Chapter 21. Chaos rising
He has spent his life studying and identifying patterns.
Patterns laddering up to patterns, patterns hidden by other patterns. Patterns within patterns. That's what set him apart from others – ability to discern, dissect and predict them, where others would shy away, ascribing an event to an accident, mystery, or chaos. An accident is nothing but a combination of hidden patterns that intersect at a given time and space. A mystery is just a pattern one cannot yet decipher. Last, but definitely not the least, chaos… Chaos, fated to become a derogatory term in his home world, is just an amalgamation of patterns other sentients haven't recognized yet. Ironically, it's the impossible woman in front of him, who, unknowingly, managed to put it into words so succinctly about two weeks ago, back when they were in the palace: "Not a surprise, it's common to consider things one doesn't understand unpredictable or dangerous."
So, here they are now. Looking at each other across the room, as he's faced with… yet another accident-mystery-chaos, all embodied by her.
Not an accident per se, by now she has developed a habit of barging into his private quarters whenever she pleases, and given he has never objected to the fact, it's safe to assume the pattern will continue. Truth is, he doesn't mind, not really.
A mystery takes a bit longer to solve, but in a few minutes it all falls into place.
Shadows under her eyes, sharp movements, hidden tension in her shoulders and neck.
Lack of sleep does it to Humans. Not a problem at its face value, he has witnessed his team going without sleep for extended periods of time, but eventually human nature would always take over and pay back with slipping attention spans, mental lethargy and shorter tempers. While the former is not an issue with her - barely anyone would've been able to connect the dots about the Killik Twilight so masterfully as she did - the latter is definitely a problem. Knowing her heritage, finding oneself on the receiving end of a short temper is not an enticing prospect, and while he has learned to navigate it, others on this ship may not be so fortunate. Hence, community service is in order – he needs to make her rest, one way or another.
Once both of them get through her latest outburst, that is.
Deep brown eyes looking at him with a mixture of hope, trust, suspicion, all fused in one tightly coiled spring of emotions.
Wherever he says next has the power to tilt the balance one way or another. Last time it happened, the fate of peace talks and their mutual trust hang in the balance. This time, it's personal, first and foremost. Yet the weight of this choice feels equally monumental.
Fact. A lie by omission would be a safe, rational solution and lead them both to a neutral state of respectful allies. All he has to do is to finish his answer somewhere half-way. And yet, that damn speckle of mutual vulnerability, trust and attraction, irrational and uninvited, won't let him do it, making him admit out loud:
"But still find myself at a loss as to what to expect from… Leia."
Leia.
Likening her to the ancient goodness of Revenge or Justice from her home planet was a correct assumption back in a day, yet… the more he learns of her, the clearer it becomes: the analogy is solely lacking depth and nuance, a surface-level parallel that fails to capture the essence.
Leia.
Chaos personified. Unpredictable, yet irresistible. Abyss and temptation fused in one deceptively fragile woman.
"And that's the problem."
She finishes for him.
Beauty, attraction, desire – those are easy concepts, basic, come to think of them, predictable chemical reactions in cerebral cortex. Hence, he usually prefers to control a kiss, to decide when and how to engage, to keep the presence of mind, while body takes refuge in physical pleasure.
Lips meet lips.
He quickly learns that there is no controlling her, however, as she matches him beat by beat, his equal in each and every way. Their personal abyss becomes all too easy to slip into, their shared Chaos refusing to fade away, even as he figures out underlying patterns: it rises, gains strength, taking over both of them with the power of a Csilla snowstorm.
Pupils dilate, arteries constrict, heart rate ticks up and up in a frantic pattern.
Tentative, exploratory at first, the kiss inevitably spirals out of control. His embrace grows tight and, he has to admit even if to himself, a touch possessive, as his hands commit to memory the delicate curve of her neck, fragile and sharp lines of her tense shoulders, as if carved in ancient marble.
He feels it rather than sees it.
Goosebumps and heat racing down her shoulder-blades and along her backbone.
Without the cover of her cape, his fingertips unexpectedly come in contact with the delicate texture of her bare skin - maroon fabric of her suit turns out to be cut out in a particularly complicated pattern on her back. Impractical but most enticing, hidden in the plain sight as all things her.
Her fingers dig into his shoulders, as if she cannot get close enough, the echoes of her touch crawling under his skin, deeper and deeper still.
For a man so used to keeping the presence of rational mind in any circumstances, he comes dangerously close to slipping. And while it would definitely be the most pleasant conclusion of the evening, it's a short-sighted solution in the long term, given the circumstances.
Every person has hidden, private battles that only he or she has the power to solve. In the grand scheme of things, his choice is made, he has no intention of going back to the state before, but given her emotional state, she'll succumb to conflicting emotions and moral dilemmas, should they rush. He cannot allow to lose her as an ally because of that.
The moment they break for a breath, he has to say, for her sake as well as his.
"Strategically, we're somewhere between an error and a mistake. While I cannot find it in myself to care, I'd be remiss not to mention it."
A dry, throaty laugh is all he hears next, before she parries, "You're a master of stating the obvious."
So, they're on the same page. Question is, where do they go from there?
Before he can study new gleam in her eyes and fascinating color in her cheeks, she lowers her face taking refuge in their height difference, her breath now caressing a point somewhere in the middle of his chest. "I'm sure I will regret giving you a pretext for yet another lecture, but what's the difference?"
"Anyone can make an error. But that error doesn't become a mistake until you refuse to correct it."
"You know what they say about mistakes though," she says, dismissing his point with a small wave of her hand, and offering him the answer he needs. "It's the only way you ever learn."
For once, he's ready and willing to let an error turn into a mistake.
Though strategic risks of this new development are still blatantly obvious, they're… acceptable, not the highest on the list of risks he has ever taken, after all. Plus, he's always been an avid supporter of learning.
So, learn he will.
An intake of breath, heat rushing to her neck as he places a small kiss at the juncture of her shoulder and neck – to the place where only one flyway strand of her hair has been moving in tact with the pulse of his ship, caressing her bare neck in an endlessly enthralling motion, taunting him of a few days now.
He wants to follow the path further, draw this outline with his lips and tongue, to see what colors will flash on her skin, travelling down… but it's not the time. Not yet.
For now, community service is in order.
"But since the Alderaanian art is what got us into current predicament in the first place…"
He takes a step back and extends his hand to her. A tiny frown mars her forehead betraying slight confusion. Then, as his fingers reassuringly squeeze hers, it dissolves into mild amusement when he leads them both to the sofa.
The questis gets strategically moved to the side. Instead, Thrawn takes his own Imperial datapad and types in a familiar code, lowering the lights. Another code, and one by one, holo projections of statues and paintings cover the walls and domed ceiling, as his quarters turn into a softly lit art museum. He adjusts the contrast a bit, much dimmer than usual Human preference, but this deliberate misalignment is perfectly suited to his ultimate goal tonight. Should be twenty minutes, at most, given this visual ambience.
Curiosity sparkling in her brown eyes as she follows his move, clearly distracted from the projections by the modified datapad in his hands.
"I've added an extended command control of holo and audio projection systems. On a ship this size, it's quite useful."
"Meaning it can extend beyond your quarters?"
Leave to her to spot implications and an underlying pattern behind his slip of the tongue.
"As an emergency control protocol, yes."
Which took years while to establish, but he prefers not to dwell in the fact.
"And Luke calls me paranoid." She remarks dryly, tone teasing. "Although it's a sensible precaution, I'll give you that."
She leaves it at that, indeed, as her inquisitive gaze finally turns to floral ornaments adorning holographic Alderaanian artworks, then to projections of sculptures and paintings his team managed to find in the Imperial archives and a few illegal auctions.
"Information always matters. Bad information leads to bad tactics. Incomplete information leads to flawed strategy. So, that's as far as I got before our first meeting."
She casually folds her legs beneath her on the sofa, clearly listening to him with half the mind. Just like that first night, she's somewhere far away, in her private world of memories and shadows.
A work of art is not a living thing that walks or runs, yet it's the reflection of a life. That which gives you a reaction. To some it is the wonder of artist's fingers. To some it is the wonder of the mind. To some it is the wonder of technique. And to some it is how real it is. To some, how transcendent it is.
"But… information is not knowledge," he hands over the datapad to her, breaking her reverie. As their fingers touch over the cool surface, he adds. "I'd be honoured if you fill in the blanks."
Because regardless of the strategic implications and risks of their current mutual mistake, he yearns to go beyond simply dissecting patterns, and understand what they really mean to her, for what is remembered says a great deal about those doing the remembering.
She takes the datapad from his hands, selecting an image to zoom in front of them, and leans her head on his shoulder. His own hand cannot help tracing the outline of her arm in an imaginary replica of the projected pattern, as she starts speaking.
Knowingly or not, she defies his expectations again.
One hour, that's how long it takes before she falls asleep, somewhere between telling him about her penchant for candlewick flowers, depicted at one of the ornaments, and listening to his reflections on symmetry, verisimilitude, and devotional intent. Once her breath evens out, indicating she's finally moved from light to moderate sleep phase (she ends up breathing into his neck as her head rests on his shoulder – a perfect strategic position to count and track), Thrawn carefully disentangles himself and his command control datapad from her hands.
As he's about to leave, the elaborate cut-out fabric pattern on her back catches his eye. Still enticing and still impractical: she will get cold soon, given Chimaera's air at nighttime, and that will undermine the purpose of tricking her to get to sleep.
Thrawn takes off his uniform jacket, unclasps the rank plaque to avoid sharp corners digging in and waking her up, and covers her with it.
The first time was an accident.
The second can be ascribed to a coincidence…. Gaberwool was designed to protect from cold air of the Imperial spaceships, after all. It's nothing but putting his uniform to the intended use for the greater good of the Chimaera team, who will be spared one unpredictable short temper as a result.
The third will definitely indicate a pattern, should it occur.
He hopes it will.
Chiss do not need as much sleep as Humans do.
Hence, he comes back into his living room a few hours later and settles behind his desk, careful not to disturb the woman still sleeping on the sofa.
Once his command control datapad turns on again, Thrawn glances at the screen: as expected, Chimaera runs a smoothly as ever. He pushes the datapad to the side and rests his elbows down, his chin resting on steepled fingers.
So, let's see what we have for today.
They will need to test the coding system developed by Eli Vanto and Leia yesterday: a few encrypted messages will be dispatched over a ghostwave attached to transmissions within HoloNet advertisements. A small part of him finds it ironic that he's using a signature tactics of the Rebellion, but on the whole, he has no qualms about employing a sound solution, regardless of where it came from.
Then, General Skywalker will talk to Navigator Vah'nya. Needs less to say, Ar'alani is still suspicious of the idea, if her insistence for the conversation to take place on the Steadfast is any indication. Yet it's the only way to get more insight into this hidden power of the Grysks. A good strategist knows when to ask for help, and in his case General Skywalker' understanding and proficiency with the Force gives them an advantage that is too good to miss.
His mind moves to other elements of his plan, like re-establishing shipbuilding at Fondor and Kuat, both under his control now, before a familiar voice, bordering somewhere between moderately amused and outraged, breaks an orderly train of his thoughts:
"You should've woken me up!"
Somehow, even with his perfectly attuned hearing, she managed to sneak up to his desk. For once, given he's sitting in the chair, she's looking down at him, which offers a new angle to study her from, so he cannot complain.
Arms crossed over her chest, braids in a bit of disarray, small lines from the upholstery of the sofa imprinted on her cheek. Quite an interesting sight – a peculiar mixture of endearing and amusing.
Thrawn has enough sense of self-preservation not to mention the last part out loud, of course.
Her skin has almost returned to its healthy color, shadows under her eyes are gone, now replaced by mild panic.
"Perhaps."
"No no no, how come you don't understand? I cannot be seen leaving your quarters in the morning, not until I speak to…"
Ah, the Corellian complication, a tingle of irritation touches his mind at the memory.
"If you are willing to make a call or send the message, I can offer my comlink…"
If the gleam in her eyes is any indication, she doesn't appreciate the convenience of his offer.
"For a presumably intelligent man, you can be blatantly blind to social subtexts sometimes."
Barely a movement… and she presses a button on his datapad screen.
He should've noticed it but got distracted by the art of simultaneous contrast manifesting itself in the mixture of red and whites as she inched closer.
An emergency siren starts roaring through the room and through the ship. Knowing his own modifications to Chimaera, the volume of the alarm will be the highest bridge, attracting the crew there….
She's Chaos personified.
For a few seconds they don't move, even as the sirens gain strength. He pulls her closer, soaking in the warmth and softness that envelop him as she runs her hands in his hair, and whispers in her ear:
"If you wanted a cover, I could've found least disruptive ways."
"Trust you to think of it for the next time."
She presses her lips to his and slips out of his embrace, disappearing in the doorway a minute later.
Next time, indeed.
Although he believes that her wandering around in his jacket may undermine the purpose. Well, hopefully the chaoswill be too much for others to notice. Still, nothing beats a sensible precaution: he types in the code and closes off the corridor she's more likely to take to avoid anyone else running into her.
Saved by the bell, figuratively and literally.
A few hours later, once the false alarm dies down and both of them can claim complete ignorance of what caused it, they all proceed with the day and prepare to board the Steadfast.
It's his deeply held belief that there is no such thing as a perfect plan. Ingenious, masterful, inspired, reckless, or desperate – yes, but never perfect. There are always contingencies, things that can be improved, developed, multiple alternative directions a plan can take. Still, he has to admit even to himself, that of all contingencies, he would have never thought of this one, as a mechanical voice of the golden interpreter droid suddenly exclaims:
"Mistress Leia, before we leave, would you prefer to keep Grand Admiral Thrawn's jacket or should I return it to him, like the last time?"
Judging by the way Eli Vanto and Gilad Pellaeon choke on air, Jedi Skywalker tightens his grip on the lightsaber on his belt, while Leia is clearly contemplating blowing up her droid to pieces, at least one being on the ship is even more oblivious to finer aspects of social subtexts than he is.
At least Ar'alani is not catching up, given that droid spoke in Basic. Two minutes later he sees Eli Vanto whispering something in her ear, and judging by her raised eyebrows, he has just translated the said question.
Well. Unfortunate.
Author's note.
Fell behind on posting here, apologies, we will catch up soon.
Small tributes to Chuck Palahniuk's deliberations on patterns and Louis Kahn's words about art; redemption arc for the first date in the museum, and Threepio being the disaster child of the galaxy… quite a chaotic mix, I'll say. Sorry not sorry ;)