scent as the thick, braided bread his mother used to bake and season with roumon-gui on holidays.
He hoisted the basket up higher under his arm and picked up the pace. Rain drizzled down on him, cool but not particularly bothersome, and although the sun wasn't out in force, the humidity mingled together with spring temperatures to create a pleasant warmth in the air. He reached the edge of the water, plunging through the first few meters of shallow flooding in his bare feet and rolled-up trouser cuffs. It was still almost freezing, not warmed by the sun at all, but a large tree emerged from the water nearby. It loomed over the flooded clearing where the water was deep enough for the current to rush through.
Ezra swung himself up onto the nearest branch, bringing the basket with him. He could sense fish swimming by beneath him, tugged along by the current and blissfully unaware that he waited overhead. Dimly, through his connection to Thrawn, he could half-see, half-feel the other man running his free hand along the muddy bottom of the river, searching for a good place to set his trap.
Ezra leaned against the tree trunk, tense from the combination of ultra-cold flood water on his bare feet and the cool fizz of rain spraying against his face. He let the bark dig into his back, trying to get comfortable in advance of what might be a long session. The tree seemed almost to sway beneath him, branches creaking in the wind, fresh green leaves brushing against his face and moving away naturally before he could bat them off. It was unnerving, but his tree was essentially stable, too wide in circumference to be under any real danger from the wind.
The same wasn't true of the other trees in the forest, Ezra knew. It had been Thrawn's idea to place their shelters down in a clearing, well away from the woods, and after just one day of stormy weather, Ezra was immensely grateful for that decision. He'd seen saplings on the edge of the field bowing down until they splintered at the base; in the night, it wasn't uncommon for the snap-roar of an older tree falling to wake him from his sleep.
He glanced down the uneven line of the flooded river, just barely catching sight of Thrawn in the distance. Debris floated along rapidly past Thrawn's distant figure — not just broken branches and water-logged tree trunks, but also bits and pieces from the Chimaera. The blackened, twisted metal wasn't likely to float, but any remnants of fiberplast would, and Ezra watched as they bobbed by directly beneath his perch.
The fiberplast would last longer than any of them, he knew. Longer than him or Thrawn, certainly — but longer than the animals here, too, and the plants, and the tree he sat in. He shrugged off a sense of unease — how long would the Chimaera stay there, the charred hull intact while the forest died over and over again around it? — and tried to calm his mind, remembering what Thrawn had said two nights before.
It brought him a sense of both embarrassment and gratification. Maybe Thrawn really did blame Ezra — how could he not? — but at least he was willing to pretend. On a deeper level, one Ezra didn't really seek to acknowledge, he sensed a sort of unfeigned and simple verity behind Thrawn's words, the same kind of half-appalling, half-endearing honesty he used to casually insult Ezra on a daily basis. I don't blame you for the crash had the same ring of truth embedded in every syllable of every word as You don't pull your weight around here. But believing something on an intellectual level didn't make it emotionally true, and Thrawn's emotions were so muted and difficult to decipher that Ezra sometimes suspected Thrawn himself wasn't sure how he felt.
He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Relaxed his fingers; felt the burn wound on his palm sting before the pain dulled away. In a moment, he could feel the spindly-legged spiders and fat beetles roaming underneath and over the wet bark of the tree — and the leaves, green and healthy, sated by the abundance of water — and the swollen roots, the baffled fish below him trying desperately to adjust to the flood — every sparse, thin ray of sunlight doing its best to warm the river.
And Thrawn, of course, now weighing the basket trap down and tying the rocks in place. His mind flickered in recognition of Ezra's presence, then flickered away again as a fish brushed his hand on its way past.
He was easily distracted from the presence of a Jedi in his mind, Ezra realized. Used to it. Already focusing on the task at hand, aware of Ezra's efforts but not actively watching them. There was still a sense of wariness there — in fact, it stood out starkly, more noticeable than ever before in contrast with the deliberate show of trust Thrawn seemed to be putting on by mentally looking the other way.
He shook these thoughts away and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. The access code to Thrawn's personal holopod — the aft bridge one, that's what he'd said. That was the one Ezra had seen before, both in Thrawn's memories (Thrawn and Faro hunched over the display, tracking the Grysks with a red dotted line) and in real life, when he'd sneaked aboard the Chimaera and hidden in the aft bridge office waiting for his chance to run.
It seemed reasonable that any top-secret messages routed to Thrawn during his time as a Grand Admiral would go through that same holopod, so it was at least obvious why Thrawn wanted him to find the access code — unlike the whole debacle with his aide's name. And this time, at least, Ezra had something solid to work with — an image of the holopod itself, memories of Thrawn using it — things he could chase as certainly as he'd chased the memory of Eli Vanto after hearing just that one vital word, 'supply.'
With the empty basket secured between his knees and his back set firmly against the tree, Ezra closed his eyes and opened his mind.
The threads are indistinguishable from each other; where before there was a complete absence of anything useful, now there are so many leads it seems impossible to investigate them all. Trapped in a web of glowing strands — memories vying for attention, shining so brightly and weaving together so quickly it overwhelms him — he reaches in and plucks one out at random.
He's leaning back in his desk chair with a collection of Kojai art holos displayed all around him when his comlink chimes — a gentle, nonstandard notification sound he was able to install only through some semi-illegal hacking. But it was necessary; the pre-set notification tones are so grating that they ruin his concentration every time. He lifts his wrist and tilts it just enough to make out the code on the screen — Faro — before pressing the button.
Linking you through to the work group, sir, she says.
She will be linking herself through as well, naturally; although they've never explicitly discussed it, he always expects her to listen in. She refuses to make a physical appearance most days, citing Imperial military etiquette, but her input is too valuable for Faro to sit out of these meetings entirely.
A moment later, the Kojai art fizzles away, replaced by five familiar faces. An assortment of Moffs, Grand Admirals, and one highly-rated General stare back at him, each of them presented as a full-body holo, many of them clearly stretching the holo parameters to look taller than they are. Thrawn doesn't bother to stand; he glances down at the control board, confirming that his own display is set to a video feed — not holo — and centered only on his face. There is no reason to intimidate his allies with a full-body holo; he can only assume they have keyed their displays this way because they don't view him as an ally.
General Bokkimr's disapproval is plain; his features tighten when he notices the lone video feed in the midst of all these holos. The others school their expressions more successfully. This isn't surprising; experience tells Thrawn he doesn't have much hope of pleasing this particular crowd. He greets them amicably nonetheless, receiving a fair amount of glares and grumbles for his effort. Only Grand Admiral Lisbhel greets him with civility, perhaps because he respects the rank even if he doesn't respect Thrawn himself.
Each one of them looks blue-skinned in the holos, Thrawn notes. He sits back and listens as the arguments begin, withholding his own input and simply absorbing the opinions of the high-ranking Imperial officials around him.
If the others can see him biting the inside of his cheek, they don't comment on it.
When he comes awake, he's sitting straight up in the small cot built into the wall of his aft bridge suite, his breathing slow and calm, his muscles struggling out of relaxation, his vision unfocused from sleep. He registers Commander Vanto kneeling nearby but leaning back on his heels as if in surprise, his eyes wide and his eyebrows up.
Yes? Thrawn says; he can hear how blurred his accent has become just from being asleep. It takes Commander Vanto longer than is ideal to recuperate from whatever has startled him.
Message for you, he says, standing and stepping away. He uses Thrawn's shoulder for support in the process, so Thrawn only stands when the space next to his cot is free, slipping his tunic out of the slim storage space nearby. The Emperor, Vanto adds as Thrawn pulls the tunic over his arms.
He's still pulling at the sealing strip as he steps into his office, where the Emperor's holo awaits him — close-up on the face, magnified so as to look down on whoever answers the call. It's meant to be intimidating, Thrawn supposes, but the effect is marred somewhat when the Emperor catches sight of Thrawn's disheveled appearance and his lips twitch in a familiar look of upper-class displeasure.
Vanto stays behind, lurking in the makeshift living space where Thrawn stores some of his uniforms and cultural downloads for easy access. He can certainly hear every word the Emperor says, but he's wise enough not to make himself seen.
Of course, Thrawn thinks, Vanto has been wise enough to avoid the Emperor ever since he was a Myomar cadet.
Mitth'raw'nuruodo, the Emperor says, throwing as much contempt as he possibly can into each syllable. Thrawn finishes with the buttons on his tunic and bends his head forward in a brief but respectful bow; his hair gets into his eyes, tousled from sleep. No point in smoothing it down now, he decides; it will only make him look uneasy.
My lord, he says.
The Emperor's lips twitch again. In the other room, Thrawn can hear Vanto stifling a hiss. No one ever seems to know what to call the Emperor to his face, but they all seem to uniformly agree that whatever Thrawn decides on at the moment is horrifically incorrect. He's not sure what's so inappropriate about 'my lord.'
Your promotion suits you, the Emperor says. A faint degree of heat flickers beneath his hood, visible even through the holo feed. He seems to be eyeing Thrawn's rank plaque. I am pleased to see you so … comfortable with your command.
Thrawn keeps his face impassive, unreadable. He shows neither amusement — a one-hour rest period after fifty hours of battle does not indicate laziness or undue 'comfort,' after all, and he is sure the Emperor knows that — nor intimidation, as it is clear the Emperor means for this comment to intimidate him. He feels the Emperor's mind brush up against his own, an unpleasant feeling like a sharp electric shock that first stings and then numbs the coils of his brain.
Outwardly, the conversation proceeds. Inwardly, Thrawn's sense of distant amusement and contempt for the Emperor's theatrics seems to waver and dissolve, replaced by an uneasy concentration on the painful shockwave rolling over his brain. He hears the Emperor's request for a report the same way a drowning man hears voices from above the water's surface.
We have identified one planet in the sector with intelligent life, he says. He will have to ask Vanto later how his answers sound; his tongue is heavy in his mouth, difficult to manipulate, and his words seem to take an eternity to come out.
He's more resentful of the Emperor's effect on him than he is fearful. Perhaps noting this, perhaps amused by it — or perhaps having extracted the information he needs — the Emperor draws away.
Only one planet, he says. Not quite a question.
Yes, my lord.
And have you identified anything else? Palpatine asks. His voice is silky, his eyes burning even through his hood. Across Thrawn's collar bone, his brother's oth'ola endzali cools and warms, distracting him from the invisible fingers prodding once more at his mind. No, not quite distracting him — he is still very aware of the Emperor's attempt to read his mind. What the oth'ola endzali seems to do is deflect the sensation.
A sense of calm confidence engulfs him, not entirely facilitated by Thrass's life energy. He notes a slight flexing of the Emperor's jaw, perhaps indicating clenched teeth.
The report details our findings in full, Thrawn says respectfully. The bridge officers together have located various promising mining districts, including a line of harvestable chroenu. The atmosphere indicates small amounts of tibanna gas, which the locals have utilized to some degree in the agricultural industry and for energy purposes. In the forests—
And just like that, without a final word to Thrawn, the Emperor's holo has disappeared. He glances down at the control panel, but the indicator lights there shows the call has been deliberately disconnected. This is not a matter of interference.
Did he just hang up on you? asks Vanto, emerging from the makeshift living area.
It would appear so, says Thrawn. Although he should perhaps see this as a negative development, he feels ten kilos lighter. A headache remains behind, throbbing around his temples and reminding him of the Emperor's power — but it scarcely registers with him now. He turns to Vanto, finally smoothing down his hair.
Is he…. Vanto glances at the dormant holopod. Nervousness tightens the lines of his face. He didn't sound pleased with you.
No, says Thrawn. I suppose he wasn't.
He eyes Vanto, who eyes him back. Irritation and fear are now battling over Vanto's face. He seems to be holding back an admonishment.
He has never been exceptionally skilled at holding back admonishments.
Well, you were insanely disrespectful to him, sir, Vanto says. The irritation has won control over his voice; the fear has successfully captured his face. You don't even hear yourself when you're talking to people, do you? You had to say 'The report details our findings' like a sarcastic adolescent?
Thrawn can't hide his own surprise. His military posture falls apart a little as he turns to face Vanto in full. It was intended to be respectful, he says. He works hard to put his voice into neutral, the way he did earlier. This is a respectful tone.
If you think that's respectful, it certainly explains a lot of sticky situations we've had over the past few years, Vanto says. I can't believe you survived your first court-martial. High Command should've had your head on a plate for the way you talk to them.
He leans against the far wall, sagging a little. The fear drains from his face. Still, at least he didn't choke you. Or outright kill you. We can assume you didn't piss him off too bad.
Always a victory, Thrawn says, turning back to the holopod. His message board is blinking with a black light. Tarkin, he supposes. That, or Krennic. Dread settles over him for a moment as he remembers the supply reports from Commander Vanto, the terrible picture they painted when assembled together. His fingers hover over the control board.
What surprised you? he asks mildly, not glancing away from the controls. It takes Vanto a moment to answer. Perhaps he realizes Thrawn is stalling, but he doesn't comment on it aloud.
You mean when I woke you up?
Thrawn punches the first digit of his access code. Yes.
He can imagine Vanto's expression without looking.
You sat right up when I said your name, Vanto says. Like you were wide awake, just waiting for someone to call you. I said, 'Sir, there's a message—' and then before I could get anything else out or even touch you, like to shake you awake, you were sitting right up and staring at me like you were waiting for me to go on. I've never seen someone wake up like that, especially not after being awake for so long.
Thrawn absorbs all this before entering the rest of his access code, not glancing at the pad, not thinking the numbers and letters as he punches them in. The messages play automatically, Grand Moff Tarkin looking down his aquiline nose as he speaks.
My sources tell me the ISD Chimaera is on a vector for the Maw Cluster, Tarkin says, his voice icy. Vanto comes to stand next to Thrawn, both of them staring grimly at the recording, all traces of levity gone.
Might I remind you, Tarkin says, of your mission in the Unknown Regions? Perhaps you feel comfortable ignoring the Emperor's commands.
'Comfortable' again, Thrawn notes a little dryly. The same peculiar insult leveled at him twice in the same day, first because he dared to take an hour of rest after two days and nights of battle, second because he had the nerve to investigate supply details that anyone with half a brain and even an ounce of independent thought would want to look into; he wonders who borrowed this insult from whom, Tarkin or the Emperor — and why they've started discussing him in private meetings. If there's anything Thrawn isn't right now, it's comfortable with the Empire—
But Ezra has seen enough. He allows his consciousness to float, distancing himself from the memory until it fades out of existence entirely. He's got the first number of the access code, but the rest is completely opaque to him, punched in by muscle memory while Thrawn's eyes and mind were elsewhere. He drifts amongst the web of threads, searching for one that looks promising.
And then he dives in.
It is strange to see Ar'alani and Eli Vanto together in a holo; only Vanto's pupils give away the fact that he is human, not a Chiss. The holo flickers, a sure sign that Commodore Faro has tuned in — which means this is his cue to speak. He cannot be sure either Ar'alani or Vanto recognizes that someone else has tapped into the channel.
No, too late for the information Ezra wants — he pulls out again, taking another thread in his hands. The aft office bridge swirls around him, the dim lighting shifting to at least seventy percent. Shadows form and then disappear where Thrawn was sitting moments before; now he strides through the door at a quick pace, his hands clasped behind his back, sweat dampening his hair and a set of Mandalorian armor subtly weighing him down.
Not the best disguise, sir? says Faro at his side, hiding her amusement valiantly.
Not the best, Thrawn admits. He flashes her a quick smile — or as much of one as he can manage when his lips are so cracked they're bleeding. He deposits the scuffed helmet on his desk and continues to the living space beyond, where a bottle of cold R'alla mineral water waits for him. He downs a full glass as quickly as he can, not bothering to mete it out. He's overheated both from the armor and from the battle planet-side, but he's too exhausted and thirsty now to bother changing out.
I suppose we didn't have much of a choice, Faro allows. Not like you could go down in a hood and some tinted glasses.
Indeed not, says Thrawn, a little breathless. At least his tongue no longer feels like dust. He fills another glass, crossing back into his office with it and scanning his message board. With my … unique features, there isn't much I can do in terms of disguise, he says, gesturing toward his face with a gauntleted hand. Still, we have neutralized an arm of the Black Sun, curried Darth Vader's favor, and gained at least one ally in the process. I have set the Noghri up in quarters close to mine for now, though he is of course permitted to move whenever he grows weary of me. I don't expect it will take very long; he seemed somewhat ill-tempered on the shuttle back.
I'm becoming accustomed to ill-tempered people, says Faro, her lips twisted in distaste. I kept an eye on Governor Pryce, sir, as you said. Made sure she was kept as far away from the action as possible.
Thrawn doesn't respond; he thinks of Batonn, his mind whirling over the thirty thousand civilians who died there — and Nightswan, his body found intact on the city perimeter. The water goes sour against his tongue.
He can tell Faro wants to say something; he can tell she's hesitating, not really listening to his after-action report — if it can be called that. He's taking another drink of water, this time easing it down his parched throat in tiny, achingly cold sips, when she speaks.
Sir, when I heard news of military action on Corellia, I…
He sets the glass down carefully, hits the release clasp on his gauntlets. They come off with a pneumatic hiss, allowing him the chance to break eye contact with Faro. The noise fills the silence as Faro collects her thoughts; he hopes desperately she doesn't want to address Pryce's actions. They both know who was responsible for those deaths; speaking about it aloud might be feasible for him some other day, but not tonight, when he knows he has hours of datawork waiting for him before he can shower and sleep.
I know statements like this embarrass you, Faro says, muscling through. But I have to admit, I was concerned for your safety. I'm glad to know my fears were unfounded.
It doesn't embarrass me, says Thrawn, relief flooding through him. He affects mild amusement at Faro's words, using it to mask how much it unsettles him to think of Batonn as he keys in his personal access code. I'm glad to hear it, on the contrary. Loyalty is one of two traits I most value in my colleagues. Privately, he's a little touched, too, but he hides that much better than the false amusement, turning his face away as he asks, Has the Hopskip's cargo been reloaded onboard?
Ezra doesn't wait to hear more. The code is a mix of Aurebesh and other alien scripts programmed into Thrawn's holopod, and it takes all his concentration to memorize the foreign shapes. He's still repeating it in his mind as the memory around him fades, as he enters the greater chamber of Thrawn's mind as a whole, as—
As the oth'ola endzali suddenly stops glowing and everything around Ezra goes black.
