Chapter 17. Pulse

Like a symphony, any plan is an amalgamation of echoes heard and unheard, where tones from individual instruments produce the rich, complex, and seamless sounds of an orchestra. A true tactician, like a conductor, should be able to see the big picture, connect the dots, combine disparate sounds into something new. Councilor Organa's plan with humanitarian missions was a brilliant opening solo… that gave him a pretext for orchestrating something even more resounding.

So here they are now, looking at an almost perfect mirror image that greets them right out of the hyperjump.

"I wonder if it can be called a forgery."

She's watching a ship in front of them, head slightly tilted to the side in contemplation. A small strand of hair is falling out of her intricate braids, caressing her neck in tact with air circulation on the bridge. The movement is barely there, not enough to be distracting, but enough to notice a peculiar rhythm, steady, swelling in soft waves, rushing in and out.

Leave it to Councilor Organa to inadvertently catch the pulse of his ship. She's oblivious to the fact of course, as she studies a brand new engraving that mimics an outline of chimaera on the ventral side of the other ship's hull. Perfect, sharp, precise. Too sharp and too precise to belong to his Chimaera, hardened and worn out by many battles, but it wouldn't matter to an outside observer. His reputation precedes him, and this extends to his ship as well - a yet another reflection on the power of symbols that tend to blind people to small but crucial details.

"I see you still insist on putting labels on things."

"I imagine this ship will take course to the worlds assigned to our mission? Making sure to pass with as much fanfare as possible?"

Three minutes, it took her only three minutes to see through his additions to her original plan. Impressive.

"Indeed."

"In this case, if I did, I'd call what you're doing a kidnapping, given I have no idea where you're taking us."

There is a trace of irritation in her voice, not strong enough to imply anger or reproach, but prominent enough to point out that she doesn't appreciate that he's done it all behind her back.

Thrawn makes a mental note to rectify it later, a certain memento from a certain Inner Rim planet, delivered by Rukh, will serve this purpose quite well. Her suggestion, though, the thought itself, is so outrageous and, knowing the woman in front of him as well as he does now, so short-sighted, that he cannot suppress a wry smile.

"Councilor, I pity a poor unfortunate soul who'd dare. I prefer having you as a willing ally on my side." He gestures towards the exit, inviting her to follow. "Using a term decoy would be more appropriate, and from what I recall, you willingly accepted the invitation. Location details will follow."

"Let's make sure I won't regret this decision."

General Skywalker joins them in the hall, as they walk to his private command room. Just like his sister, the Jedi has a lot to say on the subject, even if his observations remain much more practical.

"You couldn't have turned it around in a day."

"Of course, it was put in motion long in advance for another purpose, but was too convenient of a coincidence to miss."

"Which fleet? It's a decoy you can't hide in plain sight in your Seventh fleet."

Now she's more curious than irritated. Technically, all Imperial fleets happen to be his now, but Thrawn opts not to remind her of the fact, after all, she's right in a sense that only the Seventh has become his work of art over the past years.

"Eleventh." General Skywalker intersects.

Seems like it's a pattern with these two, they finish each others sentences, perfectly playing off one another without even noticing, they will create quite a peculiar symphony if he stages it right.

"Why do you think so?"

Thrawn opts to keep silent, also curious to hear the general's reasoning. If he's as good at mechanics and ship designs as his father was, it would be an easy one for him.

"Turbolasers." General Skywalker catches his sister's questioning gaze. "I'm a pilot and this," he gestures around them, "strictly speaking, used to be an enemy's ship, gotta know what you need to attack, no offence Grand Admiral."

"None taken."

"It's well known that all ISDs in Grand Admiral's fleet have eight barrelled turrets, the decoy ship has two barrelled ones, but otherwise it's a perfect copy. Only the Eleventh fleet still has similar models, everyone else moved on to newer ones."

"Impressive, General Skywalker. I imagine you've already calculated how to accommodate for this layout change during the attack?"

"I may've."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

"That's why you needed the Eleventh fleet to be the one "rescuing" Luke…" Councilor Organa huffs, and unravels the rest of the plot, seeing through tactical implications with the same ease as her brother saw through military and engineering ones, "to get one of ISDs closer to the Corellian shipyards to engrave it. And that's why you needed Sloanne out?"

"Among other things, she did, after all, join the coup, let's not forget that."

"But it didn't hurt that you got Grand Admiral Faro in control afterwards."

"I simply don't like to let a good crisis go to waste, Councilor."

"I stand by what I said before, in another life, you would've fit right in with the Rebellion."

As amusing as this little interlude has been, once they reach his private office, Thrawn focuses on the task at hand – conducting a peculiar symphony of human emotions, loyalties and certainties all the while the entire universe hangs in the balance.

He touches a switch. Abruptly lights in his office dim, and a map of the galaxy overtakes the entire space. It's his own private version, the one that extends familiar constellations and words deep into what his guests call the Unknown Regions, judging by surprise and curiosity in the two pairs of eyes, unknown is the right word, indeed. Ironic, isn't it, that once upon a time Senior Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo was equally awed when he saw a map that delved deep into the Lesser space. It's not what one looks at that matters, it's what one sees. Back then, that shift in perspective opened a completely new set of unlimited possibilities to him. More than twenty years in, all he sees is a web – a sprawling, intricate trap that is still too interconnected and too vulnerable if one knows where to strike.

One more switch, and a few dotted lines tear through – the Grysks' conquests over the past two decades, followed by projected invasion patterns into the Ascendancy and then - far beyond, eventually overtaking the Core worlds.

"Does it look similar to what you imagined, Councilor? An event so devastating that it tears apart the fabric of hyperspace, a conflagration spanning the galaxy…"

General Skywalker is confused, naturally, given he wasn't with them that night in the Great Hyperspace war hall, but his sister instantly gets this private reference to her own words. She holds his gaze, deep brown eyes filling with a trace of worry, as the implication sinks in.

Thrawn touches a control, and one of displays on the walls is taken over by security reports he found in Lord Vader's files, cataloguing their encounters with the Grysks.

One more press of a button, a double circle of repeater displays appears, a bit to the side from his usual spot, but precisely where the General and the Councilor are standing. These new displays instantly fill with records of the Grysks contests, devastating aftermath, their tactics and weapons.

"I see you still have a flair for drama, Grand Admiral." Councilor mutters as she studies the images, and despite himself, despite the gravity of a situation, the corners of his lips tilt in a ghost of a smile. Leave it to her to choose the most unfortunate moment to get even with him for his remark on a bridge. Paradoxically, it helps to center his mind, and he starts speaking.

If his experience with humans, especially with these two, has taught him anything, it's going to be quite a fast-paced symphony in four or five parts. He hopes for four, but braces himself for five, after all, acting out of emotions is what the Skywalkers are known for.

True to his prediction, their reaction goes along an expected pattern as soon as he stops speaking.

Part one - Denial.

"With all due respect, Grand Admiral, we would've heard rumours by now. The New Republic intelligence would've caught…"

"Are you absolutely certain, General? I'd think that the last week clearly proved that sometimes General Madine's intelligence misses things that happen right under their nose, let alone the Unknown Regions."

The Jedi's jaw works, but his lips remain set in a firm line, as he fails to find a counterargument. Thrawn inwardly congratulates himself: seems like his decision not to involve Madine in an attempt to thwart the coup has paid off in the long term.

"General, we all know that you've inherited," Thrawn makes a point to emphasise the last word, evoking the memory of his father, and by extension, their alliance. Judging by the slight grip on his father's lightsaber, the trick works, "the gift of being able to discern when someone is lying, so tell us, am I lying now?"

The young man studies him intently, his gaze taking a familiar calculating, focused expression, as if he is looking at you and past you at the same time. Eventually, he comes back to present, lines of tension setting deep under his icy blue eyes.

"You still have an unusually orderly mind, Grand Admiral, but no, you aren't."

"Surely, after all the years and all credits spent, the New Republic and the Imperial fleets can deflect an attack."

"I'd advise against being so overly optimistic after years of internal civil war, Councilor, it didn't take me that long to defeat the New Republic. While I tried to keep your loses to the required minimum, you don't have enough ships now. Especially not after a folly of a peaceful retooling the Chancellor implemented in your territories. That is, unless you intend to beat the invaders into submission with new climate control systems?"

Judging by the look in her eyes, that familiar and enthralling kaleidoscope of emotions, each and every one of them flashing for a fraction of a second, she just might, and she'll start with him, for she clearly doesn't appreciate the pun. Pity, but he couldn't resist provoking her a little, the view was worth it, for purely artistic purposes, of course. A more rational part of his mind is instantly alarmed, it's a risky and unnecessary distraction, not now, not here, not when the stakes are so high, so he adds to move on past it.

"Even if, eventually, warships and weapons can be deal with, we're still taking about an enemy who thrives on subverting minds and turning worlds against each other."

Part two - Anger.

"Why didn't you tell everyone before?" General Skywalker is glued to the monitor that is, ironically, displaying his father's files, he has no way of knowing it, which makes this little fact even more remarkable. Like father, like son. "Why the ruse? How about a simple, clear, straightforward and actually effective plan?"

Thrawn hides a wince, feeling that a true Tatooine heritage of the General is about to show in all its glory, but forces himself to remain silent.

"We'll share all this with the New Republic high command, you'll share it with your military, and together we will work out a solution in a few weeks."

"Although your plan is indeed clear, simple, and straightforward, there is some difficulty in justifiably assigning to it the fourth of the epithets you applied to it."

"Oh for Sith's sake…" he feels an elbow jabbing his side and looks down to see that Senator Organa has finally succumbed to her earlier impulse. Interestingly, she has moved to stay closer to him, preferring to have a vantage point of the entire room - maps, invasion routes, dossiers - rather than focusing on specific displays. "Just say it's short-sighted."

"As you wish. So, tell us, Councilor, what is likely to happen, should I proclaim to the galaxy at large that a threat is coming?"

"Disbelief, you aren't the most trusted messenger, recent developments notwithstanding."

"Then?"

"Fear, bargaining. It won't be long before some worlds will send reconnaissance missions and try to… negotiate their way out of conflict, possibly even divert invaders to any rivalling systems, allying themselves with the Grysks. From there, the Senate will break into factions. Presume your inner council will split as well. A good excuse to get rid of political enemies, or certain upstart Supreme commanders."

He suspects his eyes may be glowing brighter in the semi-darkness of the room this very minute, and he is grateful that his companions won't be able to understand why. Irrational, but ultimately a brilliant choice, that's what she is. A tactical mind coupled with years in politics allows her to see a couple of angles that even he missed.

"And worst of all," he finishes for her, "apathy."

Thrawn turns to her brother, who's watching the entire exchange with an unreadable expression on his face. He flips the switch, and the room gets back to its regular soft light, much more agreeable for human eyes. Without the contrast of darkness, the map and displays fade, loosing sharpness and vibrancy.

"Our eyes, General Skywalker, grow accustomed to sight, they eventually armour themselves against wonder and against danger, a prospect of an attack looses its edge and meaning, if it remains just a prospect for too long. Fear wears off, dulls as well… We need to be prepared, but we cannot give too much of an advance warning to the galaxy at large."

Part three - Bargaining.

"So, how much time do we have?"

"A year, two at most."

"It's not awfully precise."

Again, it's Councilor Organa who catches an echo of words unsaid and whispers, "It's not a prediction."

"Indeed."

"It's a choice."

He nods. And a map of the galaxy flashes in blue, "Depends on how… and what we decide to sacrifice to prepare the military for their first move, General, and that's where I need you and Councilor Organa."

The Chiss Ascendancy is out of the question, obviously, but he has a few ideas.

Part four - Acceptance.

"I need time to study all of this properly before we make any calls."

Her shoulders stiff, voice weary, but determined.

Frankly, he didn't expect anything less.

"Of course, I will have datapads and datacylinders delivered to your quarters. As for your earlier question about our destination… I'd like us to randez-vous with a few allies, that's all."

She nods and leaves, deep in her thoughts, their actual destination, clearly, is the last thing in her mind now. Before her brother can follow suit, Thrawn stops him with an offer the younger man won't be able to refuse.

"General Skywalker? I have one more thing that is rightfully yours, the one you should've inherited."

Together, they walk into the hangar that still houses Lord Vader's final gift.

Black durasteel hexagon, three meters in diameter, flattened on the bottom, designed to nestle in a hexagonal dais.

"While Lord Vader's files served me quite well, I believe I only scratched the surface of this chamber, I can predict war, but I cannot predict the Force, see if it tells you more than it did to me."

And that, rather than maps and files, is the most convincing argument for General Skywalker.

A perfect final accord to the symphony in four parts.

Turns out he was wrong. Or, rather, right, but still wrong, he's perfectly aware that it sounds ridiculous, even in his own mind, but there is no other way to describe the conundrum.

As always at this hour, a watershed between today and tomorrow and the only time he allows for somewhat more personal, private thoughts, he has been going through a few notes on his questis - a memento of his home world accidentally and on purpose left by Ar'alani the last time they met. He knows her well enough to infer that it's more than a sentimental souvenir, it's a symbol of his ultimate loyalty, and a reminder that his ruse has taken too long.

It's been a perfectly ordinary night, until Part five turned up at his door in the middle of it, not that he was sleeping, but the fact stands. So here they are now, facing each other in the doorway.

Red-rimmed yes, familiar tension in her pose, the weight of the world on her shoulders, coupled with a fairly thin wrap that is clearly useless against the cold air of his ship. Hair in a single simple braid, too careless by her usual standards, as if combed in a hurry.

"I can't make it work in a year, the whole kriffing year, and it's not enough."

She strides in even before he can properly move to the side to invite her to, before he can inquire how she managed to locate his private suite in the first place. Well, given the balance of probability, she possibly asked the Noghri, the species cannot say no to her, so it's the only plausible explanation.

Just like that time after the assassination attempt, she starts walking back and forth in his living room, absent-mindedly wringing her hands in a peculiar pattern, trying to soothe her nerves. She's blinking a bit too rapidly, clearly trying to prevent a tell-tale evidence of her vulnerability from leaving her eyes.

"New funding, even if I call in a few favours, still six months at best to get it through the cabinet and the Senate, but work needs to start, then, depending on a system, four months before first new ships will be ready, eight more to get to the levels we need. Mon will be against it, at least without an explanation that I can't give for now. So it'll make it all more difficult, I can't overrule the Chancellor."

Not yet, he wants to add, but remains silent for now, she won't take well to this suggestion tonight.

He feels it rather than sees it, that peculiar way the air always moves around her, a ripple far greater than her frame. It's filled with tension, reverberating with her every step, getting closer and closer to a breaking point, like a pane of glass, two seconds before it hits the floor.

It may not be his place, but… he needs to help her catch herself before she breaks.

The moment she pauses to gasp for air, he steps in front of her to stop this incessant back and forth.

"I know you prefer sitting on the floor, but a sofa may be more comfortable."

She blinks again, and looks around, clearly taking in her surroundings properly for the first time since she barged in – the living room in his private quarters, a medium-sized sofa, a chair and a desk. Heat rushing to her cheeks as she realises the optics of their encounter. Her composure is admirable, though, and that's one of the most fascinating things about her – by sheer willpower she does it – catches herself before she breaks - hides her embarrassment and last traces of her distress, as she follows his lead to the sofa.

"I take it you came to the same conclusion that I have?"

"We need a year and a half."

"Not two?"

"I will make it happen on my side in a year and a half, unless you aren't up to a challenge?"

She's trying to minimise potential sacrifices, clearly, her innate sense of justice and empathy coupled with the memory of Alderaan fuelling this resolve to make the impossible possible. Her determination admirable, even if a bit short-sighted.

"I trust your judgement."

Title Councilor refuses to leave his lips tonight, a practiced formality feels out of place all of the sudden, so solely lacking to describe the woman in front of him.

"You don't sound that convinced, though?"

Judging by a slight hesitation before the last word, she's facing a similar dilemma.

"I know better than doubt your determination by now, but… just like regrets themselves, the fear of regrets can be a bad advisor, tends to cloud judgement."

"I feel like because I can fight, I have to, for those who cannot."

And this, is the essence of all things her.

"You do, but if you rush and loose… remember, regrets always leave scars, sear into the mind and soul, the ones born out of one's own mistakes or miscalculations tend to cut the deepest and be the most bitter."

He isn't sure if he's talking to her or himself. His own ghosts, mistakes and sacrifices, intentional or accidental, the Outbound Flight, Thrass… all those deep scars that he's learned to set aside, the ugly reminders his eyes have armoured themselves against, still tend to catch him off guard when he least expects it. Yet, he has no luxury of allowing doubts and regrets to interfere with present, not now, not ever. The sooner she will learn the same, the better.

"Think about it, and if you still believe tomorrow that a year and a half is enough for you, so be it."

She nods and he walks her to the door in silence. For some reason, it's easier to look at anything but her, so he focuses on a code panel, as he types in familiar combination of numbers in his code lock. Still, once done, none of them makes a move. Irrationally, for one fleeting second, he wants to stop time, freeze it before reality will come crashing down on them. On her.

She makes no move to leave, impossibly still in the doorway, and only one flyway strand of hair is moving in tact with the pulse of his ship, caressing her bare neck in an endlessly enthralling motion. Minutes stretch, and at some point, his left hand involuntary flies to her back, holding her: not tight enough to prevent her from leaving, a light touch verging on a thin line, but never crossing it, otherwise it would be unwise, dangerous even. Just close enough to feel her warmth and a slight shiver that goes through her body at the contact, the one that has nothing to do with the cold temperature, for he can clearly see she's burning inside. She doesn't raise her head to look up at him, as she quietly whispers, her breath caressing a point somewhere in the middle of his chest, their height difference manifesting itself in bizarre ways tonight.

"Thank you, for listening."

When she looks up, and he feels it, suddenly. A pull, while he is no stranger to attraction, basic as it may be, this one is different. It hits deeper, and it's untimely, irrational, definitely not appropriate given the circumstances, so he brushes it aside. Yet, a small stubborn particle is there, still lingering in front of his eyes, refusing to be ignored, but too dangerous to fully acknowledge.

A rational solution shouldn't feel like cowardice, while a cowardly way out shouldn't feel like stepping into abyss, yet it does. His usually calm, rational mind feels all those things, as he presses his lips… to her forehead.

Author's note

Here we go, an extra long chapter before I leave for my business trip next week and my posting schedule becomes a bit random.
Did I enjoy giving a subtle nod to the legend's lore of Thrawn ordering Leia's kidnapping and twisting it in my own folly? Yes, sorry not sorry :)
I promised that Chimaera will bring a lot of interesting revelations, and we have so much more in store… Leia mixed up the order of the famous five stages, but it's Leia, she does whatever she wants.
As ever my favorite theological and philosophical question – was Thrawn shirtless in the middle of the night during that conversation? I plead the fifth ;))) everyone decides for themselves.
Also, before my readers start throwing chairs at me for the last line, just a reminder, to rephrase Neil Armstrong, "one small step for man, one giant leap for Thrawn."