Chapter 3. Echoes of the Past
The woman in front of him is a puzzle, a mix of contradictions and patterns that do not match up quite as they should. Her diminutive silhouette in a white dress seems fragile against magnificent, enormous floor-to-ceiling painting.
Intricate patterns of green weaving into a valley beneathAppenza Peak,each piece of moss mimicking a brushstroke, thoughtful, soft, subtle, precise. They balance the whole but make the light have the necessary power. Indicating an inclination for planning, calculation and covert ploys, masked under outer serenity.
There is a particular dichotomy, though, a deception in this illusion of fragility. In ancient myths of her home planet, Revenge or Justice (from what he is learning, the words were the same Old Alderaanian, so the irony is not lost on him) would take a form of a woman descending from the mountains. Traditional white, draped in the cut and layering favoured by the royal family, only adds to the parallel, Thrawn has no doubt the choice is intentional, and the Senator will be cloaking herself in her own form of mourning for the next two weeks, while the talks are taking place.
Eyes narrowed, shoulders tense, blaster leveled at him from barely a meter away. Resolve and absolute conviction written in a tight set of her jaw and a firm grip of her hand on the weapon, that of a warrior, not a politician.
Deceptively fragile, indeed, also strangely familiar - this stance, this pose, small stature and delicate face - yet the memory evades him, he wonders if middle age is finally catching up, and his mind is slowing down. The prospect is momentarily noted, raised to a sufficient alarm level, and followed by a prompt logical decision to add one more hour of training to his physical and mental exercise routine. He cannot allow to leave even a shadow of a possibility, not when the stakes are so high.
"How dare you?"
Heat rising to her neck and cheeks, breath halting, a warning, perhaps, anger shimmering somewhere deep inside.
Humans are emotional, as a general rule, prone to impulsive decisions. Yet what he sees in front of him is more than just a temper. There is a strangely familiar fire shimmering somewhere deep inside, carefully veiled, hidden under a thick layer of the Alderaani royal upbringing. Yet, once you glimpse what's hidden beneath the surface, you can't unsee it.
"Pentimento.The word originally meant to repent or change your mind. A technique usually allows an artist to hide a change of mind, should it occur, covering an original design beneath subsequent paint layers."
A surprising correction, clearly slipping from her lips before she can stop herself, indicating a deeply ingrained knowledge that she does get to use that often, and a pensive tone thereafter, perhaps, showing that she is taking time to reflect on the twisted irony.
This remark, coupled with a glaring contradiction of patterns, is intriguing, mostly because it makes her difficult to predict, at least for the time being.
He makes a mental note to review cultural downloads on Alderaan once more, this time side by side with outtakes on Chandrila – people tend to be influenced by their mentors, especially once other authority figures are lost, so makes sense to examine Chancellor Mon Mothma's background one more time. For all flamboyance and illusion of collegiality in the New Republic, there is a driving force behind it, however they try to deny the fact.
A mentor and an apprentice, what an irony and what a carefully staged contrast.
The Emperor and Lord Vader, epitomes of strength, authority and danger to everyone in the vicinity, inextricably liked to traditional black and dark colors in the memory of billions. The two women leading the Rebel Alliance, carefully, invariably choosing white for all broadcasts and posters, symbols of resistance, hope and resolve. On face value, a tribe to their home worlds, yet this consistency is, perhaps, indicative of a hidden reason. For all attempts of the Republic and the Empire to spread Basic, most creatures in the galaxy are visual, they understand a clear contrast where words fail to resonate. When looking for a lowest common denominator, people tend to come to basic solutions, pun intended. Incidentally, it's still a flawed choice, for meanings of black and white tend to be opposite in different cultures, take Tatooine for example… but nothing can be perfect in a galaxy as wide as this one.
"I'd call it a strategic alliance, from my experience, they are, indeed, as enlightening as they are mutually beneficial."
"We'll see about that, Grand Admiral."
Shoulders relaxing, pulse coming back to normal, stance no longer rigid, as she puts the blaster back in a holster. Her voice holds a hint of sarcasm and a fair load of scepticism, so while she no longer wants to kill him on the spot, she does not trust him and, clearly, takes his words in jest.
For now.
To succeed, he needs allies on the other side. Simply crushing the New Republic, reinstating the rule of the Empire, would be an easy, obvious solution and rather humanly short-term at that.
A tingle of annoyance touches his mind. Thrawn has to admit, at least to himself, he almost fell into this trap. Years in close proximity – while, indeed, enlightening, even rewarding, thanks to a couple of close friendships - might be rubbing off him. If not for an unexpected gift and reminder he received from a long-gone ally half a year ago, he would have taken an easy path, possibly endangering his ultimate mission.
A complete and utter defeat of the New Republic would, most likely, open the door to yet another civil war within a couple of years, especially taking into account the shortcomings of surviving Imperial Moffs, politicians and most of the military. The knowledge that they tolerate, but still do not trust him, arrogantly believing human race superior, is not new, and it leaves him indifferent at best, well, perhaps, slightly frustrated at the inconvenience. He has never been good at politics, but he can clearly see a pattern where one exists. Left unchallenged, they are bound to turn on each other, driven by factional interests, power ploys and greed. Hence, he needs a counterbalance, embodied by a relatively functioning Republic, and a semblance of peace, at least until the invasion comes. Then… well, nothing tends to solve old grudges quicker than a common enemy.
All that matters is choosing a right ally on the other side, someone who will trust him.
The Chancellor.
The Symbol.
The Hero.
Thrawn needs at least one, ideally two, to follow his lead. The request (intentionally turned into an ultimatum when delivered to emissaries in Captain Pellaeon's matter-of-fact tone), to host both delegations in the palace, granted him at least two weeks to study the first two in close proximity. The third one may well make an appearance, once given a proper reason, of course.
As Senator Organa takes her leave, Thrawn keeps looking at the landscape, trying to see a hint that may help solve this puzzle of a woman. Yet, ten minutes in, he has to admit that there is not much more to learn from the piece of art, so an answer may be hiding somewhere else. Still it would be wise to wait for at least 20 minutes before exiting the hall - accidental meetings can be misinterpreted in too many ways, and he does not need a complication of idle gossip.
Just as he nears the door, Rukh, who has been watching from the distance, rumbles:
"Impossible, but I can still sense Lord Vader in these halls."
Impossible indeed, most likely a figment of an overactive imagination. While Norgi are more sensitive to it than other species, no smell could have lingered for years, not with completely new climate control systems that wiped out and repiped the air within the palace a few months ago, leaving no molecule behind. To Thrawn's knowledge, based on Jedi and Sith legends, remnants of Force signatures could be a possibility, but Rukh is not force sensitive.
One more pentimento example: centuries of serving as the Jedi Temple painted over by decades as the residence of the Sith. There is something to say about almost hereditary quality to…
He suddenly halts mid-step, then keeps walking with renewed purpose, mind working in hyperdrive.
Smell does not linger in an empty space that long.
Bloodlines, however, tend to linger in a carrier…
There it was. That elusive memory that has been taunting him all night, brushing the corners of his mind but never staying long enough to catch it.
The Separatists factory at Mokivj.
In front of him, Anakin Skywalker is opening the door only to be faced with a blaster leveled at him from barely a meter away. Diminutive, deceptively fragile stature of a woman, delicate face, small hand holding the weapon with familiarity of a warrior rather than an Ambassador.
"Ani!" Relief in her voice, eyes growing wide, lips parting in a smile after a moment of mutual recognition. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine", she starts moving forward, her arms opening perhaps for a hug…
"This is Thrawn," General Skywalker introduces him, twitching a hand in warning.
Then, it all falls into place.
Sometimes, an answer hidden in the plain sight, indeed.
Now, whether, when and how to reveal this answer, is another matter altogether.