SENIOR CAPTAIN THRAWN | Mitth’raw’nuruodo — Trial-born

ADMIRAL AR’ALANI

THALIAS | Mitth’ali’astov — Trial-born

PATRIARCH THURFIAN | Mitth’urf’ianico — blood

MID CAPTAIN SAMAKRO | Ufsa’mak’ro — merit adoptive

SENIOR CAPTAIN ZIINDA | Irizi’in’daro — Trial-born

SUPREME GENERAL BA’KIF

CHE’RI — sky-walker

THE MAGYS

UFSA

IRIZI

DASKLO

CLARR

CHAF

PLIKH

BOADIL

MITTH

OBBIC

For thousands of years, it has been an island of calm within the Chaos. It is a center of power, a model of stability, and a beacon of integrity. The Nine Ruling Families guard it from within; the Expansionary Defense Fleet guards it from without. Its neighbors are left in peace, its enemies are left in ruin. It is light and culture and glory.

“Prepare for breakout.” Senior Captain Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s voice echoed across the Springhawk’s bridge. “All officers and warriors stand prepared. We’re not here to start trouble, but I intend to be ready for it.”

First Officer Mid Captain Ufsa’mak’ro scowled to himself. Of course Senior Captain Thrawn didn’t plan to start trouble. He never did. Yet somehow trouble always seemed to happen.

If that pattern was determined to continue, it couldn’t have picked a better spot for it.

Bad enough that Zyzek was an alien system. Worse that Chiss records had nothing about it beyond its location and that it was a trading center for several of the small nations to the east and southeast of the Chiss Ascendancy. Even worse that Thrawn believed this to be the system where Captain Fsir and his fellow Watith had been recruited to launch their ambush attack on his ship.

Worst of all that no one else knew the Springhawk was here.

They should have gone straight back to the Ascendancy. They should have left the planet Hoxim and the skirmish Samakro had privately dubbed the Battle of the Three Families and headed back to Csilla for repairs, debriefing, and what was likely to be a memorable job of sweeping the whole mess out the door. All the other Chiss warships, the ones crewed exclusively by members of the Xodlak, Erighal, and Pommrio families, had done exactly that, making the slow jump-by-jump back home while their commanders no doubt struggled to write all this up in their logs.

But not the Springhawk. The hours Thrawn had spent studying the Watith freighter before its destruction had somehow convinced him that Zyzek was where Fsir had come from. From there, it was only a small leap of tactical logic to swinging by that system on their way home and taking a look.

Samakro understood the strategy. On one level, he even agreed with it. The Springhawk had Sky-walker Che’ri to speed it on its way through the twisting hyperspace pathways of the Chaos, while any observer who’d been lurking around to report on the battle would have some lesser navigator or none at all. The fact that Thrawn could get to Zyzek ahead of that news could be a major advantage in information gathering.

But that was one small plus, and it was piled on top of a whole stack of minuses.

“Breakout: Three, two, one.”

The star-flares collapsed into stars, and the Springhawk had arrived.

“Full scan,” Thrawn ordered. “Pay special attention to the ships in the various orbits. I’ll want as complete a catalog of ship types as possible, along with where in the orbital stack they are.”

“Yes, Senior Captain,” Mid Commander Elod’al’vumic acknowledged from the sensor station.

“Kharill, assist her with the cataloging,” Thrawn added.

“Yes, sir.” The voice of Senior Commander Plikh’ar’illmorf came over the speaker from secondary command. “Dalvu, mark which sectors you want us to handle from here.”

“Yes, Senior Commander,” Dalvu said. “Marking them now.”

“Watch for movement, either inward as an attempt to hide from us or outward in an attempt to flee,” Thrawn said. “We’re here to see if we can create a reaction.” He nodded toward the helm. “Azmordi, start moving us inward. Sky-walker Che’ri, stand ready in case we need to leave quickly.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Tumaz’mor’diamir said from the helm.

“Yes, Senior Captain,” Sky-walker Che’ri’s caregiver Mitth’ali’astov echoed.

Samakro let his eyes sweep slowly across the bridge. Dalvu, Kharill, Azmordi. Officers he’d served with a long time, dating back to when he’d commanded the Springhawk and continuing through Thrawn’s current tenure as captain. He knew them and their abilities and trusted them with his life.

Thalias, on the other hand …

He focused on the caregiver as she turned back to the viewport, her hand resting reassuringly on Che’ri’s shoulder. Thalias was still far too much of a mystery to him, with uncertainties and doubts swirling around her.

Worse, from Samakro’s point of view, she carried the stench of family politics. Syndic Mitth’urf’ianico had done some fancy maneuvering in order to get her aboard the Springhawk, and Samakro still didn’t know what Thurfian’s game was.

But he would find out. He’d already planted the seeds, feeding Thalias a story and conspiracy theory that painted Thrawn in a bad light, a story he knew she would eventually spill to Thurfian or possibly to someone else. When she did—when she betrayed that confidence—he would finally have proof that she was a spy sent to destroy or at least damage the Springhawk’s commander. Then, maybe, he’d be able to convince Thrawn to get her off his ship.

Until then, all Samakro could do was watch her and guard as best he could against any mischief she might make.

We’re here to create a reaction. Unfortunately, Samakro had seen the kind of reaction Thrawn’s unexpected appearances tended to spark. Especially in potentially hostile territory and moving among large numbers of probably unfriendly ships.

But Thrawn was the Springhawk’s commander, and he’d given an order. Samakro’s job was to do everything in his power to carry it out.

And if part of his duty was to defend his ship to the death … well, he was prepared to do that, too.

The Vigilant was three minutes from its destination, and Admiral Ar’alani was starting to wonder if her ship would be ready when they arrived when Senior Captain Kiwu’tro’owmis finally returned to the bridge. “Sorry about the delay, Admiral,” Wutroow said as she crossed to Ar’alani’s command chair. “Breacher One really didn’t want to be fixed. But we persuaded it.”

Ar’alani looked over at the weapons status board. The number one breacher missile launcher still showed red … flicked to green. “Excellent,” she told Wutroow. “Be sure to log a commendation to the repair team. It’s never a good idea to head into a situation with one hand stuck in your pocket.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wutroow said. “Though if I may, I’m still not entirely clear as to what you’re expecting the situation to be.”

“Because I’m not entirely clear about it myself,” Ar’alani confessed. “It’s just something about that last Nikardun base that still bothers me.”

“Which part?” Wutroow asked. “The lead time the attackers needed to set up that slow-approach asteroid attack? Or the fact that the base was too big to have been a listening post or anything else on Yiv’s lists?”

“Both, plus something else I can’t put my finger on,” Ar’alani said. “I’m hoping I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

“Let’s also hope the Council won’t be annoyed with us for taking this little side trip,” Wutroow warned. “We’re already way beyond the time limit Ba’kif gave us for checking out Sunrise. Even Thrawn’s already made it back from his pirate search, and you know how long he takes when he’s on the hunt. And we still don’t know why our friends with the Battle Dreadnought are so interested in this place.”

“It has to have something to do with the mining operation Senior Warrior Yopring spotted,” Ar’alani said. “The amount of activity down there already tells us something big is happening. Add in the fighters who chased him away, and I’d say we’ve got it pinpointed.”

“Unless we’ve got two different groups in play,” Wutroow pointed out. “The miners and the Battle Dreadnought could be fighting each other. But I suppose that’s unlikely. My main concern is that even if we agree that the mines are the focal point, we don’t know what’s down there.”

“Mines usually mean metal ore of some sort.”

“Right, but digging doesn’t always mean mining,” Wutroow said. “It could also be something the inhabitants deliberately buried that someone else wants to dig up.”

Ar’alani frowned. That possibility hadn’t occurred to her. “You mean like some weapon or artifact?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” Wutroow said. “It’s not like we haven’t run into things like that before. Senior Captain Thrawn, for one, has almost made a second career of digging them up.”

“Though not literally digging them up,” Ar’alani pointed out. “Usually they’ve been sitting out in the open ready to be walked off with.”

“Maybe we’ll get to pick up this one,” Wutroow said with a wry smile. “Maybe you can work a deal with Thrawn. He gets the stuff that’s aboveground, you get the stuff you have to dig for.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that up next time I see him,” Ar’alani promised, looking at the chrono. Almost there. “Prepare for breakout,” she called, raising her voice so that the entire bridge could hear her. “And be ready.” She gestured an invitation to Wutroow. “Senior Captain?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wutroow paused, watching the timer. “Breakout,” she called. “Three, two, one.”

The star-flares collapsed to stars; and as it had once before, the Vigilant found itself floating among the scattered debris of the demolished Nikardun base.

“Biclian?” Wutroow prompted.

“Yes, ma’am,” Senior Commander Obbic’lia’nuf called from the sensor station. “Combat range clear. Mid-range clear. Far range … Admiral, we have movement: three ships close-in to the central base structure.”

“Any identification?” Ar’alani asked, frowning at the tactical. Two of the ships were relatively small, while the third was much larger with the typical shape of a freighter.

“No beacons,” Junior Captain Evroes’ky’mormi reported from the weapons station. “The large ship shows no weapons emplacements. Probably a freighter; possibly a mobile repair dock.”

“I’d say the latter, Admiral,” Biclian said. “There are some spots along the ventral plane that look like mounting nodes. The two smaller ships … definitely warships. Patrol ships at least; possibly destroyers.”

Ar’alani scowled. Under normal circumstances, a Nightdragon man-of-war like the Vigilant could defeat a pair of patrol ships practically in its sleep.

Unfortunately, the situation here wasn’t normal. The Vigilant and Senior Captain Lakinda’s Grayshrike had taken on that unidentified Battle Dreadnought over Sunrise, and even with Lakinda handing over all her remaining breacher missiles and plasma sphere fluid before she headed back to the Ascendancy, Ar’alani was still severely underarmed.

Up to now the Vigilant had been lucky. Ar’alani’s investigation of the devastated planet had reached her chosen end point without drawing enemy attention or interference. But that luck might be about to run out. “Any idea if they’ve spotted us?” she asked.

“No indication of it,” Biclian said. “They seem to be concentrating on whatever they’re doing at the base.”

“Admiral, we have activity,” Junior Commander Stybla’rsi’omli spoke up urgently from the comm station. “Tight-beam laser transmission; we’re just catching the edge of it.”

“Uh-oh,” Wutroow muttered.

Ar’alani nodded, wincing. For Larsiom to be picking up the edge of a laser transmission, the intended recipient must be almost directly behind them. “Full barriers,” she ordered. “Octrimo, yaw ninety degrees starboard.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mid Commander Droc’tri’morhs confirmed from the helm. The electrostatic barriers came up, and the collection of debris outside the viewport spun sideways as the Vigilant rotated—

“Incoming!” Oeskym snapped, his warning punctuated by a blaze of light as the Vigilant’s spectrum lasers flashed out at the pair of missiles streaking toward them. “Patrol cruiser—mark it as Bogey One—coming in fast from behind us.”

“Defensive fire; lasers only,” Ar’alani ordered, looking at the tactical. The Vigilant could run its lasers indefinitely, but had only six breacher missiles and enough fluid for twenty plasma spheres. That wasn’t nearly enough to go toe-to-toe with a patrol cruiser and a pair of patrol ships.

Which just meant she would have to get creative.

“Oeskym, have the thrusters in Breachers One and Two disabled,” she told the weapons officer. “As quickly as possible. Let me know when they’re ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Oeskym said, frowning at his board but knowing better than to question his commander in the middle of a battle. “Techs are on it.”

“Remind them that neatness doesn’t count,” Ar’alani said. “Octrimo, some mild evasive maneuvers—keep us clear of their missiles, but don’t move us out of this general area. Biclian?”

“Patrol ships have been alerted, Admiral,” the sensor officer reported. “Designating as Bogeys Two and Three. Still hugging the base, but they’re turning weapons toward us.”

“Let me know if they start moving.” On the tactical, Bogey One was accelerating toward them and had now launched another pair of missiles. At this range the Vigilant’s lasers had enough time to take them out, but if the attacker got close enough that window would close and Ar’alani would be forced to use her limited supply of breachers or plasma spheres to protect her ship. “Oeskym?”

“Almost there,” Oeskym said. “Techs report … yes. Thrusters disabled, Admiral.”

Finally. “Drop them out of their tubes,” she told him, giving the tactical another look. “Octrimo, as soon as they’re clear of the hull, get us moving toward the base and Bogeys Two and Three. Again, minor evasive, but don’t stray far from the direct vector.”

“And stand by aft lasers,” Wutroow added as the Vigilant turned away from the incoming patrol cruiser and started accelerating toward the wrecked base.

“Understood,” Oeskym said. “Timing, Admiral?”

“Use your best judgment,” Ar’alani told him. “Octrimo, keep an eye on Bogey One. Make sure we’re leading it in the right direction.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bogeys Two and Three are on the move,” Biclian warned. “Leaving the repair dock now and heading toward us.”

“Probably trying to box us in,” Wutroow said.

“Probably,” Ar’alani agreed. “Oeskym?”

“Thirty seconds to optimal positioning,” the weapons officer said. “Octrimo, tweak us about five degrees starboard.”

“Five degrees starboard, acknowledged,” Octrimo said, and once again the outside view shifted.

“Bogeys Two and Three opening fire,” Biclian announced. “Don’t know why—they’re way out of range.”

“Probably trying to distract us or slow us down,” Octrimo said. “We’re starting to pull a little ahead of Bogey One.”

“Slow down to match,” Ar’alani ordered. “We don’t want to lose him—”

“Bogey One pitching negative,” Oeskym snapped. “It’s angling out of line with the breachers.”

“They must have spotted them,” Wutroow bit out. “Get a tractor on it—bring it back up onto vector.”

“Belay that,” Ar’alani said, keying the tactical to her chair’s repeater display. Oeskym and Wutroow would be running the numbers, but it was already clear to her that at the patrol cruiser’s current distance it was too massive for the Vigilant’s tractor beams to have any effect.

But a little farther away and just past the cruiser was a small meteoroid …

“Tractor on this instead,” she said, marking the chunk of rock and sending the target data to the weapons station. “Full power—try to draw it up into the cruiser’s ventral bow area.”

“Got it,” Oeskym said, busying himself with his board.

Ar’alani turned to the tactical. The tractor beam caught the meteoroid, yanking it out of its lazy tumble and sending it arrowing toward the patrol cruiser. If they spotted the sudden new threat, and if they responded as reflexively as Ar’alani hoped—

“Bogey One pitching back positive,” Biclian reported. “Dodging the meteoroid; heading back toward the breachers.”

Not exactly toward them, Ar’alani saw. But close enough. “Fire at the breachers,” she ordered.

Once again, there was a stuttering of light as the aft lasers blazed, this time targeting not the attacking ship but the breachers. The missiles disintegrated, sending their payloads bursting out into an expanding cloud of acid.

The patrol cruiser had almost instantly recognized its mistake and was again pitching to try to evade the attack. But its momentum was working against it, the acid was spreading outward too rapidly, and before the warship could get clear the edge of the cloud swept over its portside flank.

And as the acid burned into the hull, destroying sensor nodes and missile targeting systems and digging blackened pits into the metal, the Vigilant’s lasers once again opened fire, blazing into the ragged surface and digging even deeper through the hull.

Fifteen seconds into the barrage, the Vigilant’s laserfire burned away enough of the hull to reach the patrol cruiser’s remaining missiles, and the warship disintegrated in a violent explosion.

“Full acceleration,” Ar’alani ordered. “And keep scanning. If there’s anything else out there, I want to know before it starts shooting at us.”

Wutroow stepped closer to the command chair as the Vigilant leapt forward toward the wrecked base and the remaining three ships. “Nicely done, Admiral,” she said quietly. “I’ll just point out what the number-squinters on Csilla will probably say: that we could have cut and run and saved the Ascendancy a couple of breachers.”

“What, run away from a patrol cruiser and a couple of patrol ships?” Ar’alani scoffed. “We’d never have heard the end of it.”

Wutroow shrugged. “There’s that, of course.”

“More important, we’d have lost the chance to see what they’re doing over there,” Ar’alani continued, nodding toward the distant station.

“Unless … no,” Wutroow said. “I was thinking an in-system jump, but it would have been dangerous with all the wreckage floating around. So what are they doing?”

“That’s what I want to find out,” Ar’alani said, studying the tactical. Bogeys Two and Three were still coming toward the Vigilant, still firing useless laser blasts. But they were moving almost leisurely, as if not wanting to bring things to a head any sooner than they had to. Meanwhile, the repair dock was still floating close beside the wrecked station.

Were they getting their people out? Or were they—?

And suddenly Ar’alani understood.

They weren’t getting anything out. They were putting something in.

“Spheres—target the station,” she snapped. “Saturation volley, and keep going until we’re dry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Oeskym said.

“Admiral?” Wutroow asked quietly as the launchers began spitting plasma spheres toward the distant station. “The station, not the patrol ships?”

“Yes,” Ar’alani said. “All that laserfire is their way of hiding what the people from the repair dock are doing at the station.”

“Which is?”

“I think they’re planning to destroy it,” Ar’alani said grimly. “Not just wreck it, like the original attack did, but completely disintegrate it.”

“Interesting,” Wutroow muttered. “Must be something in there they really don’t want us to see. Though I’d have sworn we checked out the place pretty thoroughly our last time through.”

“Maybe something new has been added,” Ar’alani said. “I’m hoping we can hit and scramble whatever self-destruct devices they’ve put in before they detonate.”

“Well, if we can’t, it won’t be through lack of effort,” Wutroow said, nodding at the stream of plasma spheres still racing away from the Vigilant. “You sure you don’t want to keep a few back in case they decide to make a real fight of it?”

“They won’t,” Ar’alani said. “As soon as the sabotage is finished, they’ll all be out of—and there they go,” she interrupted herself as the two patrol ships veered off in opposite directions, angling away from the Vigilant. Behind them, the repair dock was now turning and driving away from the station.

“Orders, Admiral?” Oeskym asked from the weapons station.

Ar’alani checked the displays. The Vigilant had covered a lot of distance toward the station in the past few minutes, but they were still too far for a decent shot. But it wouldn’t hurt to try. “See what you can do with the repair dock,” she said. “Lasers only—keep the spheres saturating the station.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Oeskym said, and a triple blast of concentrated laserfire joined the stream of plasma spheres.

Ar’alani considered Oeskym one of the best weapons officers in the Expansionary Defense Fleet, and he did his best. Even at their marginal range, he managed to get three clean hits on the repair dock as it moved clear of the station.

But they were too far out for any significant damage. A minute later, the dock and both patrol ships escaped into hyperspace.

“Sorry, Admiral,” Oeskym apologized as the laserfire ceased.

“Not your fault,” Ar’alani assured him as the plasma sphere launchers also went silent. “The priority now is to get to the station and dismantle or destroy whatever bomb or bombs they put aboard before they can wake up. Wutroow, get two shuttles prepped and loaded.”

“On it, Admiral,” Wutroow said, punching orders into her questis. “Don’t worry, we’ll get there in time.”

Ar’alani looked out the viewport. And if they didn’t, she reminded herself soberly, everyone aboard those shuttles would probably die.

She could only hope that whatever secret was lurking inside that battered hull was worth the risk.

Of all the duties foisted on low-ranking family members, Aristocra Mitth’ras’safis had often heard, the task of welcoming new merit adoptives to their formal rematching dinner was one of the worst. The newcomers were either highly skilled additions to the Mitth, in which case they tended to have an overblown opinion of themselves and their value; or they were freshly initiated into the Ascendancy military, in which case they were self-conscious and, well, extremely military. Nearly all of the blood, cousins, and ranking distants opted out of reception duty, leaving most of the burden to fall on Trial-borns and other merit adoptives, none of whom had enough pull to avoid it.

Which made Thrass a definite anomaly … because unlike practically everyone else in his circle of friends, he genuinely enjoyed the service.

Of course, he’d only been doing it for the past three years, and in that time he’d only welcomed eleven merit adoptives. Maybe after a couple more years the excitement of meeting and evaluating new people would fade and he would become as cynical and world-weary as everyone else.

But he doubted it. Every one of these people had been approved by the Patriarch’s Office, a fair percentage of them by the Patriarch himself, and Thrass liked to see if he could figure out what made each of them special in the family’s eyes.

This one, for example. The young man freshly renamed Mitth’raw’nuru was standing inside the reception room, looking around the walls at the Avidich landscape paintings and the corner statuettes representing or created by some of the ancient Mitth Patriarchs. To Thrass’s eye he looked just a bit lost, a fairly common reaction from someone who’d been rematched from a nondescript family on a minor world into one of the greatest of the Ascendancy’s Nine Ruling Families. Thrawn was wearing the uniform of a Taharim Academy cadet, which meant he’d been taken from his home directly to Naporar and then been brought here to Avidich for his welcome and orientation.

Thrass frowned. For new warriors it usually went the other way around, first to Avidich and then to Naporor. Apparently, someone in the family had wanted him signed into the Expansionary Defense Fleet as quickly as possible, before even his formal welcoming.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t look as intimidated in the heat of battle as he did in a grand Ruling Family reception room. The one common attribute of Ascendancy military types was their outward confidence.

The younger man turned as Thrass walked in through the archway. “Cadet Mitth’raw’nuru?” Thrass asked formally.

“I am he,” Thrawn said.

“Welcome to Avidich,” Thrass said. “I’m Aristocra Mitth’ras’safis. I’ll be guiding you through the various protocols that will fully and officially rematch you to the Mitth family.” He waved a hand to encompass the room. “And try not to be overwhelmed by all the fancy flourishes and curlicues. This reception room is also where dignitaries and emissaries from other families are brought in, and we like to make sure right from the start that they know who they’re dealing with.”

“I wasn’t intimidated,” Thrawn said mildly. “I was merely noting the unusual fact that the same artist who did three of the landscapes also created two of the statuettes. It’s uncommon for a single artist to excel at both artistic forms.”

Thrass looked around. He’d been in this room dozens of times, and had twice visited the Csilla homestead’s collection of official family art, and as far as he could remember none of them had visible signatures or other identifiers.

In fact, that was the whole point of these displays. These were Mitth artworks, to be seen as coming not from individuals but from the family as a whole.

So how did Thrawn know which pieces had been done by which artist? “Which ones?” Thrass asked. “Show me.”

“Those three landscapes,” Thrawn said, pointing. “And those statuettes.” He indicated a pair in one of the corners.

Thrass stepped over for a closer look. Just as he’d remembered, there was nothing to indicate the artist on any of them. “What makes you think they’re by the same person?”

Thrawn’s forehead furrowed in a frown. “They just are,” he said, sounding a little confused. “The lines, the color, the material mix. It’s …” His lips compressed briefly.

“Obvious?” Thrass suggested.

Thrawn looked like he was going to agree, then seemed to think better of it. “It’s difficult to explain,” he said instead.

“Well, let’s find out,” Thrass said, pulling out his questis. The artwork here might not be labeled, but the specific artists were surely listed in the archives. “Anything else you can tell me about them?” he added as he started the search. “The artist’s height or favorite foods, maybe?”

“No, neither,” Thrawn admitted. If he’d noticed Thrass’s little joke, he didn’t show it. “But I believe a personal or family tragedy may have occurred between the creation of these two.” He pointed to two of the landscapes, one showing a churning ocean tidepool, the other with a snowcapped mountain jutting into the sky. “Actually, the tragedy may predate all of the pieces except the one with the tidepool. I also have the sense that the artist was a woman, but that’s just an impression, not a solid conclusion.”

“Why that impression?” Thrass asked, peering at his questis. There was the listing. Now to sort through and tag the five pieces Thrawn had specified.

“It’s something about the line and edging,” Thrawn said. “But as I say, I don’t claim that’s necessarily accurate.”

“I understand,” Thrass said, suppressing a smile. Though of course an assertion like that did give him a fifty–fifty chance.

His hidden smile became a hidden grimace. Earlier, he’d told himself he would never get cynical about meeting newcomers to the family. Was he breaking that promise already? The listing came up …

He stared at the questis. No. It wasn’t possible.

“Is there trouble?” Thrawn asked.

Thrass threw a hooded look at him. No—there was no way the cadet could have simply looked at the works and come to those conclusions. He must have dug into the archives himself in advance.

Except that there were hundreds of thousands of Mitth family artworks, and they were rotated frequently among the various family holdings and official offices. The odds that these particular ones would be on display in this particular reception room at this particular time were practically nonexistent.

He took a careful breath. “You’re right,” he said, forcing his voice to stay calm. A Mitth cousin had no business reacting in even moderate awe to a freshly chosen merit adoptive. “All five were created by the legendary Twelfth Patriarch, Mitth’omo’rossodo, sometimes called the Tragic. All four of her sons died in battle—” He pulled up her bio and did a quick comparison of the dates. “—three months after the tidepool piece.”

“All four,” Thrawn murmured, looking again at the landscape. “A terrible loss indeed.”

“According to the archives, she was determined not to let it influence her rule,” Thrass continued. “But that mountain landscape was the last piece she ever did. Or at least, the last surviving one.”

“I can understand that,” Thrawn said. “An artist of such skill and self-awareness might well have seen how the scars of memory had affected her inspiration and resolved to put her artwork aside until she could regain her former tranquility.”

Thrass winced. “Only she never did,” he murmured.

“No,” Thrawn said softly. “Some losses run too deep to ever fully heal.”

Thrass studied his face, noting the fresh tension lines in his cheeks and throat. “You sound like you’ve had experience.”

Thrawn shrugged slightly. “No more than many others in the Ascendancy have suffered,” he said, the tension lines smoothing out.

Though it took a conscious effort, Thrass saw. Whatever pain was lurking behind those eyes, it wasn’t going away anytime soon.

But that sort of ache wasn’t for public display. It certainly wasn’t for a new acquaintance to casually poke at. If life had taught Thrass anything, it was to respect others’ privacy. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Perhaps a discussion for another day. Let me show you to your room. Dinner’s in three hours, and you may want to practice your part of the ceremony.”

A week ago, Mitth’urf’ianico mused, when he’d been merely Syndic Prime Thurfian, he’d been accustomed to rising every morning at six. Now, as Patriarch Thurfian, the most powerful person in the Mitth family, his workday was beginning a full two hours earlier.

“It will get easier, Your Venerante,” Senior Aide Mitth’iv’iklo assured him as he sent yet another stack of files to Thurfian’s questis. “I remember Patriarch Thooraki getting up every day at four o’clock when he first became head of the family. But after a couple of years he was able to sleep in until five-thirty.”

“Really,” Thurfian said, eyeing him. Thivik had been with the Patriarch’s Office a long time, but he didn’t look that old. “I didn’t know you were with him that early in his administration.”

“Oh, I wasn’t with the Patriarch directly,” Thivik said. “I was merely an aide to one of his officials. But we all talked together.”

“Of course,” Thurfian said, briefly wondering what the officials, aides, and assistants were saying about their newest superior.

Nothing very complimentary, he suspected. Patriarch Thooraki had been a strong and effective leader, well liked by his staff and most of the senior Mitth officials. He’d cast a long, wide shadow across both the family and the Ascendancy, and it would be a long time before Thurfian or anyone else would even come close to filling that shadow.

Maybe that was one reason why the Speaker and Patriels had all turned down the position and instead nominated Thurfian for it. He could only hope it wasn’t their only reason.

“Your nine o’clock appointment has also arrived,” Thivik continued. “He’s waiting in the main anteroom.”

“Thank you,” Thurfian said, frowning at him. The words had been perfectly proper, but there’d been just a hint of a disapproving tone beneath them. “Is there a problem?”

“Of course not, Your Venerante,” Thivik assured him. “You’re the Patriarch. You may meet with whomever you wish.”

“Only why am I meeting with an Irizi syndic?” Thurfian prompted.

Thivik hesitated. “You may meet with whomever you wish,” he repeated, this time with clear reluctance. “It merely seems to me that you send a strange message by seeing one of our adversaries before you’ve even met with all of our own Patriels and Councilors.”

“An interesting point,” Thurfian agreed. “Did it occur to you that I might want to send a strange message? That I might want to signal to the Irizi and the Ascendancy in general that we may be entering a new era of cooperation between families?”

“Your Venerante, that’s—” Thivik broke off, his throat working as he seemed to search for words. “Our rivalry with the Irizi extends far into the past, on both sides.”

“Perhaps it’s time we revisited that rivalry,” Thurfian said.

“Your Venerante—”

“Which isn’t to say that I’m going to be handing over the keys to the homestead,” Thurfian continued. “I intend to make it clear that if we’re to reconcile with the Irizi, it will be on our terms, not theirs.”

“I see,” Thivik said, his earlier composure starting to creep back into place. “Yes. I … naturally, you’re the one who makes such decisions.”

“Yes, I am,” Thurfian said softly. “Please show Syndic Irizi’stal’mustro in.”

“Yes, Your Venerante.” Bowing, Thivik turned and hurried from the office, his posture somehow conveying relief, subservience, and a hint of lingering concern.

It was a lot to pack into such a compact package, Thurfian noted as the senior aide closed the door behind him: surface obedience with underlying disapproval. Briefly, he wondered how long it had taken Thivik to master that particular combination.

He was sifting through the second of Thivik’s new set of files when the door opened again and Thivik silently ushered Syndic Zistalmu into the office.

“Ah—Syndic Zistalmu,” Thurfian greeted him, motioning him forward toward the guest chair at the corner of the desk. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit down.”

“Thank you, Patriarch Thurfian,” Zistalmu said, his tone and expression cautious as he crossed to the chair and eased himself into it. “May I begin by congratulating you on your new position as head of the Mitth family. Your Patriels have shown great wisdom and foresight in choosing Patriarch Thooraki’s successor.”

“Thank you,” Thurfian said, inclining his head and looking past Zistalmu at Thivik, still standing by the open door. “That will be all, Senior Aide.”

“Yes, Your Venerante,” Thivik said. Bowing again, he backed out of the room, once again closing the door behind him.

Thurfian looked back at Zistalmu. “What you mean, I presume,” he suggested with a wry smile, “is, How in the Ascendancy did the Patriels accidentally trip over you on their way to choosing a real Patriarch?”

“I wouldn’t put it in exactly those terms,” Zistalmu said, some of the tension leaving his face. “I did mean the congratulations part, though.”

“Thank you,” Thurfian said. Technically, of course, Zistalmu should be addressing him as Your Venerante now that he was a Patriarch. But given their history together, Thurfian was willing to let it slide. “And you are now …?”

Zistalmu gave a small shrug. “Syndic Prime,” he said.

“I thought so,” Thurfian said. “The dynamics I was seeing at the last full Syndicure assembly … but that’s neither here nor there. Congratulations in turn.”

“Thank you,” Zistalmu said. “I presume you invited me here to tell me that our plan to bring down Thrawn has ended?”

“On the contrary,” Thurfian said grimly. “I called you here to see if you knew what in blazes went down two weeks ago among the Xodlak, Pommrio, and Erighal families out at that useless planet.”

“Hoxim,” Zistalmu supplied the name. “At least, that’s what Councilor Lakuviv called it at his interrogation. All we know is that there was supposedly a rich nyix mine there and that he sent Xodlak family ships to go seize it. All for the greater good of the Ascendancy, of course. I’m told he repeated that defense at least four times.”

“Of course.”

“What happened after they arrived there is … let’s just say it’s muddled.”

“But we know that Thrawn was somehow involved.”

“Isn’t he always?” Zistalmu asked sourly. “We also know that the mine was obliterated, apparently having been landed on by a crashing freighter.”

“Convenient,” Thurfian muttered.

“Very,” Zistalmu agreed. “I presume Thrawn isn’t talking?”

“Not to anyone we have connections with,” Thurfian said. “And that includes Supreme General Ba’kif’s office.”

“Ditto for us,” Zistalmu said. “I take it you hadn’t heard any of the details?”

Thurfian shook his head. “None of our allies was involved, and everyone’s being very quiet.”

“Yes, you’d think they all had something to hide,” Zistalmu said. “I’d hoped we might be able to pry some more information from Senior Captain Ziinda, but she’s been as closemouthed as everyone else.”

“Ziinda?”

“Senior Captain Irizi’in’daro,” Zistalmu said. “Formerly Xodlak’in’daro. Her rematching to the Irizi was formalized three days ago.”

“Ah,” Thurfian said, nodding. He remembered reading that a Senior Captain Lakinda had been in command of the Xodlak force at Hoxim, but hadn’t realized the Irizi had snatched her away from that family. “You have an interesting approach to intel gathering.”

“Thank you,” Zistalmu said. “Freshly minted member of one of the Nine, a very family-oriented woman, proud and exhilarated and anxious to please. It was worth a shot.”

“But didn’t work?”

“As I said, closemouthed.” Zistalmu shrugged again. “Still, even without that she’s an excellent officer. Well worth taking into the family.”

“So her record would indicate,” Thurfian agreed. Though taking someone from one of your allies, he knew, could sometimes be tricky. If the Xodlak Patriarch decided he was insulted by Ziinda’s rematching, it could cool relations between them and the Irizi.

On the other hand, given the undefined but clearly unpleasant aftermath the Xodlak currently found themselves in, he doubted that complaints about losing even a senior Expansionary Defense Fleet officer would be high on the Xodlak priority list.

“So mostly all I know is the official story,” Zistalmu continued. “Three of the Forty sent family ships out to this Hoxim system and ended up fighting a group of alien gunboats that had somehow caught the Springhawk in an ambush.”

“Plus the fact that a nyix mine was involved.”

“That part, I think, everyone knows,” Zistalmu said sourly. “It’s about the only excuse for their behavior that all three families can point to.”

“For whatever it’s worth,” Thurfian said. “You believe that bit about an ambush?”

Zistalmu snorted. “Of course not. Thrawn caught in a trap? Not a chance.”

“So in other words, Thrawn has again skated to the edge and managed to hold his balance,” Thurfian said. “Only this time, it wasn’t just military targets that were involved. This time, he dragged in the Forty, with every bit of the messiness you’d expect. And for once came out of it with nothing to show.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Zistalmu said darkly. “There are rumors that the Springhawk stopped by Sposia on its way to Csilla.”

Thurfian felt his eyes narrow. “The UAG?”

“So says the rumor,” Zistalmu said. “Whether or not it’s true …” He shrugged again.

Thurfian scowled down at his questis. The Universal Analysis Group on Sposia was the clearinghouse where all alien artifacts and technology collected by the Ascendancy were taken to be studied. Most of the historical pieces eventually went to museums or art collections, while most of the technological items proved too damaged or fragmentary to be of any use and were either cataloged into storage chambers or simply destroyed.

But every so often a piece of technology was found that was complete enough to be studied. Those rare items were taken to a special underground complex where teams of scientists and techs worked painstakingly to coax out their secrets.

And occasionally—very occasionally—one of those was deemed of military value and moved to Vault Four.

The gravity-well generator Thrawn had stolen from the Vaagari pirates was somewhere in that work complex. So was the immensely powerful Republic shield generator he’d taken from the Separatist base at the edge of Lesser Space and used against General Yiv.

So, once, had been the device called Starflash.

“I keep having this disturbing image,” Zistalmu continued. “An entire UAG wing dedicated solely to Thrawn’s findings.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Thurfian said. “You’ll recall we’ve speculated once or twice that someone high in either the Syndicure or the Defense Hierarchy Council has been protecting Thrawn from the repercussions of his political blunders. Maybe that artifact wing is the reason.”

“I don’t know,” Zistalmu said doubtfully. “The UAG is mostly the province of the Stybla family, and they don’t have anywhere near enough pull with either the Syndicure or the Council. If I had to guess, I’d say it was Patriarch Thooraki who was Thrawn’s primary defender.”

“Perhaps,” Thurfian murmured.

“In which case, you may now have the power to finally get rid of him.” Zistalmu tilted his head slightly. “If you still want to.”

“If I hadn’t already been convinced that was necessary, the fiasco at Hoxim would have done it,” Thurfian said heavily. “The question is still how.”

“Yes,” Zistalmu said, nodding. “Good.”

Thurfian frowned. “What do you mean, good?”

“I mean,” Zistalmu said, “from your new position the solution to the Thrawn problem is obvious. You simply petition the Defense Hierarchy Council to promote Thrawn to commodore—”

“And put him in a position where he can cause even more damage?” Thurfian cut in. “Are you serious?”

“—thereby removing him from the Mitth,” Zistalmu continued calmly, “and guaranteeing the family name won’t be tarnished when he finally falls from grace.”

“I hardly think I would find solace in Mitth family honor remaining intact if the Ascendancy itself had fallen,” Thurfian said stiffly.

“I agree,” Zistalmu said. “I just wasn’t sure you did. As I said: Good.”

For a long moment the two men locked eyes. Then Thurfian took a deep breath. “So you trust me now?”

Zistalmu shrugged. “More than I did when I walked in here today. So. We take him down?”

“Yes,” Thurfian said. “I don’t know how yet, but we do.”

“Well, we can start by figuring out what happened at Hoxim,” Zistalmu said, standing up. “I’ll get back to the Syndicure and start digging. I assume you still have a lot of pomp and ceremony to go through?”

“More than I like, yes,” Thurfian conceded. “But as soon as all of that is over, I’ll start looking at what options I have as Patriarch.”

“All right.” Zistalmu smiled slightly. “I suppose we won’t be meeting anymore in the March of Silence.”

“What we give up in secrecy and convenience, we make up in comfort,” Thurfian said, giving him a same-sized smile in return. “The food is better, too, if and when we have enough time to sample it. Let me know when you have something, and we’ll set up another meeting.”

“I will,” Zistalmu said. “And once again, congratulations.”

Thurfian gazed at the door a moment after he left, sifting through the bits of data Zistalmu had given him, then turned back to his questis.

He was in the middle of Thivik’s third file when the senior aide returned. “Has he gone?” Thurfian asked.

Thivik nodded. “He and his escort are on their way back to Csaplar,” he said. “I must also soon head in that direction.”

“Your trip to Naporar?”

“Yes, Your Venerante,” Thivik said. “Your credentials must be officially presented to the Expansionary Defense Fleet.”

“Understood,” Thurfian said. Thivik had already made a similar trip to the Defense Force. But their headquarters were only a couple of thousand kilometers away, outside the capital, an easy trip by tube car. Traveling to the Expansionary Defense Fleet headquarters, in contrast, required a family spaceship and a couple of days for the round trip.

But it could be worse. A hundred years ago, the new Patriarch had been required to present all those credentials in person. Five hundred years before that, a grand tour of all the Ascendancy’s worlds and meetings with all the Mitth Patriels had also been required.

The Patriels now had to do all that traveling on their own. But the military still wanted at least a senior aide to make the journey to them.

Maybe in another hundred years, the traditions would bend enough to allow all of it to be done via comm.

“Before you leave, check and see if there are any documents that need to be taken to Naporar,” he instructed Thivik. “If so, you can save some courier a trip.”

“I’ll do so, Your Venerante,” Thivik said. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can. In the meantime, do spend some time with the new files I sent you. There are a great many subtleties involved with your new position.”

“I’m sure there are,” Thurfian said. “I’ll do my best to master them as quickly as possible.”

“I know you will,” Thivik said, bowing again. “Good day, Your Venerante.”

He left the office, and with a tired sigh Thurfian turned again to his questis and the stack of files.

Besides, even if he tried to push the Expansionary Defense Fleet into promoting Thrawn, they probably wouldn’t do it.

It took Ba’kif three days to finish interviewing the captains of the three groups of family warships that had been at Hoxim. He saved the Springhawk for last, partly because the ship was still being examined for damage and he wanted both Thrawn and Samakro on hand at the bluedock to oversee the work, partly because he expected Samakro to finally offer him information he wasn’t getting from anyone else.

On that latter, at least, he was disappointed. It was clear that Samakro held crucial facts about the Springhawk and its participation that none of the family ship officers was aware of. It was equally clear that the Springhawk’s first officer wasn’t going to divulge those details without more pressure than Ba’kif was prepared to bring. It was also unfortunately clear that asking Thrawn those same questions would be a waste of time.

Which didn’t mean that Ba’kif wouldn’t eventually get the whole story. That much he could promise himself. But right now, with the Syndicure buzzing like stingflies whose nest had been kicked, discretion was the better option.

And so he contented himself with finishing his interviews, writing and filing his reports, and otherwise making the military side of the Hoxim issue as quiet and straightforward as possible. It was only when that was finished that he requisitioned a shuttle to Bluedock One, where the Springhawk was currently housed, to finally find out what Thrawn had wanted to tell him back at Sposia.

It was quickly clear why Samakro hadn’t been looking forward to the conversation.

Thrass had seen Patriarch Mitth’oor’akiord exactly three times in his life. The first two had been while visiting the homestead as a child, the third when he was a midager learning the protocols for transporting documents from Avidich to Csilla. All three sightings had been from a distance, but just the same Thrass felt honored to have even glimpsed the man who’d guided the Mitth for the past thirty years. Even the majority of family blood never got such an opportunity.

It was therefore a slightly unnerving surprise when a casual visit with his mother was abruptly interrupted by a summons to Thooraki’s office.

The Patriarch was sitting behind his desk when Thrass arrived, talking with Senior Aide Mitth’iv’iklo. Thooraki looked up as Thrass was ushered in, gave a short nod in silent welcome, and returned to his conversation. Thrass took the cue and stayed where he was, standing at the door well out of earshot. Wondering whether he was here for some special honor, an assignment, or a particularly stinging reprimand.

Two years ago, while admiring Avidich artwork with Cadet Thrawn, Thrass had used the word legendary to describe the Twelfth Patriarch. In his opinion, Patriarch Thooraki had already exceeded even the Twelfth’s record of accomplishments. His skillful diplomacy through the ever-shifting alliances among the Ruling Families had raised the Mitth from a relatively weak stance vis-à-vis the Irizi to full parity with their longtime rivals. Equally important, his work in building relationships within the Forty Great Families had further brought the Mitth out of the political stagnation they’d languished in as recently as a few decades ago.

If this was an assignment, Thrass would do his very best to accomplish it. If it was a reprimand, he would strive to face it with the proper humility, and to learn from it.

At the desk, the two men finished their conversation. “Thrass?” Thooraki called, beckoning.

“Yes, Your Venerante,” Thrass said, hurrying forward. “How may I serve?”

“I’m told you know a Taharim cadet—actually, he’ll have just graduated—a lieutenant in the Expansionary Defense Fleet named Mitth’raw’nuru. Is that correct?”

“I know him slightly, sir, yes,” Thrass said. If it was a reprimand, this was an odd way to begin. “We met at his welcoming dinner, and since then I’ve kept tabs on his time at the academy.”

“Your opinion of him?”

“He has great potential, Your Venerante,” Thrass said, thinking quickly. His interest in Thrawn’s progress had been fairly casual, and it had been several weeks since he’d looked at the Taharim records. Still, apart from that near fiasco with the training simulation, he couldn’t remember hearing that Thrawn was having any problems. As to the simulation question, the fact that he’d not only gotten out from under the cloud but emerged looking better than before spoke volumes about his talents. “I think he’ll be a fine officer.”

“Good,” Thooraki said. “All the more urgency to your assignment, then. I’m told that the Stybla family is hoping to steal him away from us. I want you to go to Naporar, reestablish your old contact with him, and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Yes, sir,” Thrass said, a little uncertainly. The lack of a reprimand was reassuring; but this was the task he’d been brought into the Patriarch’s Office to receive? To keep a single merit adoptive from being grabbed by another family? And particularly by the Stybla?

Certainly that family had some impressive history. Millennia ago, when the Chiss were first reaching outward to the stars, the Stybla had been the Ruling Family guiding everything and everyone. But as time passed and the Ascendancy grew from one world to many, the Stybla Patriarch had decided the task of governance had become too overwhelming for a single family to handle. His solution had been to step aside and appoint three other families to rule in the Stybla’s place.

Thrass could appreciate the family’s contributions to the Ascendancy. But their time had long since passed, and they had to be delusional to think they could offer Thrawn anything better than what he currently had with the Mitth.

But if Patriarch Thooraki was concerned about even such a minuscule chance of losing Thrawn to some smooth-talking Stybla, Thrass should take it equally seriously. “I’ll leave at once, Your Venerante,” he said. “Am I authorized to offer him any additional incentives?”

“Not at this time,” Thooraki said. “But you might want to remind him that the friendship of the Mitth family is worth having.”

Patriarch Thurfian’s childhood was far behind him, but he could still remember bits and pieces of it. One of the most vivid memories was of a stormy day when he and his three siblings had tired of other activities and started a spontaneous indoor game with rules that were mostly made up, and only when the need for one arose. Madcap running had quickly become part of it, the chase ranging through the entire house with noise and laughter and a fair amount of bumping into walls and furniture. Their mother’s secretary had intervened twice, and the housekeeper and security guard once each. None of them had achieved any noticeable success.

Finally, their mother had paused the meeting she’d been moderating and taken a personal hand, corralling her rambunctious offspring and finally bringing the chaotic frenzy to a halt, or at least back down to a low simmer. One of the most striking parts of Thurfian’s memory was the stressed look on her face as she herded them to the dining nook and ordered a snack that would hopefully keep them occupied long enough for her to finish her meeting.

Frenzied activity. Few if any rules. Children who didn’t want to stop doing something just because someone said so. His mother’s harried expression.

Now, as Patriarch all these years later, he finally knew exactly how she’d felt.

Especially right now.

“I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me, Your Venerante,” Patriel Thistrian of Avidich said. “I know you must be extremely busy, what with settling into your new position and all.”

“I’m always available for consultation with my Patriels,” Thurfian said, suppressing a grimace. Thistrian had been the Mitth Speaker when Thurfian was first made an Aristocra and brought into the Syndicure, and while Thurfian had learned a lot from him he’d never forgotten how garrulous the old man could get when the mood struck him. Hopefully, today wouldn’t be one of those days. “What’s this matter of possible importance I’m told you wish to discuss?”

“I’m actually a bit unclear on that,” Thistrian confessed. “I’ve just had a conversation with an alien who tells me there’s some kind of new alliance brewing between the Dasklo, Xodlak, Erighal, and Pommrio. He included part of a vid—”

“Hold it,” Thurfian interrupted. “What alien? When?”

“His name is Jixtus, and it was about an hour ago that we spoke,” Thistrian said. “He’s traveling with a group of aliens called the Kiljis—”

“Hold on,” Thurfian said, punching up the latest Defense Force data feed. Hadn’t there just been something about an alien warship showing up unannounced over Avidich?

Yes—there it was. “Are you talking about the battle cruiser that arrived two hours ago?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Thistrian confirmed. “Not all that impressive, actually, as warships go. It would probably do well enough against pirates, but it would be no match for Avidich System Patrol. Actually, our family frigate and missile boats could probably take it. I had the frigate moved into combat position, but really there doesn’t seem to be a need—”

“Is he still there?”

“Oh, yes,” Thistrian said, as if that should be obvious. “But really, Your Venerante, you don’t need to worry. Patrol Command says the missile tubes and lasers have all been peace-sealed, so there’s really no danger. And as I said, the patrol ships and our frigate are in position.”

“Very well,” Thurfian said. The presence of an alien warship in Chiss space, peace-sealed or not, was definitely cause for concern. But if Patrol Command said it was safe, it probably was. “So why exactly are you calling me?”

“I was getting to that,” Thistrian said. “As I was saying, he showed me part of a vid that seems to show a group of Erighal and Xodlak ships play-attacking an armed freighter while a Dasklo ship looks on.”

Thurfian frowned. The Erighal part he could understand—they were already longtime Dasklo allies. But the Xodlak? That was an odd combination. “For what purpose?”

“As I said, the Erighal and Xodlak seemed to be practicing an attack, with the Dasklo either supervising or just there to watch.”

“Yes, I know you just said that,” Thurfian said, his mother’s stressed expression once again flashing to mind. “I meant what was Jixtus’s reason for showing it to you?”

“I believe he wants to sell us additional information,” Thistrian said. “The location of the incident, confirmation of the participants, perhaps more details on the purpose of the test. That sort of thing.”

“Very helpful of him,” Thurfian said. “Do you have a copy of that vid?”

“Yes, of course,” Thistrian said. “Though the part he gave me is only about five seconds long. Here, I’ll show it to you.”

His image disappeared from the display, replaced by a group of five blurry ships set against a starry background. Three of the ships were trading low-level laser shots with a freighter-sized vessel, while the fifth ship floated a little way off. As Thistrian had said, the vid only lasted a few seconds. “And Jixtus says the attackers are Erighal and Xodlak ships?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Jixtus didn’t say anything about their identities,” Thistrian said, his image replacing the starscape. “I had my people run it through an enhancer, then spoke to my military advisers—”

“You have an enhanced version?” Thurfian demanded. “Why didn’t you send that instead?”

“I assumed you’d first want to see the product Jixtus wants to sell us,” Thistrian said, a little stiffly. “Here’s our version.”

Once again, his face was replaced by a vid. But where the ship images had previously been blurry, now they were sharp and clear. The three attackers were a cruiser and two patrol craft, the cruiser and one patrol ship bearing Xodlak insignia, the other patrol ship marked as Erighal. The freighter at the center of the exercise didn’t seem to have any markings.

And the larger ship standing off the action—a frigate, Thistrian’s experts identified it—did indeed carry the Dasklo family crest.

“So the Dasklo are watching some Erighal and Xodlak run a play battle,” Thurfian said. “And this Jixtus wants us to pay him for this meager meal of information?”

“Your Venerante, I’m not sure you understand,” Thistrian said. “If this is the prelude to the Dasklo adding the Xodlak and possibly the Pommrio to their list of allies, we could be facing a serious challenge.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Thurfian said. “I’ll make some inquiries.”

“He’s also offering military assistance, should we desire it,” Thistrian said. “He says he has other warships at his disposal that could reach the Ascendancy with just a few days’ warning.”

Thurfian felt his eyes narrow. Offering information was one thing. Offering one of the Nine a group of alien mercenaries was not just outrageous but could easily be construed as a deadly insult. Not to mention that even a casual reading of the Ascendancy’s ancient history showed how destructive and ultimately futile foreign alliances could be. “I would strongly suggest he keep his warships out of Chiss space,” he growled. “You can tell him that. You can also tell him that the Mitth are declining his offer, and that he had best be on his way.”

“Your Venerante, if I may suggest—”

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Thurfian said, reaching for the comm control. “Farewell, Patriel.” Before Thistrian could protest further, he cut the link.

For a moment he gazed at the blank screen, thinking it through. The offer of military aid he could dismiss without a second thought. But what about this supposed Dasklo-Xodlak alliance? Was such a thing even possible?

It seemed unlikely. The Xodlak were firmly in the Irizi orbit, unlikely to leave that comfortable position without a severe and visible push. As for the Dasklo, for the past thirty years their full attention had been on their private little power struggle against the Clarr. During that time they hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of Syndicure politics, and Thurfian didn’t expect that to change anytime soon.

And he should know. At Speaker Thyklo’s request, he’d spent much of his final three months in the Syndicure running profiles and assessments of all Nine Ruling Families, watching in particular for signs of dissension, overt clashes, and possible upcoming realignments. He hadn’t quite finished his analysis of the Forty Great Families when Patriarch Thooraki’s death unexpectedly raised him into his new position, but he’d completed enough to conclude that the current political web was remarkably stable.

No. The Clarr might believe monster stories about the Dasklo, but the Mitth weren’t going to fall for such nonsense. If the Ascendancy fell into crisis, it would be because individuals like Senior Captain Thrawn did something that pushed it over the edge.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have the homestead techs take a look at the vid and see if any additional information could be teased out of it. He logged the order, then put the whole thing out of his mind. There were plenty of more urgent family issues to attend to.

And later, when he found himself in need of a break from Patriels, Councilors, and interfamily maneuverings, he would see if there was any news on where Thrawn and the Springhawk had apparently disappeared to.

Clarr family captain Clarr’os’culry was in her office, working on her second cup of hot caccoleaf, when she got the alert that an alien ship had arrived over Rhigar.

She was at the Clarr homestead defense center in thirty seconds flat. “Duty officer?” she invited briskly as she strode to the command chair in the middle of the ring of displays and sat down.

“Single alien warship moving into high orbit,” Lieutenant Clarr’upi’ovmos replied, just as briskly. “Configuration and size match the battle cruiser that was reported over Avidich two days ago. The three Clarr destroyers that were in that sector are moving to intercept, and the two frigates have taken up equatorial guard positions in case this is a feint or first of a two-prong. System Patrol’s ships are moving into backup positions.”

Roscu nodded, running her eyes over the displays. Battle cruiser wasn’t so much a specific class as it was a convenient label for midsized alien ships until their capabilities could be better defined. In this particular case, factoring in the earlier reports from the Mitth Patriel on Avidich, she would tentatively place it between a Chiss frigate and a heavy cruiser, probably at the smaller end of that range. If it decided to be a problem, the patrol ships plus the Clarr destroyers orbiting Rhigar ought to be able to handle it. “No indication of hostile intent, I presume?”

“No, ma’am,” Rupiov said. “And the destroyers report the alien weapons are peace-sealed. They’ve hailed us in Meese Caulf, Taarja, and Minnisiat, but I assumed you’d want to respond to them in person.”

“Yes, I would,” Roscu confirmed with a flicker of satisfaction. It had taken a while to whip the homestead defense forces into shape when she’d first taken this job, but they were finally starting to act like proper military professionals. Rupiov in particular was rapidly becoming an excellent second-in-command. “Did they sound particularly fluent in any of the languages?”

“Their Taarja was probably the clearest,” Rupiov said. “Unfortunately, that’s the hardest for most of us.”

“We didn’t do things in the Expansionary Defense Fleet because they were easy, Lieutenant,” Roscu said tartly. “We did things because they needed to be done. Give me comm.”

“You have comm, Captain.”

Roscu cleared her throat. “This is Captain Roscu, commander of the Clarr family homestead defense force,” she said in Taarja, trying not to wince. It really was an unpleasant language for the Chiss vocal apparatus. “Identify yourself, and state the purpose of your visit to the Chiss Ascendancy.”

“I am called Jixtus,” an alien voice came back, raspy yet strangely melodious. The Taarja words were clear and precise, but there was a hint of a strange accent beneath them. “I travel with Generalirius Nakirre aboard the Kilji warship Whetstone. I’ve come to your world to deliver your Patriarch a warning.”

Roscu felt her eyes narrow. Mitth Patriarch Thurfian’s report had been suspiciously sketchy on what this Jixtus and the Mitth Patriel on Avidich had talked about. “Explain,” she said, turning her attention to the tactical display. The three Clarr destroyers were already in attack positions, and the planet’s general patrol ships were closing in at backup positions. “What sort of warning?”

“I believe your family to be in danger,” Jixtus said. “I ask permission to speak about the threat directly with your Patriarch.”

“The Clarr family is flattered by your solicitude,” Roscu said. “May I ask why you’re being so helpful?”

Jixtus chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “For payment, of course,” he said. “I am a broker of information. I learn from those who have secrets, then sell to those who would best profit from those secrets.”

“I see,” Roscu said. At least he wasn’t pitching a tale of selfless altruism or something equally ridiculous. She didn’t have much respect for mercenaries, but she did understand them. “I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t disturb Patriarch Rivlex without something more on this threat than merely your word as to its supposed existence. If you’ll provide me with the details, I can decide whether or not to bring it to his attention.”

“Will you also then be judge on whether payment is justified?” Jixtus asked pointedly. “Your offer carries the risk of enriching you while impoverishing me.”

“You’re a stranger to the Chiss Ascendancy,” Roscu said. “You may therefore be forgiven your suggestion that the Clarr family would cheat you. I assure you that your information will receive full payment for its value.”

“That value to be judged by you, of course.” Jixtus gave a sort of whistling sigh. “I suppose I have no other choice. Very well. If you will give landing instructions to my shuttle pilot, I shall come down and deliver to you the details of this threat.”

“There’s no need for that,” Roscu told him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the status displays change, and she looked over to see a new message: Defense Force ship Venturous en route; ETA three hours.

She made a face. Three hours. So much for the Defense Force’s highly touted ability to protect the Ascendancy. Fortunately for the people of Rhigal, the Clarr were ready. “This communication is secure,” she said. “You can give me the details right here and now.”

“Is it secure?” Jixtus countered. “Are the Clarr then alone on your world?”

Roscu frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean this threat is not coming from outside,” Jixtus said, lowering his voice as if afraid others were listening in. “The danger is, in fact, coming from others of your kind.”

Roscu sent another look at the tactical. After the Ascendancy’s tangle with General Yiv, she’d assumed Jixtus’s alleged threat would come from the remnant of the Nikardun forces, or possibly from someone new arriving in Yiv’s wake. For that matter, the threat might even be Jixtus and these Kiljis he was riding with.

But from the Chiss themselves? Ridiculous. None of the other Nine would be foolish enough to take on the Clarr.

Unless, of course, by threat he meant some political machinations were in the works. That sort of thing happened all the time, and the Clarr and their allies could deal with that without paying some meddlesome alien for information they probably already had.

Still, that was an alien warship up there. Even if Jixtus’s information was a waste of time, there might be other ways Roscu could gain from this encounter. “Understood,” she said. “Unfortunately, the Patriarch’s standing policy is to refuse landing permission to non-Chiss vessels.”

“I understand,” Jixtus said. “With danger pressing so closely all around you, you would be unwise indeed to allow an unknown into your midst. A shuttle’s worth of soldiers within your very gates could inflict unspeakable damage.”

Roscu felt her eyes narrow. Threats of danger she could hear and dismiss. But insults against her and the Clarr family were another matter. “You don’t know much about Chiss if you think even one shuttle would be any threat to us,” she said. “Your entire warship would represent little more than an exercise for our defending forces.”

“What did you say?” Jixtus said, sounding almost flustered. “How did you know?”

Roscu looked at Rupiov, got a puzzled shrug in reply. “How did I know what?” she asked.

“That the threat is indeed represented by a war exercise,” Jixtus said. “How did you know of your enemies’ ships’ practice attack?”

“Wait a minute,” Roscu said. “What practice attack? What are you talking about?”

“You have a depth of knowledge and wisdom we did not expect to find among the Chiss,” Jixtus said. “But I cannot say more when others may hear. If I may not visit your world and your Patriarch, perhaps you can send a representative aboard the Whetstone for a more secure conversation.”

Roscu chewed at the inside of her cheek. But really, why not? There wasn’t anything to lose—surely Jixtus wouldn’t try to harm her or hold her hostage, not with a group of Chiss warships holding the Whetstone in their targeting sights.

On the contrary, there was a lot to be gained by accepting such an offer. The Mitth Patriarch had sent Jixtus away without trying to get a closer look at the Whetstone or even to learn more about Jixtus and the Kiljis. Now the Clarr family was being offered the chance to do both.

“Very well, I accept,” she said. “I’m sending you orbit information. Reposition yourself as instructed, and I’ll be there shortly.”

“We shall eagerly await your arrival.”

Roscu keyed off the comm. “Feed him a mid-altitude orbit,” she told Rupiov. “Make it a polar loop.”

“A bit tricky to get to one of those from their current vector,” Rupiov pointed out.

“That’s the point,” Roscu told him. “Let’s see how much trouble they’re willing to go through to talk to us. And make sure the orbit never puts them directly over the homestead.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rupiov said hesitantly. “You’re really going up there?”

“Why not?” Roscu asked, watching the orbital data flow across the comm display as it was transmitted to the Whetstone. She couldn’t decipher the numbers as quickly as a trained nav officer could, but it all seemed correct.

“Alone?” Rupiov pressed. “They’re aliens, you know. We don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“That’s all right,” Roscu assured him. “They don’t know what I’m capable of, either. More to the point, this is my chance to get a close look at that ship, inside and out, and to actually meet these people. Neither of which the Mitth bothered to do.”

Rupiov’s lips puckered in a smile. “No, they didn’t,” he said. “That should make for some interesting conversations in the Syndicure.”

“And possibly some good leverage points,” Roscu agreed. “Get me a shuttle and pilot. I want them ready to fly as soon as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rupiov said. “They’ll be outside the main entrance in fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes. Just enough time for Roscu to tie back her hair, change into her dress uniform, and get to the main entrance to meet the shuttle. Whatever these aliens were really here for, she wanted to make her best impression on them.

Especially since the Clarr family dress uniform went so well with a holstered charric. And since it also had a nice little concealed pocket that was perfect for a two-shot backup weapon.

If Jixtus was planning trouble, he would indeed not know what she was capable of. Not until it was far too late.

Thrass was seated at his new desk in the Syndicure office complex, skimming a report on crop projections for Sharb’s northern hemisphere, when a data cylinder came sailing over the privacy divider on his left and landed on the desk. It bounced twice, then rolled to a halt beside his computer display.

“Did I make it?” one of the other syndics asked, popping her head into view over the divider. “Where did it land?”

“There,” Thrass said, pointing to the cylinder and frowning at her. “If you were trying for my desk, yes, you made it. And?”

“And what?”

“And what is it?” Thrass asked, picking up the cylinder and peering at the side. The only labeling was a Defense Hierarchy Council sequencing number.

“Part of the autolog record from the Expansionary Defense Fleet patrol cruiser Parala,” she said. “Syndic Thurfian wants it analyzed.”

“Don’t we have techs for that sort of thing?” Thrass asked, holding the cylinder out to her.

“Yes and no,” she said, making no move to take it. “Thurfian doesn’t want anyone below syndic rank even knowing he has it, let alone that we’re digging into it. And you know the saying: Last hired, first mired.”

“Right,” Thrass said, suppressing a grimace. And since he was the latest addition to the elite group of Aristocra who made up the Syndicure, he was the one who caught all the mud-slog work. Whether that work fit into his official responsibility sphere or not.

In this case, decidedly not. His current job was overseeing Mitth agricultural interests and coordinating with other families’ farming and crop distribution systems. The Defense Force and Expansionary Defense Fleet were watched by Thurfian and one or two others, who oversaw military activities and could, in extreme cases, offer support from the Mitth family’s own modest fleet of warships. “Anything in particular he’s looking for?” Thrass asked, sliding the cylinder into his computer’s reader.

“He thinks someone aboard the ship pulled some kind of scam,” she said. “Illegally fed assistance and information to a merchant-hub station at some alien planet.”

“Wait a minute,” Thrass said, frowning. “Illegally fed—?”

And then, abruptly, it clicked.

The Expansionary Defense Fleet warship Parala, stumbling into a pirate attack against a Garwian merchant-hub station at Stivic four months ago. The pirates, who’d been steadily beating down the Garwian defenses, suddenly getting caught by an unexpected Garwian tactic and subsequently being destroyed or driven off. First Officer Mid Captain Roscu, insisting to the Council and the Clarr Speaker that someone aboard the Parala had violated standing orders against Chiss intervention in the affairs of other nations. The ship’s commander, Senior Captain Ziara, insisting in turn that no one aboard her ship had done anything wrong, and that they’d merely observed the battle from a distance.

And standing squarely in the center of the controversy, Fourth Officer Senior Commander Thrawn.

“Yes, that’s the one,” the other syndic confirmed, correctly interpreting Thrass’s reaction. “Have fun, but be quick. Thurfian wants a report before lunchtime.”

“Understood,” Thrass said, wincing as he opened the datafiles. The only reason he’d noticed this event in the first place was that Thrawn and Ziara were both mentioned in the report. Now, it appeared, they weren’t just mentioned but were up to their necks in it.

Or, more likely, it was Thrawn who was up to his neck, and Ziara was once again trying to pull him out.

Ideally, this should have been a purely military matter. But just because the Syndicure wasn’t supposed to meddle in fleet business didn’t mean they didn’t occasionally invite themselves in. In this case, Roscu’s complaint had gotten the Clarr involved, and now Thurfian had responded by hauling in the Mitth. If the questions dragged on long enough for the Irizi to notice that one of their own—Ziara—was also involved, they could soon have a full three-family growzer jump-pile on their hands.

In this case, though, it wasn’t clear as to how those piles would line up.

Family sides with family. That had been the number one unspoken rule of life for millennia, since well before the earliest days of star flight and the establishment of the Chiss Ascendancy. But it didn’t take much scratching beneath the surface of such platitudes to realize things were rarely that simple.

And when a Mitth syndic’s dislike for an individual was greater than his loyalty to his family, things could get complicated very quickly.

Thurfian no doubt thought he was being subtle about his opposition toward Thrawn. But Thrass had seen the signs in Thurfian’s face and voice, and if he’d seen them it was likely others had, as well. Thrass didn’t know the source of the animosity, but in such things the usual culprit was simple personality differences.

The more immediate problem, at least from Thrass’s perspective, was that in this case he didn’t know whether Thurfian was hoping to vindicate Thrawn or indict him.

It was an important question, but largely irrelevant to the task that had been literally dropped on Thrass’s desk. He’d been charged with analyzing the data and finding the truth, and that was what he was going to do.

And if the truth showed Thrawn had violated his oath, then that was what Thrass’s report would say.

The Springhawk was still eleven hours out from Rapacc, and Thalias was reading in the sky-walker suite’s dayroom, when she heard whimpering coming from Che’ri’s sleeping room.

She frowned, setting down her questis and crossing to the hatch. Che’ri had always been something of a noisy sleeper, making odd sounds and slurred words as she hit the dreaming part of her sleep cycle. It had taken Thalias a couple of months of waking up to the noises before her brain learned to recognize them as normal and allow her to sleep through the bouts.

But there was noise, and there was noise, and frightened-sounding whimpers were something new.

“Che’ri?” Thalias called softly through the hatch. “Are you all right?”

The whimpering stopped abruptly. “Che’ri?” Thalias called again, wondering if her call had woken up the girl. But if so, why hadn’t she answered? “Che’ri?”

Again, there was no answer. Then, the whimpering started up again.

Thalias had always tried not to intrude on Che’ri’s privacy, especially now that the girl was edging toward her midage years. But enough was enough. “Che’ri, I’m coming in,” she announced and keyed open the hatch.

She’d expected to find Che’ri tossing and turning like someone in a fever, her sheets and blankets twisted around her or falling off the bed. Instead, the girl was lying rigidly on her back, her eyes squeezed shut, her face twitching. “Che’ri?” Thalias called, hurrying to her side. “Che’ri!”

Che’ri’s eyes snapped open, wide and frightened. “Thalias?” she gasped.

“I’m here, Che’ri,” Thalias said, sitting down on the bed beside her and taking the girl’s hand. “Are you okay?”

“I—I don’t know,” Che’ri said, the fear in her eyes slowly fading. “I saw it, Thalias. I saw all of it. The death and destruction … I saw it.”

“It was just a dream, Che’ri,” Thalias soothed. “Just a horrible dream.”

Che’ri squeezed her eyes shut. “No, it wasn’t a dream. It was … it was Sunrise.”

“Sunrise?” Thalias echoed, frowning. “You mean the planet?”

“Yes,” Che’ri murmured.

“That’s not possible,” Thalias said firmly. “You never saw any of that—”

She broke off, a sudden knot twisting into her stomach. No, Che’ri had never seen Sunrise’s destruction.

But the Magys had.

“It’s all right,” she said, forcing down the impulse to look over her shoulder in the direction of her own sleeping room and the hibernation chamber set against the wall. Were these images coming from the Magys? Was she invading or influencing Che’ri’s thoughts or dreams? Was she somehow implanting her own memories into the girl? “You can go back to sleep. I’ll stay with you awhile if you’d like.”

“No,” Che’ri said, the fading fear surging back again. “I mean, no, I don’t want to go to sleep. I’ll just … I’ll see Sunrise again. Can’t we just—can’t we keep going? To Rapacc, I mean? Can’t we just go?”

“It’s your sleep time, Che’ri,” Thalias reminded her. “You need to rest.”

“But I can’t sleep,” Che’ri said, some pleading in her voice. “I don’t want to sleep. Can’t we just go?”

“I don’t know,” Thalias said. “Let’s find out. Come on, get dressed—we’re going to the bridge.”

Mid Captain Samakro was on duty when Thalias and Che’ri arrived. “Caregiver; Sky-walker,” he said in greeting, frowning in turn at each of them. “What are you doing here?”

“Che’ri can’t sleep,” Thalias explained. “She was hoping she could go back on duty.”

“Sorry, but this is her sleep period,” Samakro said, looking closely at the girl. “We can’t do that.”

“I thought there were emergencies where the captain can run the ship’s sky-walker past the usual time limits,” Thalias said.

“Where the captain can decide that,” Samakro said. “There’s no provision for the sky-walker herself to do so.”

“Well, there should be,” Thalias said. “Can you call Senior Captain Thrawn and ask him?”

Samakro shook his head. “Senior Captain Thrawn’s off duty, the same as you are.”

“We need to talk to him.” Thalias glanced around, confirmed that no one else was close enough to overhear. “Tell him,” she added, lowering her voice to a whisper, “it concerns the Magys.”

Samakro’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Che’ri, back at Thalias. “Go back to your suite,” he said. “I’ll ask him to meet you there.”

Thalias and Che’ri were sitting on the couch together, the girl sipping at a box of warmed grillig juice, when Thrawn and Samakro arrived. “Caregiver,” the senior captain greeted Thalias gravely. “Sky-walker. Mid Captain Samakro tells me there’s a problem.”

“Yes,” Thalias said. She’d spent the last few minutes trying to organize her explanation into the most compact form possible. “Che’ri’s having nightmares of Sunrise, a place she’s never visited, remembering events she’s never seen.”

“I see,” Thrawn said. “What do you propose?”

Thalias drew back a little. She’d expected to have to go into a lot more detail before he even believed her, let alone started looking for a solution. “Che’ri doesn’t think she can sleep anymore, at least for now,” she said. “She’d like to go back to the bridge and continue our journey to Rapacc.”

“I see.” Thrawn turned his eyes onto Che’ri. “Do you concur, Sky-walker Che’ri?”

“Yes, sir,” Che’ri said in a small voice. “Every time I try to sleep—”

“It’s all right,” Thrawn said, holding out a calming hand. “You don’t have to explain further. Mid Captain, what’s the hyperdrive’s status?”

“The new coils have been installed and the diagnostics are nearly complete,” Samakro said. “Four more minutes, five at the most, and we’ll be able to leave.”

“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “Che’ri, one final time: Do you wish to return to duty?”

“Yes, Senior Captain,” Che’ri said.

“Caregiver?”

“I think it would be best, sir,” Thalias confirmed. “I’ll stay with her and keep watch as long as she’s there. If she seems to be tiring or losing concentration, I’ll bring her out.”

“Very well.” Thrawn turned to Samakro. “Alert the bridge, Mid Captain. We return to hyperspace in ten minutes.”

“I’d like to say you’re in trouble,” Thrass commented. “But in all honesty, I can’t.”

Thrawn shrugged as he moved one of his firewolves across the Tactica playing board laid out on the game café table between them. “I appreciate the vote of confidence in my game,” he said. “I’d like to say in turn that you’re playing far better than you did at our last session. Unlike you, however, I can honestly do so.”

“And I appreciate that, as well,” Thrass said, looking pointedly at the two holding zones along the sides of the board. “Though all the compliments in the universe can’t hide the fact I’m still down a firewolf and a whisperbird.”

“But you’re up three stingflies,” Thrawn reminded him. “Not a bad showing for someone who only learned the game eight weeks ago.”

“And I’ll never know how I ever let you talk me into this,” Thrass said, mock-crossly. “A game that plays to all of your strengths and against all of mine? Foolish syndic that I am.”

“Really,” Thrawn said, mock-chiding. “I thought tactics and strategy were basic tools of the trade in the Syndicure.”

“Oh, they’re important enough,” Thrass agreed. He moved his groundlion, tapped one of Thrawn’s stingflies, and took it off the board. “But not as important as verbal skills and basic theatrics.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the Syndicure in action,” Thrawn said drily. “Perhaps in full voice would be a more accurate description.” He moved his nightdragon, tapped the groundlion, and handed it to Thrass. “You’ll want to put this beside the whisperbird,” he added, pointing to Thrass’s holding zone. “They’ll be better able to support each other if you decide on a sortie.”

“Right. Thanks.” Thrass set the groundlion where Thrawn had suggested. He was getting better at the main game, but still had a bad tendency to lose track of the sortie option. “I always forget about that.”

“It’s easy to do,” Thrawn agreed. “But you need to keep it in the back of your mind as a fallback option if and when your main strategy fails.”

“I know the theory,” Thrass said ruefully. “I just usually don’t have it in my head where I can get at it.” He cocked an eyebrow at Thrawn. “By the way, joking aside, I really do enjoy the game, and I appreciate you teaching it to me.”

“Oh, I know,” Thrawn assured him.

“Good,” Thrass said. “I’m never quite sure if you’re picking up the subtexts and nuances beneath what I’m actually saying.”

“Sadly, I do sometimes have problems in that area,” Thrawn admitted. He picked up a cheese triangle from their snack platter and popped it into his mouth, then moved his nightdragon to an attack position against Thrass’s remaining whisperbird. “I suppose that’s why you’re in the Syndicure and I’m in the Expansionary Defense Fleet. We don’t have much need of subtext and theatrics in my profession.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Thrass said, pondering how he could get his whisperbird out of harm’s way. Invoking the onetime transference rule would do nicely, but if he did that he would lose the use of one of his firewolves if and when he tried for a sortie down the line. “Theatrics have their uses in any profession. In moderation, of course.”

“Jaraki?” an anxious voice came from the left, rising above the background murmur of conversation. “Jaraki?”

Thrass turned to look. At one of the tables across the café, a man was slumped over in his chair, his hands clutching at his throat and chest. His two companions had shoved back their own chairs and scrambled to their feet, the man hovering uncertainly over his companion as he punched at the emergency key on his comm, the woman clutching the sick man’s shoulder. “He’s having an attack,” she gasped, her voice rising in volume and pitch, her face contorting with anguish and fear. “He’s having an attack! Someone help! Someone, please!”

“Hang on,” the cashier at the charge register called back. She was already on her way toward them, the café’s emergency kit in hand, dodging through the array of tables and past the other patrons staring at the stricken man.

“I wonder where the other man is,” Thrawn murmured.

Thrass shot him a look. “What?”

“There were four people at that table,” Thrawn said, his forehead creased in thought. “One of the men is missing.”

“Really,” Thrass said, frowning as he looked around the room. There were a few people who were away from their tables, but all of them looked like they’d been on their way for food or bathroom breaks before the sudden drama froze them to their sections of floor. “What did he look—?”

He broke off. There, crouching behind the counter with the top of his head just barely visible, someone was tapping into the charge register.

“It’s a robbery,” Thrass said quietly. “Remember what I just said about theatrics being useful in any profession?”

“A diversion,” Thrawn said, nodding grimly. “And the patrollers aren’t likely to get here in time. I suppose it’s up to us to stop it.” He started to get up.

“No, no,” Thrass said, waving him back down. “I’ve got this. Watch and learn.”

He stood up and headed quietly toward the charge register, angling across the open space as he walked to put himself between the thief and the main exit. He had no idea how long it would take to crack the safety locks on the café’s register and download the payments, but the plan was probably timed to get the group safely out before the emergency medical personnel arrived.

Assuming, of course, that the accomplice who’d looked like he was summoning help had actually done so. If he’d just gone through the motions for show, and to prevent any of the onlookers from doing likewise, the thief would have a lot more time to work with.

The cashier had reached the table now, and she and the other woman were pawing through the contents of the emergency kit. The accomplice, Thrass noted, was deftly refusing all the cashier’s suggestions of inhalants and broad-spectrum med-relief jectors, probably spinning a story of some rare disease and warning against counterproductive medicines. Thrass reached his chosen starting position and took a deep breath.

Then, abandoning his inconspicuous walk, he broke into an all-out run toward the counter. “Pontriss!” he shouted. “Come on, buddy—Jaraki’s in trouble!”

Like magic, every eye in the café turned toward him. “Come on, buddy,” he repeated. “You’ve got the spare jector, right?”

Behind the counter, the thief raised his head a few centimeters, his eyes wide with confusion and growing alarm as he saw Thrass rushing toward him. He opened his mouth as if about to protest, maybe to claim he wasn’t Pontriss and didn’t have any jector.

But it was too late. Everyone was looking at him now, crouched behind the counter where he wasn’t supposed to be. From Thrass’s new vantage point as he ran toward the man, he could see the data siphon plugged into the register. There was a sudden scrambling sound from Thrass’s left.

And as if that was a signal, the thief leapt to his feet and charged toward Thrass, clearly intent on getting past or through him and escaping out the door. Thrass braked to a stop, shifting to a poised stance that would let him move in any direction if the thief tried to dodge around him.

The thief snarled something and snatched out a knife. Thrass took a reflexive step backward, then grabbed a nearby chair and held it in front of him like a shield. Too late, he realized he should have signaled for the patrollers as soon as he and Thrawn realized a robbery was in progress. Too late now.

From behind him came a pair of dull thumps followed by a much louder one. Thrass kept his eyes focused on the man still running toward him—

And then, abruptly, the man faltered and came to a stumbling halt. His eyes flicked over Thrass’s shoulder, then came back to Thrass, a frustrated weariness settling onto his face. With a sigh, he tossed the knife onto a nearby table where another group of wide-eyed gamers was sitting.

“Are you all right?” Thrawn’s voice came.

Thrass risked a look over his shoulder. Thrawn was standing near the exit, his hands raised in combat stance, the man who’d been faking the illness stretched out unconscious on the floor at his feet. The woman and the other man were standing like stunned statues a couple of meters farther back, Thrawn’s quick and efficient neutralization of their friend having apparently convinced them to abandon their own bids for freedom. “I’m fine,” Thrass said, turning back and motioning the fourth member of the gang to move away from his discarded knife. Even with a weapon in hand, he’d apparently decided not to risk it.

But then, like his friends, he’d had a full view of the brief fight. Thrass was starting to regret having missed the show.

He shifted his gaze to the other patrons, most of them just starting to recover from their bewilderment. “Everyone relax—it’s all over,” he called. “Oh, and if one of you fine people would like to call the patrollers?”

The last hour was the hardest. The last half hour was almost literally painful to watch.

Samakro spent that time standing beside Thalias, watching as she swayed visibly despite her grip on the back of Che’ri’s chair, waiting for her to either call an end to the session or else collapse onto the deck from sheer exhaustion. If it came to the latter, hopefully he would be quick enough to catch her.

More worrisome, though far less visible, was the physical and mental state of the sky-walker herself.

Sitting in her chair, gazing at nothing as she manipulated the controls, she looked mostly the way she always did. But Samakro could see the fresh creases around her eyes, the unnatural paleness of her skin, the slightly jerky movements of her fingers. She was as fatigued as Thalias, probably more so, with her smaller child’s body less able to handle the accumulating stress. The longer she kept this up, the more likely she would miss something in the Chaos they were driving through and either damage the ship or send it skating completely off course.

Thrawn surely knew that as well as Samakro did. And yet he continued to sit quietly in his command chair, his eyes moving systematically among the status displays, keeping an occasional eye on Thalias but making no attempt to intervene. Samakro had done a search earlier on his questis, and Che’ri was already long past the record for a sky-walker navigational session. Was Thrawn so obsessed with Rapacc and getting the Magys off the Springhawk that he was willing to risk everything to do so?

Possibly. Or possibly it was simply that Thrawn knew Che’ri better than Samakro did. The senior captain and sky-walker had spent several weeks together out at the edge of Lesser Space, after all. Perhaps during that time Thrawn had gained insight into Che’ri’s stamina and ability to spend extended periods in Third Sight.

But everyone had their limits, and with the Springhawk one easy jump away from Rapacc, Che’ri and Thalias finally reached theirs.

The bridge viewport was glowing with the swirl of hyperspace when Samakro returned from escorting Thalias and Che’ri back to the sky-walker suite. “How are they?” Thrawn asked as Samakro came up beside the command chair.

“About as close to being literally asleep on their feet as I’ve ever seen,” Samakro said. He lowered his voice. “In my opinion, Senior Captain, and off the record, that was an unnecessarily dangerous thing to put the Springhawk through.”

“I agree, Mid Captain,” Thrawn said evenly. “Except for the unnecessarily part.”

Samakro frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t entirely understand myself,” Thrawn conceded. “I simply note that the sudden intensity of Che’ri’s nightmares may point to something significant.”

“You think that the Magys was pushing her extra hard for reasons of her own?”

“Or else that the Magys’s pressure on Che’ri has reached a breaking point,” Thrawn said. “Either way, it suggests that we should take whatever actions and risks are necessary to get her to Rapacc as quickly as we can.”

Samakro looked at the hyperspace swirl. “I hope you’re right, sir.”

“As do I,” Thrawn said, looking over at the nav display. “Lieutenant Commander Azmordi, stand by. Bring us to space-normal a bit farther out from the inner system than you did our last trip here.”

“Yes, Senior Captain,” Azmordi said from the helm. “Breakout position marked.”

“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “Prepare for breakout. Three, two, one.”

The star-flares burst out of the swirl and contracted into stars, and the Springhawk was back in space-normal. “Full scan,” Thrawn ordered.

“You think Uingali foar Marocsaa will still be on station in their captured Nikardun blockade frigate?” Samakro asked.

“That’s one of the things I hoped to see,” Thrawn said. “If he’s not, that may tell us something about the situation here.”

Samakro nodded silently. The last time the Springhawk had paid a visit, Uingali had mentioned other ships having tried to enter the Rapacc system. If one of them had decided not to take no for an answer …

“Combat range clear,” Dalvu called from the sensor station. “Mid-range … three warships, Senior Captain.”

Samakro looked at the sensor display as Dalvu keyed in full magnification. There were three ships out there, all right, though the distance made positive identification impossible. Two of them, battle cruiser size, were facing away from the Springhawk, while the third ship, smaller and somewhat more distant—Uingali’s blockade frigate?—was facing off against them. All three were holding position, and something about their bearing and positioning gave Samakro the impression that he was seeing the last stages of a confrontation.

“Acknowledged,” Thrawn said. “Battle stations.”

The warning lights came on, and the quiet calm of the bridge became an equally quiet flurry of activity as weapons and defense systems were activated and weapons crews summoned to their posts. “Can you identify the two larger ships?” Samakro called.

“No need,” Thrawn said. “They’re sister ships to the Kilji warship Whetstone.”

Samakro peered at the display. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Quite sure,” Thrawn said. “Even from here I can see the similarities between them and the ship we saw at Zyzek.”

“Senior Captain, we’re getting a transmission,” Lieutenant Commander Brisch called from the comm station.

“What do you want with the refugees?” a voice came from the bridge speaker.

Samakro felt his stomach tighten. It was Uingali’s voice, all right, and the comm display marked the signal as coming from the smallest ship of the distant trio.

“Are you deaf as well as unenlightened?” a new voice cut in, rich with anger and arrogance, with the slight echo that indicated the signal was being received by Uingali and then transmitted back out to the Springhawk. “Like all others, they walk in darkness. We are here to take them to a place where they can be enlightened.”

Samakro nodded to himself. Enlightened. Generalirius Nakirre had talked about enlightenment, too. Thrawn was right: These were more of Nakirre’s Kiljis.

“Can you not enlighten them here?” Uingali asked. “They are useful servants to us. We don’t wish to lose them.”

Samakro looked at Thrawn, saw his commander’s eyes narrow. Unless things had changed drastically on Rapacc, the refugees from Sunrise weren’t being worked by the Paccosh. So why would Uingali say such a thing?

Because he was mainly talking to the Kilji warships, of course. They were here to gather up the Sunrise refugees, for some reason, and Uingali was trying to stall them.

An effort that was, unfortunately, doomed to failure. The blockade frigate was vastly overmatched by the two battle cruisers. If and when the Kiljis decided the conversation was over they would move on, and Uingali could either let them go or die in a futile attempt to stop them.

Unless Uingali knew something the Kiljis didn’t.

Samakro looked at the sensor display. The Kilji warships were still facing the blockade frigate without making any attempt to come around to face the far larger Chiss heavy cruiser that had now appeared in the Rapacc system behind them.

Which strongly suggested that, with their attention focused on Uingali and their drive emissions interfering with their aft sensors, they’d completely missed the Springhawk’s arrival.

He felt his lips crease in a tight smile. That was the kind of mistake Thrawn was very good at taking advantage of.

“The wishes of the unenlightened are of no importance,” the Kilji said. “Do you move aside, or do you die?”

“You who claim to offer enlightenment seem all too willing to extinguish the lives of those who need your guidance,” Uingali replied. “But no matter. I accede to your demands. The Nikardun warship Aelos will lead the way. Prepare to follow as I guide you through our orbital defenses.”

Samakro looked at Thrawn. The senior captain had his questis out and was punching in a series of orders and targeting vectors. He finished and keyed them to their respective stations.

“I need no guide,” the Kilji said. “I need you merely to stand aside.”

“The defenses are subtle and mighty,” Uingali said, trying one more time. “Without a guide, you will quickly be overcome.”

There was a brief, guttural sound. “Move aside,” the Kilji ordered. “I will not tell you again.”

“I have my orders. I must stand firm until assistance arrives.”

“Then you will die where you stand.”

“Senior Captain, we can’t interfere,” Samakro warned quietly.

“I think we can,” Thrawn said. “Azmordi? Can you make the necessary in-system jump?”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot confirmed, leaning over his displays as he keyed in the location Thrawn had sent him. “I can’t guarantee closer than a hundred meters, though.”

Samakro felt his stomach tighten. In-system jumps were notoriously tricky, and Thrawn’s plans unfortunately usually required laser-point accuracy. If a hundred meters was too far off the mark, there could be trouble.

But for once, apparently, Thrawn’s strategy had a bit more margin for error. “That will be acceptable,” Thrawn said. “Afpriuh, I trust you can be more accurate?”

“Yes, sir,” Senior Commander Chaf’pri’uhme said confidently from the weapons station. “Spheres armed and locked on targets.”

“Azmordi?”

“Ready, Senior Captain.”

“Afpriuh, fire on my signal,” Thrawn said. “Three, two, one.”

The Springhawk gave a small twitch as the double salvo of plasma spheres blasted from their launchers and disappeared ahead into the darkness. “Azmordi, stand ready,” Thrawn continued. “In-system jump, then yaw portside ninety degrees. Three, two, one.”

The starscape shifted subtly, sparking an equally small flicker of disorientation in Samakro’s brain. It was followed immediately by a much more obvious shift as Azmordi rotated the ship ninety degrees to portside.

Bringing the Springhawk, no doubt exactly as Thrawn had intended, to face the starboard flanks of the two Kilji cruisers.

They were Kiljis, all right, Samakro noted as he looked them over. From the Springhawk’s new vantage point, even he could see the design similarities Thrawn had already noted. One of the warships was also noticeably shorter than the other, with smaller weapons shoulders and fewer electrostatic barrier nodes. Possibly the Kilji equivalent of Chiss heavy and light cruisers.

“Unidentified ships, this is Senior Captain Thrawn of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet warship Springhawk,” Thrawn called in Taarja. “You stand near our prey. Move clear of the Nikardun blockade frigate Aelos or suffer the humiliation of becoming collateral damage.”

Samakro felt his eyes narrow. If the Kilji ships did anything other than simply turn in place … “Sir?” he asked urgently.

“Generalirius Nakirre showed us that same maneuver at Zyzek,” Thrawn reminded him. “It’s a very deliberate, very confident move, and one I expect he taught his chief commanders.” He smiled faintly. “Plus, I ordered him to move away from the Aelos. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to readily obey an adversary’s commands.”

Sure enough, even before Thrawn finished speaking, the two Kiljis began to move. Rotating sideways toward the Springhawk, exactly as the senior captain had anticipated.

“Who are you to speak of prey?” the Kilji’s voice rang out over the bridge speaker. “And who are you to give orders to warships of the Illumine?”

“I already gave you my name,” Thrawn said. “Do you need me to repeat it?”

There was a vicious-sounding snarl from the speaker. “Your name will die with you, unenlightened fool,” the Kilji bit out.

An instant later a volley of laserfire lanced out from both cruisers’ shoulders and bow emplacements.

“Apparently, he means for us to die right now,” Samakro commented.

“Apparently so,” Thrawn agreed, keying the mute switch. “Afpriuh?”

“Barriers holding,” the weapons officer confirmed. “Eighty-nine percent dissipated. I don’t think they’ve found the frequency for our hull yet.”

“Let’s make certain they don’t.” Thrawn keyed the comm back on. “You make an extravagant promise,” he said as the Kilji ships sent out their second salvo. “Does he who makes that promise fear to identify himself to the one he intends to kill?”

“I fear nothing,” the Kilji said. “I am General Crofyp of the Kilji—”

And as the third laserfire barrage blazed across the vacuum, the plasma spheres Thrawn had launched from the Springhawk’s original position completed their journey and slammed into the Kilji cruisers’ starboard flanks.

“Return fire,” Thrawn ordered as the ion burst scattered across the cruisers’ hulls, instantly silencing the weapons they impacted. “Lasers on the portside; breachers on starboard. And one sphere on the Aelos.”

Samakro shifted his attention to the blockade frigate. Uingali was pulling back from the Kilji warships, apparently trying to get clear of the line of fire.

He frowned. Why would Thrawn order a plasma sphere that would thwart that effort?

“He’s moving into position for a cross-fire attack,” Thrawn said, answering Samakro’s unspoken question as a single plasma sphere shot out amid the flurry of breacher missiles and laserfire. “The Kiljis seem to think he’s an ally or at least a neutral. I’d like to preserve that misunderstanding for the moment if I can.”

“Yes, sir,” Samakro said. That made sense, he supposed, though what use Thrawn might have for such a misconception he couldn’t guess.

“Never throw away a possible weapon when it’s unnecessary to do so.” Thrawn nodded toward the viewport. “Especially when the enemy is making a move like that.”

Samakro followed his gaze. The larger Kilji cruiser had moved a short distance toward the Springhawk, driving straight into the storm of laserfire. But as it edged forward, it was also turning its paralyzed starboard flank into the Springhawk’s attack.

Samakro frowned. Were they trying to get themselves destroyed?

And then he understood.

So did the Springhawk’s weapons officer. “Captain, Cruiser One is moving to shield Cruiser Two,” Afpriuh warned.

“Recommend we move dorsal or ventral to compensate,” Azmordi added from the helm.

“Hold position,” Thrawn said. “I think Cruiser One is hoping to give Cruiser Two a chance to escape.”

He smiled grimly at Samakro. “We’re going to let them.”

It was pure luck that the courier ship scheduled to return Thrass to Csilla was delayed an hour. That was the only reason the ship was still rising through Naporar’s atmosphere when the emergency message came through ordering him to head immediately to the Stybla stronghold a quarter of the planet away from his original meeting in the Expansionary Defense Fleet headquarters.

The message carried no additional details. But the courier’s pilot clearly knew what immediately meant, and he had Thrass on the landing area outside the Stybla mansion in record time.

Senior Aide Lappincyk was waiting inside the ornate outer doors. “Welcome, Aristocra Thrass, and thank you for coming,” the other greeted him, his expression grim. “The Patriarch will see you in his office.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode off down the wide hallway.

“I look forward to seeing him,” Thrass said, hurrying to catch up and wondering what was going on. There were no smiles or sly comments from Lappincyk this time, as there’d been when he invited himself to Thrass’s bistro table a handful of years ago. There was no posturing, either, nor had there been any of the reflexive tonal sparring that occurred whenever officials from one family met those from another.

This was a man who was worried. Desperately worried.

Bypassing the larger doors, which Thrass knew from other stronghold mansions led to more formal audience and meeting chambers, Lappincyk led the way to a more unobtrusive door, plain wood with no markings or decoration. He opened it, moving to the side and gesturing Thrass to enter. Thrass gave him a nod of thanks, then stepped into the room.

There were two others already there, Thrass noted as Lappincyk followed him in and closed the door behind them. In the center of the room, seated behind a carved desk, was Patriarch Lamiov, dressed in a formal dark-green outerwrap robe with gold filigree on the collar and down both arms. He was old, his skin paled with age, his close-cut hair displaying a scattered starfield of white. But his eyes were clear and his face was sharp and intelligent.

Standing at the front corner of the desk, half turned toward the door, was Thrawn.

“Welcome, Syndic Thrass,” Lamiov said, his voice grave. “The Stybla are facing a potential disaster of the highest order, and Patriarch Thooraki has graciously offered your assistance in resolving it.”

“We stand by our Patriarch in all things, Your Venerante,” Thrass assured him, picking his words with practiced ease. There was no harm, after all, in reminding Lamiov that he and Thrawn were here at Thooraki’s request, not his.

“Twelve hours ago a Stybla cargo ship left Csilla bound for Sposia and Naporar,” Lamiov said. If he’d noticed the subtle underscoring in Thrass’s comment, he gave no indication. “Seven hours later, it was on its approach to the Desum Industrial Field on Sposia when it was attacked by a pirate ship disguised as an Obbic transport. Before anyone could intervene, the pirates overpowered the crew, took possession of the ship, and escaped into hyperspace.”

Thrass felt his throat tighten. So that was why he and Thrawn were here. The Obbic, the Seventh Ruling Family, were recent and slightly wobbly allies of the Mitth. If someone was hoping to use this incident to tarnish their name and standing, it would make sense for Lamiov to want one of their allies as part of the investigation. “Do we know if any Obbic were actually involved?” he asked.

Lamiov gave a small snort. “I hardly think an Obbic pirate squad would use one of their own ships.”

“Unless they assumed everyone would think that way,” Thrass pointed out.

“Are there recordings of the incident?” Thrawn spoke up, pulling out his questis.

“Yes, three of them,” Lamiov said, picking up his own questis and tapping to send across the data. “I’m afraid none of them are very clear.”

“Understandable,” Thrawn said. “If no one was close enough to intervene, no one would be close enough to make good recordings, either.”

“Who’s in charge of orbital security at Sposia?” Thrass asked, pulling out his questis and keying for his own copy of the recordings.

“Excellent question,” Lamiov said. “Lappincyk?”

“It’s a combined force including elements of the Kynkru, Obbic, Clarr, and Csap,” Lappincyk said. “All four families have strongholds here, which is why the security duties are shared.”

Thrass nodded, gazing at his questis with a sinking heart as the hijacking unfolded. The pirates’ plan was straightforward enough: Their Obbic transport eased up toward the Stybla cargo ship, feigning maneuvering thruster problems, then suddenly slammed alongside and locked the two ships together. For three and a half minutes they remained that way, their mutual orbit continuing to sink them slowly toward the planet below, before the Stybla’s drive suddenly came to full power and drove the still-linked ships toward deep space. Two minutes after that, as the planet’s patrol ships scrambled in a vain attempt to intervene, the hijackers and the hijacked vanished together into hyperspace.

He went through the attack three times, once from each of the recordings’ viewpoints and angles. The multiple viewings didn’t make the mess any easier to watch.

“These patrol ships are designed for two crew members,” Thrawn said. “Yet I see only a single pilot listed on each.”

“That’s correct,” Lappincyk said. “They’ve ordered an upgrade to all their ships, and System Patrol decided the most efficient course of action would be to pull half the pilots off active duty and begin their retraining.”

“Which family arranges the patrol schedule?”

“Again, a joint command group including each of the four families.”

“We already looked at that, Mid Commander,” Lamiov added. “We can find no evidence that the schedulers conspired to maneuver the security forces far enough away that they couldn’t assist the cargo ship in time.”

“I see,” Thrawn said. “In that case, I believe the pirates were of the Clarr.”

Thrass looked up at him in amazement. “The Clarr? Why would they want a Stybla cargo ship?”

“I didn’t suggest it was an upper-level Clarr operation,” Thrawn said. “I merely suggested the pirates were from that family.”

“Why do you think so?” Lamiov asked.

Thrawn gestured to his questis. “Look at the recordings again. The indicators are there.”

“There’s no time for a game of Riddle Me,” Lappincyk said, an edge of impatience in his voice. “Just tell us.”

Thrass looked at Thrawn, and it seemed to him that a flicker of resignation crossed his face. “There are three families represented in these recordings,” he said. He tapped the one made by the Clarr pilot. “But only this pilot is already recording before the attack begins.”

Thrass frowned at his questis. Thrawn was right. “Because she knew it was about to happen.”

“Yes, I see,” Lamiov commented, his voice cold. “Sloppy.”

“Pirates and hijackers are not known for their overall cleverness,” Thrass pointed out, sifting through the possibilities. Criminal gangs typically were organized within a single family, with very few of them crossing family lines. If a Clarr pilot was in on it, as Thrawn had already deduced, presumably the rest of the hijackers were Clarr as well. “You need to detain that pilot immediately, Your Venerante,” he said. “You should also contact someone on Rhigar. Patriarch Clarr’ivl’exow needs to know what’s happened.”

“The pilot is already isolated in a debriefing room,” Lappincyk said, working his questis. “We’ll make sure she doesn’t leave.” He frowned thoughtfully. “As to Patriarch Rivlex, he may already know. We’re getting reports that a number of high-level communications have gone back and forth from his office in the five hours since this happened.”

“He knows about the theft and is trying to track down the hijackers,” Lamiov said grimly. “So he knows.”

Thrass shot a look at Thrawn, saw his same surprise reflected in the other’s face. Had Lamiov just repeated himself?

“So it would seem, Your Venerante,” Lappincyk said. “But Syndic Thrass is correct. You need to discuss this matter with him at once.”

“Agreed.” Lamiov looked at Thrawn and Thrass. “With your permission, I’d like to keep you here for the next short time. We may need more of your assistance to resolve this situation.”

“As I said, we’re here at the behest of our Patriarch,” Thrass said. “Until he says otherwise, we’re yours to command.”

“Though—” Thrawn shot a look at Thrass. “I’m scheduled to take up my new post aboard the Springhawk in three hours. I’m not certain how this delay would be perceived by my superiors.”

Thrass winced. And after the politics-edged debacle with the Lioaoi and Garwians that Thrawn had just suffered through, he could imagine the Hierarchy Defense Council being eager to get him and his picket group out of the Ascendancy and off onto their distant pirate hunt.

“I’ll speak with General Ba’kif,” Lamiov said. “There will be no adverse repercussions, I assure you.”

“Then I also am at your service,” Thrawn said.

“Thank you both,” Lamiov said. “If you’ll follow Senior Aide Lappincyk, he’ll take you to a place where you may rest until I’ve finished my conversations.”

A minute later, the two Mitth found themselves in a small but well-furnished lounge. “What was the problem back there?” Thrass asked as he chose one of the lounge chairs and sat down.

“The problem?”

“You looked somewhat put out when Lamiov and Lappincyk wouldn’t play Riddle Me with you,” Thrass said.

Thrawn looked away, an echo of that same expression again crossing his face. “I wasn’t put out, Thrass,” he said quietly. “I was disappointed. People who can’t see things that are right in front of them …” He shook his head.

“This may come as a shock to you,” Thrass warned, “but most people don’t see things nearly as quickly or as clearly as you do.”

“I know,” Thrawn said. “I just wish … it’s not important.” He lowered himself into the chair beside Thrass’s and pulled out his questis. “We need to focus our attention on the hijacking.”

“Right,” Thrass agreed, pulling out his own questis. “Can’t let Lamiov and the Stybla have all the fun. You have a plan for tracking down the criminals?”

“No, we’ll leave that to the two Patriarchs,” Thrawn said. “It’s clear that something aboard that ship is vital to Lamiov. Let’s focus on that.”

Thrass frowned. “I assumed he cared about the whole cargo.”

“No,” Thrawn said. “At least not primarily. There’s one particular item that he’s predominantly interested in.”

“If you say so,” Thrass said. “How do we start?”

“We find the cargo listings and the locations where each of the items was taken aboard,” Thrawn said. “We try to ascertain the pirates’ specific target, then try to figure out where they might have taken it.”

“Sounds good.” Thrass said. “And Thrawn?”

Thrawn looked up. “Yes?”

“Remember what I just said about people not seeing things as quickly as you do?” Thrass asked. “That thing about the Patriarch mostly caring about one item. That was one of them.”

Qilori had expected to spend at least a couple of hours floating through the vast emptiness while Thrawn decided whether or not the pod was worth picking up. Discovering that the pod’s automatic beacon wasn’t functional raised that estimate to somewhere between several hours and the remainder of his short, oxygen-starved life.

It was therefore a surprise, though a welcome one, when he’d been traveling for barely twenty minutes when a section of the starscape was blotted out and he felt the tug of a tractor beam as it locked onto the pod. Ten minutes after that, the hatch opened into the warmth and security and artificial gravity of the Chiss warship.

Five minutes and a very thorough security frisking after that, he was standing in a small ready room facing Thrawn.

“Senior Captain,” Qilori said, bowing his head. “I thank you for the rescue—”

“Does the other Kilji ship also employ a Pathfinder?” Thrawn interrupted.

Qilori felt his cheek winglets twitch. What kind of question was that? “Ah … yes. They do.”

“Good,” Thrawn said, standing up and gesturing to Qilori’s guards. “Take him to the bridge. You’re going to chase down that other Pathfinder for us.”

“What?” Qilori managed as the two blueskins took his upper arms and turned him back toward the hatch. “No—I can’t. That’s not possible.”

“You forget, Qilori of Uandualon, that I know your secret,” Thrawn said, falling into step beside him as the guards marched him down the corridor. “I know how Pathfinders in hyperspace are able to sense one another.” He turned those disturbing glowing red eyes on him. “You’ve used that ability to aid pirates, military attack forces, and General Yiv himself. Do I need to remind you what the other nations of the region would do if they also knew that?”

“No,” Qilori said between clenched teeth. “But I didn’t say I was unwilling. I said it wasn’t possible. I left my sensory-deprivation headset on the Anvil, and without it I can’t join with the Great Presence.”

“You also forget that I’ve seen the headset you use,” Thrawn said. “Something similar will be waiting for you.”

The bridge was a flurry of activity when they arrived. Qilori was escorted to the navigator’s chair—a very nice, very well-padded chair, he noted as he sat down—and was handed a cobbled-together monstrosity of a headset. “Will this suffice?” Thrawn asked.

Qilori pretended to study the headset, his eyes flicking over the board in front of him as he did so. He could read the Cheunh labeling reasonably well; unfortunately, there was nothing there that might indicate the presence of a mechanical navigator. But then, those controls would probably be disguised, lest some casual alien visitor notice them.

He slipped on the headset for a quick test. The thing was clumsy and inelegant, but it should do the job. “Yes, it will work,” he said. He took it off, set it on the edge of the board, and began strapping in.

“Good,” Thrawn said. “You will locate the other Pathfinder and follow him. I’ll let you know when you’re to stop.” The Chiss put a restraining hand on the headset as Qilori picked it up again. “And I’m fairly certain I know where that ship is going,” he warned. “Don’t try to mislead me.”

Qilori’s winglets twitched. “I won’t.”

Thrawn lifted his hand away and Qilori again settled the headset in place, blocking out the bridge, the Chiss, and the rest of the universe. Slipping into his trance, he let the Great Presence surround and fill him. The Hammer’s Pathfinder … there he was.

Qilori felt his winglets tense. He’d expected the picket cruiser to return to the system where the two Pathfinders had been brought after being hired. But that wasn’t the case. Instead the Hammer was headed in a completely different direction. If Thrawn thought he knew where they’d come from, and expected them to go back …

But there was nothing Qilori could do about that. He’d been ordered to follow the Hammer, and trying to anticipate or second-guess what Thrawn wanted or didn’t want would be a dangerous and probably futile game. Bracing himself, he reached for the controls.

He frowned inside the headset. The chair itself, as he’d already noted, had been set at the proper height and width. But the control board itself was noticeably too close. Had they somehow missed the length of his arms when they preadjusted it for him?

No matter; he could make do. Getting a grip on the controls, he launched the ship into hyperspace.

It seemed that he was nestled within the Great Presence for a long time, the glow permeating his mind, the other Pathfinder an extra-bright spark in the distance. But it was probably only a few minutes before he felt the distant touch of a hand on his shoulder, a touch that gradually grew stronger and more insistent. Reluctantly, he let go of the glow, and the Great Presence faded, and he was once again blind and deaf in the midst of people who probably distrusted him and certainly resented him.

He pulled off the headset. Thrawn was standing beside him, gazing out at the pulsating hyperspace sky. “Is there a problem, Senior Captain?” he asked carefully.

“No,” Thrawn said.

Qilori felt his winglets stiffen. From Thrawn’s expression and voice it was clear there was definitely something wrong. Fortunately, the problem didn’t seem to be with Qilori himself. “What happens now?”

“You’ll be taken to your quarters,” Thrawn said, motioning him out of the chair. “And then we’ll return to Rapacc.”

Your quarters. Apparently, Qilori was to be a guest aboard the blueskin warship for awhile.

Still, it could have been worse. Thrawn could have had him taken to the brig.

“Thank you again for the rescue,” he said as he stood up. “Please let me know if there’s anything more I can do for you.”

“I will,” Thrawn said softly, those glowing eyes once again digging deep into Qilori’s soul. “Indeed I will.”

Thurfian delivered his report to the Defense Hierarchy Council three hours after the Kilji warship left Avidich orbit and disappeared back into the vast reaches of interstellar space between the worlds of the Ascendancy. Within six hours the Dasklo, Xodlak, Erighal, and Pommrio families had all lodged protests with the Syndicure, accusing the Mitth of engaging in innuendo tactics, denouncing Thurfian’s report, and demanding he withdraw his accusations or else offer proof of his claims. The fact that Thurfian had made no claims of his own but had merely reported on someone else’s either passed them by or were deliberately ignored.

Usually, such political outrages quickly faded into the background as the various families sorted out their alliances and rivalries, strengthening, re-forming, or redefining as needed, until a new dispute arose to replace it. But in this case, the outrage melded with a rising level of dark anticipation. This latest scandal had come on the heels of the Hoxim incident, which was itself far from resolved. Moreover, it had originated from an alien warship, and as the Defense Force scrambled to provide additional protection for the major Chiss worlds the various families began making quiet preparations of their own.

Three days after making his report, Thurfian finally received the expected call from Syndic Prime Zistalmu.

“I don’t know what to say,” Zistalmu growled, his expression showing a mix of disbelief and suspicion. “An alien warship pops in over Avidich, talks to your Patriel, spins some wild claims about the Dasklo being up to no good, and then pops out again?”

“I know it sounds fantastic,” Thurfian conceded. “But that’s what happened.”

“He talked to your Patriel about a threat to the Clarr,” Zistalmu said. “Not the Clarr Patriel. Yours.”

“Maybe Jixtus wasn’t sure who he should talk to,” Thurfian said. “The Mitth have the largest presence of all the Nine and Forty on Avidich. Maybe he wanted to talk to the family more or less in charge of the planet.”

“He knew the names of the four families he says are involved,” Zistalmu countered. “Why not one of them? Why you?”

“I already said I don’t know,” Thurfian said patiently. “I presume you have a theory?”

For a moment Zistalmu seemed to study his face. “The Erighal, Xodlak, and Pommrio were at Hoxim,” he said. “Jixtus could have learned those names there.”

“Or from the Agbui who apparently goaded them into going to Hoxim in the first place.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Zistalmu said. “But there was one other family present at Hoxim. Senior Captain Thrawn and the Springhawk.”

“Which according to all reports was being pummeled by alien gunships when the three family forces arrived,” Thurfian reminded him.

“So they say,” Zistalmu said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “We’ve already dismissed the idea that he was caught in an ambush. So tell me, Thurfian: When was the last time you heard about him being pummeled?”

Thurfian felt his throat tighten. He’d wondered that same thing since the first bits of information about Hoxim began trickling out. He’d wondered about it a lot. “I thought the whole premise of our private conversations was that he was eventually going to mess up. Maybe this was it.”

“No,” Zistalmu said firmly. “We expect him to fail on a massive, disastrous level. Not in something as mundane as simple combat. No, something happened at Hoxim, something that involved Thrawn. Apparently, this Jixtus knows all about it.” He cocked his head slightly to the side. “My question is, do you?”

“I know nothing beyond what was in the Hoxim reports, and what I reported to the Syndicure about Jixtus,” Thurfian said. “I presume you noticed that when he showed up again at Rhigal, he did talk to the Clarr?”

“Whose report on the incident, I also note, was remarkably similar to yours,” Zistalmu said. “Including how Patriarch Rivlex virtuously sent the aliens on their way without making any deals.”

“You think he did?” Thurfian asked.

Zistalmu snorted. “The way the Clarr and Dasklo have been at each other’s throats forever? I think that if you dangled something in front of Rivlex that he thought he could stab them with, he’d buy it like a shot.”

“That vid Jixtus showed us certainly isn’t that magic spear,” Thurfian warned. “All it’s good for is to light unverifiable fires under the Dasklo, the other three families—”

“Hold it,” Zistalmu cut in, his eyes shifting away from the cam. “There’s an emergency alert coming in.”

Thurfian looked over at his own data feed monitor. Nothing was showing the double-red border that would indicate an alert. It must be something on the private Irizi channel, a situation pertaining only to the Irizi or one of their allies.

Zistalmu muttered a curse. “What was that you said about lighting fires?” he asked, his voice suddenly grim.

“What is it?” Thurfian asked.

“Jamiron,” Zistalmu told him. “A Clarr convoy there is being attacked.”

“That’s impossible,” Thurfian insisted, keying the monitor into the Defense Force feed. “Jixtus and the Kiljis can’t be stupid enough to think they can get away with an overt attack—”

“It’s not the Kiljis,” Zistalmu cut him off. “It’s—” His lips compressed. “It’s the Erighal and Xodlak.”

Thurfian felt his mouth drop open. “What?”

“Four Clarr freighters from the family’s electronics manufactory complex have been intercepted by two Erighal and two Xodlak patrol ships,” Zistalmu said. “Their escort cruiser’s fighting back … three Clarr system patrol ships are trying to assist … damn. Three more Erighals are engaging the Clarr patrol.”

“You’re sure about their identities?” Thurfian asked, his mind reeling. What did they think they were doing?

“Their family crests are covered,” Zistalmu said. “But the reports say the obscuring masks fit the proper shapes for those crests. They also say the ships show their families’ specific design peculiarities.”

“I see,” Thurfian said, keying his monitor to the Mitth family fleet status listings. This attack made no sense at all, but right now that didn’t matter. There would be time enough to sort it out after the Clarr freighters were safe. “All right,” he said. “We have two patrol ships at Rentor—I can send them to assist.”

“They’ll never get there in time.”

“Depends on how well the defenders can hold up,” Thurfian said. “We’ve also got a light cruiser traveling from Rentor to Sposia that should be passing Jamiron just about now.”

“No, don’t bother,” Zistalmu said.

“It’s a long shot,” Thurfian said, “but if the captain decides to stop at Jamiron I can send a message—”

“I said no!”

Thurfian twitched. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’ll handle it, Thurfian,” Zistalmu ground out. “I mean, we’ll handle it, Your Venerante.”

Thurfian stared at him. Zistalmu’s expression was tight, his eyes blazing with emotion. “Zistalmu, what’s going on?” he asked carefully.

Zistalmu took a long, shuddering breath. “This could be an attack by the Erighal and Xodlak. Or it could be something entirely different.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a trick by the Mitth,” Zistalmu said bluntly.

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” Zistalmu countered. “Face it, Thurfian—Your Venerante—our families have been locking antlers for centuries. We’ve both tried to create alliances with the Clarr over those years, and neither of us has ever succeeded. Now we’ve suddenly got aliens in the Ascendancy warning that the Xodlak—one of our allies—are thinking about teaming up with the Dasklo. What better chance for the Mitth to stage a false Xodlak attack against the Clarr and then swoop in to save the day? I imagine the Clarr would be very grateful for that assistance.”

“You can’t possibly believe we’d do something like that,” Thurfian protested. “Fine, so our families are rivals. But I thought we had an understanding. Our common enemy, remember?”

“Thrawn?” Zistalmu snorted. “Maybe that was what he was once. I’m not so sure he is anymore.”

“Nothing has changed,” Thurfian insisted. No—surely Zistalmu wasn’t going to fall apart on him. Not now. “He’s still a threat to the Ascendancy—”

“I have to go, Your Venerante,” Zistalmu said. “My Speaker and Patriarch need my attention.” He paused, and his lip twitched. “And it’s Syndic Prime Zistalmu.” He reached off-cam and his face vanished from the display.

For a few seconds Thurfian stared at the blank screen, his mind still spinning. What madness could have possessed the Erighal and Xodlak families to pull something like this?

He had no idea. But right now that didn’t matter. Zistalmu’s wishes and suspicions be damned—if the Mitth could help in this crisis, they would.

Starting with a continuous broadcast message to the light cruiser he’d mentioned. With the relatively safe hyperspace travel within the Ascendancy, there was no particular reason for the cruiser’s captain to pause in his journey for a navigation check or repositioning before continuing. But experienced and meticulous commanders sometimes did that anyway, just to be on the safe side.

Thurfian could only hope this particular captain was experienced and meticulous.

For the next three hours, Thrass and Thrawn worked alone in the Stybla stronghold lounge where Patriarch Lamiov had left them. Thrass used the time to pull up the cargo listings as Thrawn had suggested and start sifting through them.

But those records held a lot of detail. If there was anything unusual, it wasn’t obvious from his first pass.

Thrawn, with his talent for seeing things that other people missed, would probably have done a better job. But while Thrass had been slogging through the manifests, Thrawn had gone off on some other tangent entirely, concentrating on something that was apparently so engrossing he couldn’t even spare enough mental capacity to hear Thrass’s questions and subtle probings.

Thrass had just decided it was time for his questions to get less subtle when Lamiov finally returned.

Returned alone, Thrass noted with mild surprise. Up to now, Senior Aide Lappincyk had always been hovering close to the Patriarch’s side, ready to offer information, advice, and support. His current absence was a bit perplexing, maybe even a little ominous.

“Good evening, Your Venerante,” Thrass greeted the Patriarch as he hastily stood up. Thrawn, focused on his questis, didn’t seem to notice the other’s arrival. “I’m afraid we haven’t made much progress.”

“Understandable,” Lamiov said, eyeing Thrawn still seated in his chair but apparently deciding it wasn’t worth calling him on his breach of etiquette. “It’s a complicated matter. Has food been brought in for you? No? I’ll make sure that oversight is remedied.”

“No need, Your Venerante,” Thrawn said, finally looking up. “We can eat aboard the ship.”

Thrass frowned at him. Ship? Was Thrawn planning to leave already? He opened his mouth to ask, glancing at Lamiov to see the other’s reaction to Thrawn’s odd comment.

The question died midway to completion. The Patriarch’s face had gone rigid, his posture suddenly stiff. “How did you know?” he asked, his voice as strained as his face.

“How did he know what?” Thrass asked, thoroughly confused now.

“The good news, from your perspective,” Thrawn continued, ignoring both questions, “is that I don’t think the Clarr Patriarch knows about the special cargo. I believe the intensity of his search for the hijackers is motivated solely by a desire to find them before you and the Stybla do.”

“Wait a minute, you’ve lost me,” Thrass put in, looking back and forth between Thrawn and Lamiov. Whatever Thrawn was talking about, the two of them were clearly on the same page, whereas Thrass hadn’t even found the right book. “What special cargo? What desire?”

“Your Venerante?” Thrawn prompted.

Lamiov waved his hand, a short, twitchy motion. “You seem to know everything,” he said. Crossing to them, he sank into the chair across from Thrawn. “Please; explain it to him.”

“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “Let me begin by saying I was wrong about the Clarr patrol pilot being part of the plot. I believe now that she was working as an agent of the Clarr Patriarch and had been alerted that the supposed Obbic transport might be a pirate in disguise and was preparing to hijack another ship.”

“If she knew, why didn’t she alert Patrol Command?” Thrass asked.

“Because the Clarr Patriarch didn’t know for certain the attack would take place,” Thrawn said. “Alerting Command or deviating from her proper patrol path might have warned the hijackers and frightened them off.”

“Which would have been a good thing, right?”

“For that particular ship, yes,” Thrawn said. “But the hijackers would merely have traveled to a different system and chosen another target.”

“I see,” Thrass murmured. This way, at least the Sposia authorities had a record of the attack.

“It’s also likely she hoped she would be able to intervene,” Thrawn said. “Unfortunately, the hijackers apparently moved faster than she anticipated.” He turned back to Lamiov. “I’ve been studying the criminal law agreements between the Clarr and the Stybla, Your Venerante. From the tiered penalty clauses involved, and given the Clarr Patriarch’s determined efforts to catch the criminals without assistance, I suspect at least one of the hijackers is a Clarr cousin.”

Lamiov huffed out a sigh. “Blood, Mid Commander,” he corrected, his voice heavy. “He’s Clarr blood. And you’re right. You saw the agreements. You know the penalties if anyone of that rank commits a crime against us.”

Thrass nodded, wincing as he finally understood. Families took their delicately balanced relationships with other families very seriously. A blood relative committing a crime like this could rock that relationship to the core, which was why there were always huge disincentives written into family accords.

But only if the perpetrator was caught by the victimized family. If the Clarr could grab him first and cover up proof of his crime, both families could officially pretend it never happened.

Unfortunately, allowing the Clarr the freedom to pursue the hijackers would leave Patriarch Lamiov and the Stybla sitting idly with some mysterious and valuable cargo hanging in the balance. “I presume you’ve offered help in catching him?” he asked.

“I’ve spent the past three hours making every possible variant on that suggestion to Patriarch Rivlex,” Lamiov said. “He’s rejected all my offers, including a onetime leniency for the penalty if our families jointly take him into custody.”

“Worried about the aftershocks,” Thrass murmured. “No one likes dealing with onetime agreements.”

“Understandably,” Lamiov said. “At the same time, I can’t afford to just sit by and trust Patriarch Rivlex to bring this to a satisfactory end.”

“What about us, then?” Thrass asked. “Thrawn and me? The hijackers haven’t committed any acts against the Mitth, so we’re not encumbered by those agreements or their penalty clauses. Would the Clarr work with us if the Stybla stayed out of it?”

Lamiov gave him a faint smile. “That was also one of the options I presented, Syndic Thrass. It was also rejected.” He shook his head. “In a way, I can’t really blame him. He has no idea of the seriousness of the situation.”

“Then perhaps you should tell him,” Thrawn said.

“No,” Lamiov said firmly. “That information isn’t mine to share.”

“Can you tell us, then?” Thrawn persisted. “It would help if we knew exactly what we were trying to retrieve.”

Lamiov gave a little snort. “What part of not mine to share was unclear, Mid Commander?”

“Understood,” Thrawn said. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind after we deliver it to you.”

“After you deliver it?” Lamiov asked with a wan smile.

“Thrawn, the Clarr already said they won’t work with us,” Thrass reminded him.

“That’s why we’re going to find it ourselves,” Thrawn said calmly. “Can you tell us, Patriarch, where the Clarr patrol ship pilot sent her report after the hijacking?”

“Excuse me?” Lamiov said, frowning at Thrawn. “You’re going to find it?”

“Along with Senior Aide Lappincyk, of course,” Thrawn said. “I assume that’s your reason for sending him to prepare a patrol ship. I ask again, Patriarch: Where did the Clarr pilot send her report?”

“How do you know what Senior Aide Lappincyk is doing?” Lamiov asked, still frowning.

Thrawn glanced at Thrass, the same hint of resignation on his face that Thrass had seen earlier in Lamiov’s office. “Aside from the few moments when he was greeting Syndic Thrass, Senior Aide Lappincyk has been at your side since I arrived,” he said. “We’ve watched him anticipate your orders and information requests. Clearly, he’s your closest confidant. Yet now, when you’re negotiating what may be a crucial agreement between us, he’s nowhere to be seen.”

“Yet I didn’t know myself until just now that you would offer your cooperation in this matter,” Lamiov pointed out.

“Of course you did,” Thrawn said. “That was your whole purpose in bringing us here in the first place.”

“You planned to maneuver us into this position,” Thrass said, feeling like an idiot as he finally got it. Politics was supposed to be his strong point; he really should have figured this out himself. “Can we assume Patriarch Thooraki also knows about this? No, I’m wrong,” he corrected himself before Lamiov could answer. “Patriarch Thooraki suggested it, didn’t he?”

“As a matter of fact, he did,” Lamiov conceded. “With the concurrence and support of General Ba’kif.” He smiled faintly. “I confess I thought both of them were inflating your investigative and deductive skills far beyond reality.”

“Hopefully, your doubts have been calmed,” Thrawn said. “The patrol pilot’s transmissions?”

“She made two calls: the first to Cormit, the second to Rhigar.”

Thrass frowned. Rhigar, location of the chief Clarr family stronghold, was an obvious choice to send an alert. But Cormit? “What’s at Cormit?” he asked.

“A Clarr fleet depot,” Thrawn said, frowning down at his questis. “Currently anchored by the light cruiser Orisson. The fact that the pilot called there first suggests the hijackers are heading southeast, and she hoped family forces could intercept them before they left the Ascendancy.”

“Could they intercept them?” Thrass asked. “That class of transport is pretty fast.”

“But they’ll have to carry the Stybla freighter while they transfer the cargo, which will slow them considerably,” Thrawn said. “Their other option would be to stop somewhere while the transfer takes place. Either way, there’ll be a delay that the Clarr clearly hoped to take advantage of.”

“You think they’re heading to some alien world, then?” Lamiov asked.

“I think so, yes,” Thrawn said. “There are a number of border worlds that function as rendezvous points between Chiss thieves and some of the small nations of the region. The more cautious ones use a rotating schedule, with the rendezvous point shifting each month from one planet to another. The Clarr must know or suspect that these particular hijackers favor the group to the southeast, which is why the pilot sent her first alert to Cormit.”

“If you’re right, the Clarr have a considerable head start,” Lamiov pointed out.

“Only if they know which specific world the hijackers are heading to,” Thrawn said. “I don’t believe they do.”

“Why do you say that?” Lamiov asked.

“Because you said you spent three hours discussing the issue,” Thrawn said. “The only reason for Patriarch Rivlex to keep you busy that long was if he was trying to offer you hope of an agreement and thus delay your people from beginning their own pursuit.”

“So we have a chance?” Thrass said.

“Yes,” Thrawn said. “And I believe it’s a good one. It all depends on whether we can reach the hijacked ship first.”

“And you know where it is?” Lamiov asked.

Thrawn held up his questis. “As a matter of fact, Your Venerante,” he said, “I believe I do.” 

Samakro was sound asleep in his cabin when the call came in from Senior Commander Kharill that the Springhawk’s first officer was wanted on the bridge.

He found Kharill standing at the helm station, conversing in a low voice to the pilot and looking out the viewport at the starscape. “All right, I’m here,” Samakro said, sending a quick look around at the status displays as he started across the bridge. “You said there was a crisis?”

“I think so, yes, Mid Captain,” Kharill said hesitantly.

Samakro came to a stop. “You think so?”

“Yes, sir,” Kharill said, flinching a bit at his superior’s tone. “Mid Commander Ieklior was attempting to continue our trip to the Ascendancy when he realized the stars weren’t lining up properly.”

“What do you mean, not lining up?” Samakro asked, starting forward again. “How far off course are we?”

“That’s the problem,” Kharill said. “We don’t know. We’re still trying to figure that out.”

“That makes no sense,” Samakro insisted, eyeing the starlight blazing coldly through the viewport. He reached the other two and gave the nav displays a careful look.

Kharill was right. The pattern wasn’t anywhere near where it should be.

“Ieklior has checked both the known sharp-variable stars and the quasi-stellars,” Kharill continued. “He’s looking at the other major microwave sources.” He paused, and Samakro saw his throat work. “I’m wondering, sir, if there could be something wrong with our sky-walker,” he added, lowering his voice. “She’s not supposed to lose Third Sight this young, but stranger things have happened.”

“So they have,” Samakro murmured, gazing again at the stars.

“And she just came off a full ten hours at the nav station,” Kharill reminded him. “If she was accidentally going the wrong direction that whole time, it could take us a long time to sort this out.”

“Maybe not.” Samakro took a deep breath, then turned and headed back toward the bridge hatch. “Continue your analysis, Senior Commander,” he said over his shoulder. “Find out where we are. I’ll return shortly.”

It was supposed to be a sleep period for both the Grayshrike’s sky-walker and her caregiver. To Samakro’s complete lack of surprise, Thalias was still awake and dressed when he arrived at their suite.

“Good evening, Mid Captain,” she greeted him gravely as she stepped out of the open hatchway to let him inside. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“I imagine you have,” Samakro said, looking across at the closed hatch of Che’ri’s sleeping room. Good—this wasn’t a conversation he wanted the girl listening in on. “I take it Sky-walker Che’ri won’t be joining us?”

“No, she was too tired,” Thalias said, gesturing Samakro toward the dayroom couch. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Just as well,” Samakro said, ignoring both the invitation and the couch. “I trust you realize that during wartime, disobeying a direct order is punishable by death.”

A muscle in Thalias’s cheek tightened. “I guess it’s lucky we’re not at war.”

“Given everything that’s happened over the past few months, I wouldn’t make any blanket assumptions if I were you,” Samakro ground out. “I’d also take this situation a lot more seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously, Mid Captain,” Thalias said, her voice going dark. “Senior Captain Thrawn is heading alone into horrible danger. I couldn’t just stand idly by and let that happen.”

“So you talked Che’ri into committing mutiny and hijacked the ship.”

“You don’t want to let him die, either, sir,” she said, her voice quavering a little with emotion. “I know.”

“What you know and what I want are completely irrelevant,” Samakro countered. “I’ve been given an order, and my job is to carry it out. If you persist in standing in the way, I can have you confined.”

“You think Che’ri will navigate the ship if I’m locked up?”

“I think Che’ri knows her duty,” Samakro said. “Maybe better than you do. If not, we’ll just head for home via jump-by-jump. That will give both of you plenty of time to regret your decision and wonder what kind of futures you have. If any.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It’s supposed to bring you back to your senses.” Samakro said. “Right now, all we’ve got is a failure of the nav system to locate our position. If you and Che’ri turn us back toward the Ascendancy—right now—nothing more needs to be said about it.”

“And then what happens to Senior Captain Thrawn?”

“He rises or falls by his own decisions, just like all the rest of us have to,” Samakro said. “That’s how the universe works, Caregiver.”

“No,” Thalias said flatly. “No, I don’t accept that. We don’t all live in our own private niches, with no one else affecting or being affected by what we do.” She gestured toward Samakro. “What about you, Mid Captain? Are you willing to just let him go off into danger?”

“I’ve already said I don’t have a choice.”

“What if you did?”

Samakro cocked his head slightly. “I’m listening.”

“I did a quick calculation of how long it’ll take to get home via jump-by-jump,” Thalias said. “My numbers may be off a little—” She gestured the point away. “Anyway, what I’m saying is that if Che’ri navigates we can get to Sunrise and then back to the Ascendancy faster than heading back from here via jump-by-jump.”

“But slower than if she took us directly home.”

“Yes,” Thalias conceded.

“You also assume she’ll side with you and not with her legal commander,” Samakro added. “That she’ll risk the dishonor and criminal charges of mutiny just because you want her to.”

Thalias’s eyes drifted away from Samakro’s, a tumble of conflicting emotions chasing each other across her face. “You have it backward, Mid Captain,” she said at last. “This isn’t my idea. It’s hers.”

“Right,” Samakro scoffed. “As if a ten-year-old girl—”

He broke off at the expression on Thalias’s face. “Why would she do that?”

“She’s afraid for Senior Captain Thrawn,” Thalias said. “She spent a lot of time with him, you know, out at the edge of Lesser Space. I think she probably knows him better even than you do. She knows the kind of tasks he takes on, and she knows this one could get him killed.” She seemed to brace herself. “And I think … she thinks … the Magys agrees we have to help him.”

Samakro felt a chill run up his spine. Thrawn had told him about his conversation with Thalias and the idea that the Magys might be intruding into Che’ri’s dreams. But he’d dismissed it as fuzzy-edged speculation at best and complete fantasy at worst. “I thought the Magys only did that when she was asleep.”

“I thought so, too,” Thalias said. “But the Magys was in hibernation at the time. Maybe they both had to be asleep for it to work. Maybe now it only works when they’re both awake.”

“And you didn’t say anything?” Samakro demanded. “It didn’t occur to you that it might be something Senior Captain Thrawn needed to know?”

“I didn’t know about it until I told Che’ri you’d ordered us back home,” Thalias said. “She hadn’t said anything until then.”

“Then it should have occurred to her to tell us,” Samakro muttered, Thalias’s revelation swirling through his mind like a whirlwind. The sky-walkers and their Third Sight were one of the Ascendancy’s most closely guarded secrets. If this alien could intrude or tap into that ability, the consequences could be catastrophic.

And with that, this whole thing had suddenly taken an unexpected turn. “Why is she steering Che’ri around anyway? Just for the fun of it?”

“I don’t think there’s any real control involved,” Thalias said. “At least, that’s not what Che’ri says. The Magys is afraid for the Guardian’s safety, and sees Che’ri and the Grayshrike as his only protection.”

“She’s calling him the Guardian, now?” Samakro asked sourly. “What does that mean? She’s adopted him into her clan?”

“I don’t know how she sees him,” Thalias confessed. “I just know she thinks he’s in danger, and that—”

“And that we’re the only ones who can save him,” Samakro said. “Yes, you already said that.”

“Because if another Battle Dreadnought is waiting at Sunrise, Senior Captain Thrawn and the Paccosh will be in big trouble,” Thalias said.

“Their blockade frigate plus the Springhawk won’t do much better,” Samakro pointed out. “Not in a straight toe-to-toe fight. The last time we tangled with one of them, it took the combined power of the Vigilant and Grayshrike to take it down.”

“I know,” Thalias said, wincing. “Senior Captain Thrawn showed me their report.”

“So you realize going there would likely just mean death for all of us,” Samakro concluded. “Does the Magys know that? Or does she even care?”

“I don’t know,” Thalias confessed. “All I know is that Che’ri cares, and she’s convinced we need to be there.”

Samakro looked at Che’ri’s closed hatch. “What about you?” he asked. “What do you say about all this?”

“I don’t think my vote really counts,” Thalias said. “You’re the Springhawk’s current commander; Che’ri is your sky-walker. All that matters is what you two decide.”

“Except that if I don’t side with Che’ri, we’re a long time getting home,” Samakro pointed out. “Doesn’t sound like I get much of a vote, either.”

“Your commander’s in trouble.” Thalias hunched her shoulders. “At the very least, we should go watch him get himself killed. It would help the Syndicure keep its files tidy.”

“That it would,” Samakro agreed heavily. “And we all know how much they like keeping records.”

“I understand if you don’t want to go along with this, Mid Captain,” Thalias said. “All I can say is that Che’ri thinks it has to be done, and I trust her judgment.”

“I realize that,” Samakro said, eyeing her closely. “Let me make my position clear. Heading to Sunrise would be a violation of my commander’s explicit order. The fact that following his order might lead to his death doesn’t change my obligation to obey it.”

“I know,” Thalias said. “But I thought—”

“I’m not finished,” Samakro interrupted. “At the same time, the sky-walker is a critical part of every Expansionary Defense Fleet voyage. Over the months that Che’ri has been aboard, I’ve kept a close eye on her moods and needs. I’ve never known her to present any outrageous or frivolous demands, and her current defiance of her orders is so unlike her that I’m inclined to take her fears seriously.”

He looked again at the sky-walker’s sleeping room. “Luckily for her, I’m the commander on the scene. That means I’m authorized to change or ignore orders as I deem the situation requires.”

“Are you saying …?” Thalias seemed to wilt. “Thank you, Mid Captain.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Samakro warned. “If we’re going to make it in time, there are needs, and there are conditions.”

He lifted a hand, started ticking off fingers. “Point one: If we’re going to get to Sunrise and then back to Naporar before Supreme General Ba’kif starts worrying about us, the two of you are going to have to push yourselves right to the limit. Short breaks, short sleeps, meals on the run—basically, you’re going to be living on the bridge. If you don’t think you can handle that, say so now and I’ll order Senior Commander Kharill to turn us back toward the Ascendancy.”

“We can do it,” Thalias said firmly.

“I hope so,” Samakro said. “Point two: You don’t talk about this thing with the Magys to anyone. Not here, not at Sunrise, not back at Naporor. Whatever needs to be said to the Council or Syndicure, I’ll be the one to say it.”

“Understood.”

“And point three.” Samakro let his eyes narrow. “Before we do anything more—before I let Sky-walker Che’ri back on the bridge—you make it abundantly clear to her that if this whole thing goes facedown, it could mean the end of all our careers. Not just yours and mine, but hers as well. If she had hopes of joining any of the Ruling Families, she can forget them right now. In fact, even the Forty might not want her after this. If that’s something you don’t think she can handle, say so right now.”

“She can handle it,” Thalias said. She took another look at his expression—“But I’ll make sure,” she added.

“You do that,” Samakro said. “How long has she been asleep?”

Thalias looked at the chrono. “About twenty minutes.”

“How long does she usually sleep?”

“About eight hours at a time.”

“She’s got four,” Samakro said. “Four hours and fifteen minutes from now I expect to see you both on the bridge.”

Thalias winced, but her nod was firm enough. “We’ll be there.”

“So will I,” Samakro said. “Until then, I’ll get us traveling jump-by-jump. I assume Che’ri was taking us straight toward Sunrise?”

“From the point where she took over, yes.”

“Good,” Samakro said. “Now that I know we were looking at the wrong part of the charts, we’ll be able to calculate our position easily enough. Remember: four and a quarter hours. Don’t be late.”

“We won’t,” Thalias promised.

“And remember that the Paccosh have a Pathfinder with them,” Samakro warned. “If we’re going to get to Sunrise before them, or even before it’s all over, we need to push it.”

“Don’t worry, Mid Captain,” Thalias promised. “We’ll make it.”

“I hope so,” Samakro said. “For all our sakes.”

Planetary guard duty, as Ar’alani had expected, was pretty monotonous. Even the presence of alien warships lurking in Ascendancy space couldn’t change the fact that the Vigilant was spending all its time going around and around Sposia, staying clear of edgy patrol ships and nervous civilian transports and waiting for potential threats to show themselves.

So far they hadn’t. But Ar’alani knew better than to let her officers and warriors grow complacent. That only worked to the enemy’s advantage. Drills, snap alerts, and other physical and mental challenges became the order of the day.

Still, after a few such unexpected challenges even that grew to be routine.

At least the Vigilant wasn’t getting the quiet hostility that some of the other Expansionary Defense Fleet ships were experiencing with their new duties. Most of the major Chiss worlds were dominated by families of the Nine or the Forty, and too many of those elites saw any intrusion into what they considered their territory to be an insult to their own defense capabilities. Sposia, while technically controlled by the Clarr and Obbic, also included the Kynkru and Csap families in their patrol system, and all four of them were generally willing to defer to the Stybla in matters of defense policy. The Stybla themselves, given their family’s position at the lower end of the Forty, were more than happy to accept whatever help Csilla and Naporar offered in the way of warships.

Ar’alani was sitting in her command chair, trying to think up something new to throw at her crew, when Larsiom stirred in his seat at the comm station. “Admiral?” he called across the bridge. “We’re receiving a transmission from Supreme General Ba’kif.”

“Acknowledge and connect,” Ar’alani said, keying her mike. “Supreme General Ba’kif, this is Admiral Ar’alani.”

“Good day, Admiral,” Ba’kif’s voice came back. “I understand things are still quiet at Sposia?”

“Yes, sir, so far,” Ar’alani said. “Are you expecting that to change?”

“That’s a good question,” Ba’kif said. “I presume you’ve been following the reports on our mysterious Jixtus and his travels?”

“Yes, sir, I have,” Ar’alani said, scowling to herself. So far the Kilji battle cruiser had visited six planets and Jixtus had conversed with four senior officials of the Nine and thirteen of the Forty. At this rate, he’d have most of the Chiss hierarchy covered within the month. “Is Sposia next on his schedule?”

“We don’t know,” Ba’kif said. “So far we haven’t been able to find a pattern in his travels, relating to either planetary position or rank among the Aristocra. But that brings us to another, more pressing issue. Since last night, two more of the Nine have begun moving their warships around.”

“Wonderful,” Ar’alani said, wincing. “That makes, what, five of them?”

“Correct,” Ba’kif said. “What’s ominous about these particular repositionings is that they’re not focused on bolstering the family’s own defenses, but seem to be aimed at adding an extra presence to Pommrio, Erighal, and Xodlak stronghold worlds.”

“The ones Jixtus is pointing fingers at.” Ar’alani shook her head. “This is ridiculous.”

“I agree,” Ba’kif said. “And under normal circumstances I’d say it was unthinkable that anyone would pay two seconds’ attention to the ravings of an alien. But with all the uncertainties and suspicions still swirling around the Hoxim incident, old rivalries are bubbling closer to the surface.”

“And naturally, the families’ protests of innocence do nothing to change those suspicions.”

“Of course not,” Ba’kif said heavily. “Their Patriarchs continue to deny any involvement with aliens. They say Jixtus is lying, and that the vid he’s been showing around is a complete hoax.”

“Is it a hoax, sir?” Ar’alani asked.

“That is indeed the question,” Ba’kif said. “The quality of the vid is pretty low, and I’m told the enhancement techniques everyone’s been scrubbing it with are as likely to create new parts of the image as they are to provide clarity to what’s already there. More concerning is information I received less than an hour ago that—”

“Just a moment, sir,” Ar’alani cut in, scooping up her questis. It was bad form to interrupt a superior, but a sudden thought had occurred to her and it needed to be chased down before the conversation went elsewhere and she lost the mental thread. “You said everyone was using enhancements. Does that include the Clarr?”

“Their report included an enhanced version of the vid, yes,” Ba’kif said. “What are you thinking?”

“The everyone part, sir,” she said, searching rapidly through the Vigilant’s data records. There was the folder … there was the file … “Patriarch Thurfian’s report said that Jixtus had offered the Mitth military assistance, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did,” Ba’kif confirmed. “He also said he turned it down flat.”

“As did all the other Patriarchs,” Ar’alani said. “All of them except Patriarch Rivlex. His report didn’t even mention such an offer being made, let alone that he’d turned it down.”

“Interesting,” Ba’kif said, a fresh level of attentiveness in his voice. “And Rivlex is the only one who sent someone to the Whetstone to talk directly to Jixtus. I believe he claimed he just wanted one of his people to get a closer look at the battle cruiser.”

“Yes, that’s what he said.” There it was. “I’ve found what I was looking for, sir. Can you pull up the enhanced recordings from the Mitth and the Clarr reports?”

“A moment.” There was a short pause. “I have them.”

“Please run them together in parallel.”

Another short pause. Ar’alani also ran the two five-second clips, just to double-check her memory.

“Interesting,” Ba’kif said. “The Clarr version is a quarter second longer than anyone else’s. I hadn’t even noticed.”

“It’s not at all obvious,” Ar’alani said. “I happened to notice, but had forgotten about it until you used the word everyone.”

“Any thoughts as to what it means?”

“Nothing solid,” Ar’alani said. “I’m assuming the Clarr got more of the recording, either as a gift or for a price, and when they needed to send a copy of the enhanced recording they missed slightly with their editing.”

“Or else Jixtus gave them a longer recording to throw that precise suspicion on the family.”

“Yes, sir, that’s also possible,” Ar’alani conceded.

“Either way, a pattern is starting to emerge with respect to the Clarr,” Ba’kif said thoughtfully. “A longer recording, their visit to the Whetstone, and the fact that they immediately sent the Orisson off on a tour of major Clarr worlds and facilities. Add to that the Orisson’s possibly coincidental presence at Jamiron when the alleged Xodlak and Erighal patrol ships attacked four of their freighters, and the pattern starts to become a bit disturbing.”

Ar’alani frowned. The first report from Senior Captain Ziinda had said the freighters’ attackers were unidentified, with the follow-up from Captain Roscu stating that they were in fact Xodlak and Erighal. Now Ba’kif was adding the word alleged to the mix? “I take it something new has been added?” she asked.

“Indeed it has,” Ba’kif said. “I was starting to tell you about it when you pointed out this other curious bit of information.”

“Yes, sir,” Ar’alani said, feeling her face warming. “My apologies for the interruption.”

“No apology needed, Admiral,” Ba’kif assured her. “The information was both useful and timely. As for this latest revelation, I’m still trying to decide whether to release it or keep it private for the moment. I’ve been talking with Senior Captain Ziinda, who passed it on to me, and—well, I think it might be best to let her give you the details. Give me a moment to bring her into the discussion.”

“Yes, sir,” Ar’alani said, frowning a little harder as she keyed Ba’kif’s transmission from the bridge speaker to the more private command chair position. This whole thing was getting stranger and stranger.

“Admiral, we’ve got company,” Wutroow called.

Ar’alani looked up. The Vigilant’s first officer was standing behind Oeskym and the weapons console, pointing out the viewport at a ship that had appeared in the distance. “As we speak, so we get,” Wutroow continued. “It’s the Orisson.”

“Is it, now,” Ar’alani said. “Interesting timing. Junior Commander Larsiom, give them a call and ask what they’re doing here. Frame it as an offer to assist in whatever they’ve got planned.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the comm officer said and turned to his board.

“All right, Admiral, I have Senior Captain Ziinda tied in now,” Ba’kif announced.

“Senior Captain,” Ar’alani said, catching Wutroow’s eye and beckoning to her. “I trust you’re doing well?”

“I am, Admiral, thank you,” Ziinda said. “Interesting tidbit about the Clarr version of the Kilji recording. I confess I missed that completely.”

“In a situation like this, it doesn’t matter who finds the pieces as long as they’re found by somebody,” Ar’alani said as Wutroow arrived beside her in range of the command chair’s speaker. “I understand you’ve found an important piece of your own.”

“I believe so, ma’am, yes,” Ziinda said. “I had our analysts take a close look at Captain Roscu’s images of the attacking patrol boats. As I presume you’re aware, Erighal warships are decorated with subtle dot-and-line decoratives laid out in wavelike patterns, supposedly evoking memories of their family’s prominence in the old seafaring days.”

“I’ve heard that, yes,” Ar’alani confirmed, though she would have been hard-pressed to come up with it on her own. Every family had its own quirks and traditions, and it was nearly impossible to keep track of all of them. “It was originally to help them identify a ship that had been damaged beyond other means of recognition, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ziinda said. “The key point is that all the patterns are similar, but since they’re done by hand no two of them are exactly alike.”

“And you were able to identify which patrol ships were at Jamiron?” Ar’alani asked.

“That’s the problem,” Ba’kif put in. “The two Erighal patterns were exactly the same.”

Ar’alani frowned up at Wutroow. “And Roscu didn’t notice?”

“I doubt Captain Roscu cared,” Ba’kif said. “But it gets worse. Continue, Senior Captain.”

“Not only are the two patterns identical,” Ziinda said, “but they match that of one of the Erighal patrol ships that was at Hoxim.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Wutroow murmured.

“Isn’t it?” Ar’alani agreed, feeling a tightness in her throat. “So someone’s counterfeiting Chiss patrol ships and throwing them at Chiss freighters?”

“So it would seem,” Ba’kif said. “I assume Roscu has been in contact with her Patriarch, but we have no idea what their thinking is about this situation.”

“Maybe we should ask her,” Wutroow suggested. “She’s right outside our viewport.”

“Interesting,” Ba’kif said. “I knew the Orisson had left Jamiron, but didn’t know it was headed for Sposia. I wonder what it’s doing there.”

“The Clarr are a major presence here,” Ar’alani reminded him. “It may be that she’s just checking out their defenses and preparedness.”

“That’s possible,” Ba’kif said. “As Senior Captain Wutroow said, we could just ask her.”

“Not a good idea,” Ar’alani said, throwing a scowl at her first officer. The last thing she wanted was to try for a friendly conversation with the woman who’d once been her first officer on the patrol cruiser Parala. Especially since those weren’t particularly pleasant memories for either of them. “Captain Roscu and I didn’t part on the best of terms. I doubt she’d be willing to talk to me.”

“Maybe she’d talk to someone else,” Ziinda suggested. “I don’t know what the history is here, but this seems too good an opportunity to pass up.”

“I agree,” Ba’kif said. “What about you, Senior Captain Wutroow? The Kiwu family has taken a pretty neutral stance in the current situation.”

“More than willing, sir,” Wutroow confirmed. “Admiral?”

Ar’alani glowered at the approaching ship. “Junior Commander Larsiom, did you get through to the Orisson?”

“Yes, Admiral,” Larsiom said hesitantly. “Captain Roscu acknowledges our contact and our presence. She also … declines to share her mission with us.”

“In other words, she said it was none of our business?” Wutroow asked.

Larsiom winced. “More or less, ma’am.”

“She wasn’t any friendlier to me, if that helps any,” Ziinda offered.

“It doesn’t; and she’s wrong,” Ba’kif said firmly. “With alien warships threatening the Ascendancy, the Defense Force is entitled to request any and all relevant information. Tie me in, Admiral—I want to talk to her.”

“Excuse me, Supreme General,” Wutroow put in. “With all respect, sir, I believe you offered me first crack at her.”

“You think you can bring the necessary weight to bear, Senior Captain?”

“I don’t think weight will be the factor, sir,” Wutroow said. “I know her type, and I think I can get her talking.”

“Very well, Senior Captain. You’ve got one minute.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wutroow said. “Junior Commander, give me comm to the Orisson.”

“You have comm, ma’am,” Larsiom confirmed.

“Captain Roscu, this is Senior Captain Wutroow, first officer of the Vigilant,” Wutroow called.

“Senior Captain, I already told your comm officer I can’t talk about my assignment,” a woman’s terse voice came back.

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to ask,” Wutroow said. “I understand family business—it’s like that with the Kiwu family, too. No, this is personal, just between you and me. I was hoping you could tell me why Admiral Ar’alani flounced off the bridge in a snit when she heard you were here.”

Ar’alani twisted her head to look up at Wutroow, feeling her mouth drop open. Wutroow caught her eye, gave a quick shake of her head, and motioned for Ar’alani to remain silent.

“She did?” Roscu asked, some of the animosity fading into a sort of malicious amusement. “Really?”

“Oh, you should have seen it,” Wutroow assured her, giving Ar’alani a sly smile. “It was like she didn’t even want to share the same patch of space with you. I’ve never seen her lose it that way before. You have any idea what it was all about?”

“I know exactly what it was about,” Roscu said, a slight hesitation impinging on the satisfaction in her voice. “This is a secure comm, I assume?”

“I sure hope so,” Wutroow said, putting some caution into her voice. “Any of this gets back to the admiral and I’ll be up to my neck in rabid growzers. You know the type.”

“All too well,” Roscu said. “So she’s gotten more vindictive in her old age, has she? Good. Let her past eat her from the inside.”

“Trust me, her past is having a fine meal,” Wutroow assured her. “Come on, don’t keep me in suspense—she could be back any minute. What’s going on?”

“The short version: When she was my commander, she covered up a serious policy violation by one of her officers,” Roscu said. “I called them both on it and had them brought up on charges. They both managed to skate free, but I imagine it made a nice mark on her perfect record. She’s resented me ever since.”

Ar’alani sighed silently. She hadn’t resented Roscu then, and she didn’t resent her now. But Roscu apparently saw things differently.

So which one of them, exactly, was being eaten from the inside?

“Wow,” Wutroow said, sounding awed. “And she was your superior? That takes a lot of courage.”

“It just takes conviction and integrity,” Roscu said. “Something the people who covered for her and Thrawn apparently missed out on. But that’s all right. Let her have her nice white uniform and her ship and no family. I hope I was at least a bump along that road.”

“Given her reaction just now, I’d say you were more than just a bump,” Wutroow said. “Though it doesn’t much matter where you are on the command ladder right now, not with whatever the hell is going on. At least you just have the Clarr family to take care of and won’t be getting caught in any crossfires. So what is going on? You have any idea?”

“Of course I do,” Roscu said disdainfully. “I’m not surprised Csilla hasn’t figured it out yet. But then, they’re the same people who were blind to Ar’alani and Thrawn. Now they’re just as blind to the Dasklo.”

“Blind is blind, and a lot of people never learn,” Wutroow agreed. “So what are the Dasklo up to this time?”

“Just more of their usual conniving,” Roscu said. “They’re letting this Jixtus alien get everyone worked up and looking at everyone else while they secretly build their family fleet up past the legal limits.”

“Sounds nasty,” Wutroow said. “They’re figuring to take out the Clarr once and for all, I suppose?”

“Or at least knock us down,” Roscu said. “Maybe even try to push us out of the Nine.”

“That’s crazy,” Wutroow protested. “Your family fleets are the same size, aren’t they? How do they think they can go up against you?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Roscu growled. “I said they’re going to build up their fleet. Only it’s not going to look like they’re doing it.”

“Sorry, but you’ve lost me.”

“It’s very simple,” Roscu said patiently. “They’re going to look like they’ve got lots of help. They’re going to come at us pretending the Erighal, Pommrio, and Xodlak are supporting them.”

“That’s exactly what Jixtus has been saying,” Wutroow said eagerly, as if her slower brain had finally managed to latch onto something important. “He said the Dasklo are building an alliance with those three families.”

“That’s what he says,” Roscu said. “Maybe even what he thinks. But he’s wrong. There will be lots of ships with the Dasklo when the attack comes, but they won’t be from the Erighal or anyone else. They’ll all be Dasklo.”

Wutroow raised her eyebrows questioningly at Ar’alani. Ar’alani shrugged back. Ask her, she mouthed.

Wutroow nodded acknowledgment. “Sorry, but you’ve lost me again,” she said to Roscu.

“It’s very simple,” Roscu said again, her patient tone shifting into the patronizing mode that Ar’alani remembered driving all the rest of the Parala’s officers crazy. “The Dasklo are making fake Erighal patrol ships.”

“They’re what? How?”

“With a little sleight of hand, and a lot of sheer audacity,” Roscu said, clearly enjoying Wutroow’s apparent astonishment in the face of Roscu’s own superior knowledge and intellect. “Patrol ships all have the same basic hull, after all. You pick up someone else’s ship, copy the crest and family design ornamentation onto a freshly built ship of your own, and there’s your fake.”

“But if they were caught—no, that can’t be,” Wutroow said. “How could they get away with it? They’d never get away with it.”

“They already have,” Roscu said, her voice now going dark. “No one on Csilla would ever notice, but two of the alleged Erighal patrol ships that attacked our freighters at Jamiron were exact duplicates of each other. Obviously supposed to make us think the Erighal have gone rogue; just as obviously built by the Dasklo.”

“Why is that obvious?” Wutroow asked. “I don’t doubt you—that’s the kind of thing the Dasklo would do—but how do you know it’s not the Erighal themselves?”

“One: The Erighal aren’t smart enough to come up with this,” Roscu said. “Two: They don’t have the facilities that could hide this much new construction. Three: They don’t have the bloodlust and sheer unmitigated gall.”

“Okay,” Wutroow said slowly, as if she was still having trouble following the logic. “But we’ve all seen Jixtus’s vid. It shows the Erighals and other ships running a combat demonstration for the Dasklo. Doesn’t that mean all four families are working together?”

“That’s what everyone thinks, because everyone else was too cheap to buy the entire vid,” Roscu said acidly. “We were willing to pay, which is why we know the whole story. In fact, I don’t think even Jixtus has a complete handle on it.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Wutroow said. “If the Dasklo frigate wasn’t watching some war game, what was it doing?”

There was a short pause. “Sorry,” Roscu said, the fire and passion suddenly gone. “I can’t talk about it. In fact, I’ve probably already said too much.”

“Oh, come on,” Wutroow cajoled, making a face at Ar’alani. So close … “You can’t cut me off now. What if no one else ever figures it out? I’ll be stuck wondering about it forever.”

“Welcome to a life of not getting everything you want,” Roscu said with an edge of bitterness. “But don’t worry—you won’t have to wonder forever. Just another few days.”

“A few days? Is that when you’ll tell the rest of the Ascendancy—?”

“Nice talking to you, Senior Captain. Watch your back around your glorious admiral.” There was a tone—

“Transmission ended,” Larsiom confirmed.

Wutroow huffed out a breath. “Sorry, Admiral,” she said.

“Not your fault,” Ar’alani assured her. “I’m actually surprised she gave as much as she did.”

“I meant sorry about saying you flounced off the bridge,” Wutroow said. “You know, come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen anyone flounce. But I’ve always liked the word.”

“We’ll try to use it more in conversation,” Ar’alani said. “So she did notice that the attackers at Jamiron were duplicates.”

“But completely missed the point of who was making them,” Ba’kif said back into the conversation. “So the Battle Dreadnought aliens weren’t simply armoring their own freighters or transports at that supposedly wrecked Nikardun base. They were putting shells on them and turning them into Chiss patrol ships.”

“Apparently so,” Ar’alani agreed. “Now that I think about it, the ships we saw at the refurbishing station were just the right size and shape for that kind of transformation.”

“And the big ship we thought was a mobile repair dock would have worked as a Chiss freighter,” Wutroow added.

“So what are they up to?” Ziinda asked. “And what is this Dasklo grand scheme that Roscu thinks is under way?”

“First, I think we can assume that all her suspicions about the Dasklo are wrong,” Ba’kif said. “It’s clear that Jixtus is controlling this whole narrative and manipulating everyone, including the Clarr. Maybe even especially the Clarr. You two keep talking—I’m going to drop out while I check on something.”

“Yes, sir,” Ar’alani said, thinking back over the conversation Wutroow and Roscu had just had. “All right. Roscu thinks the Dasklo are planning some aggressive military move against the Clarr. What could she have seen in the rest of Jixtus’s vid that would convince her of that?”

“I was just reviewing the free sample,” Ziinda said slowly. “Odd thought. Did you see the way the Dasklo frigate lifted its bow just a bit at the end of the vid? That looked almost like it was setting up to launch plasma spheres at the Erighal.”

“Hold on, let me check,” Ar’alani said, pulling up her copy and running it. Ziinda was right; the move was definitely there. “Could be,” she agreed. “Pretty subtle, but it’s there.”

“Or it could be setting up to aim and fire a tractor beam,” Wutroow added.

“Or it could be doing both,” Ziinda said. “You think that’s what’s on the rest of the vid? The Dasklo flickering the Erighal and then pulling it in for a close look at its hull design?”

“Maybe,” Ar’alani said. “Roscu did talk about someone picking up someone else’s ship.”

“Which would ensure they could get the hull decoratives correct,” Ziinda said.

“Right,” Ar’alani said. “She also said she didn’t think Jixtus knew exactly what had happened. At the distance the vid was taken from, a sphere barrage would barely register, even with enhancement, and a tractor would be completely invisible.”

“Only that scenario doesn’t make any sense,” Ziinda said. “The Erighal are already Dasklo allies—they wouldn’t have to go to all that effort just to get a good look at an Erighal patrol ship’s hull decoration.”

“And the Dasklo would know Erighal hull decoratives are never identical,” Ar’alani said. “All of which is moot, of course, since we’re assuming the whole vid was faked.”

“True,” Ziinda said. “A fake confrontation and fake ships, courtesy of whoever was recording the Hoxim battle.”

“They probably got patterns for the Xodlak and Pommrio ships that were there, too, while they were at it,” Ar’alani said, scowling at the vid. “And are likely also using those same recordings to study Chiss battle tactics.”

Ziinda muttered a sudden curse. “Including how to shoot at Chiss warships without doing serious damage,” she said in a chagrined voice. “That’s why those patrol ships were able to fire so uselessly at me at Jamiron. They wanted to make sure the Grayshrike survived so that there would be another witness to the battle.”

“What do you mean, fire uselessly?” Ar’alani asked, frowning. “Where did they learn that?”

“From Hoxim,” Ziinda said. “They saw how Thrawn’s gunners—” She broke off abruptly.

But it was too late. Ar’alani looked up at Wutroow, saw her expression echoing Ar’alani’s own surprise. “What did you just say?” Ar’alani asked. “Senior Captain Ziinda? What did you just say?”

“My apologies, Admiral,” Ziinda said, her voice under rigid control. “I misspoke.”

“Yes, that can happen, Senior Captain,” Ar’alani said. “Nevertheless, I’d like you to finish your sentence.”

“Admiral, I really can’t—”

“All right, I’m back,” Ba’kif’s brisk voice came from the chair speaker. “You reach any conclusions?”

Again, Ar’alani looked at Wutroow. The first officer gave an uncertain shrug and a rather helpless gesture. “Nothing but the obvious ones,” Ar’alani said, turning back to the mike. “The Battle Dreadnought aliens were apparently at Hoxim and used their recordings to create duplicates of one of the Erighal patrol ships at that battle.”

“Probably duplicated some of the others, as well,” Ba’kif said. “Though it was probably less duplication than camouflage. Unfortunately, the self-destructs of the Jamiron attackers left very little that could be identified. We’ll continue checking for genetic material and metal profiles, but that will take time.”

“Roscu said it would only be another few days,” Ar’alani murmured.

“Yes, she did,” Ba’kif said grimly. “At any rate, I’ve just taken a look at the Orisson’s travels since Jixtus first arrived at Avidich. Captain Roscu’s journey began with her checking all the Clarr strongholds and other major manufacturing, farming, and distribution centers.”

“Reasonable enough, under the circumstances,” Ar’alani said.

“True,” Ba’kif said. “But in the last few days her focus has widened a bit. She’s now also checking systems where the Dasklo family has major shipbuilding and refurbishing centers.”

“Uh-oh,” Wutroow said under her breath. “She’s trying to catch them in the act.”

“That’s my assumption,” Ba’kif said. “She has just one left: Krolling Sen on Ornfra.”

Ar’alani felt her throat tighten. Not just the premier Dasklo shipbuilding facility, but also the center of their space travel research and development department. They would not take kindly to someone poking around demanding answers, especially a Clarr like Roscu who so plainly suspected them of violence against her family’s interests. “I don’t think that’s going to end well, sir,” she warned.

“Agreed,” Ba’kif said. “But as long as she’s just flying around the Ascendancy, looking and talking, she’s not violating any laws or protocols.”

“Even if she starts pushing against the Dasklo?”

“As long as it remains verbal, there’s nothing we can do to hinder her activities,” Ba’kif said. “If someone starts shooting—on either side—then the Syndicure and Defense Force can get involved.”

“Only by then it’ll be too late,” Wutroow muttered.

“Very possibly,” Ar’alani said. “We need someone to intercept her at Ornfra before she crosses the line and talk her down.”

“May not be possible, but it can’t hurt to try,” Ba’kif said. “Senior Captain Ziinda?”

“Sir?” Ziinda said, sounding a bit startled at being called on.

Small wonder. After that mysterious, choked-off comment about Thrawn’s gunners, she’d stayed totally silent, probably hoping she would be forgotten in the crush of more important business.

Small wonder. Even smaller chance. As far as Ar’alani was concerned, any such hopes and efforts were a waste of time.

“I’m issuing you new orders,” Ba’kif told her. “You’ll go to Ornfra, wait there until Captain Roscu arrives, and do whatever you can to defuse the situation.”

“Ah … yes, sir,” Ziinda said. “I’ll point out, Supreme General, that she doesn’t trust me. As a member of the Irizi family, she considers me to be her enemy.”

“Frankly, I doubt she trusts anyone at this point,” Ba’kif said. “Regardless, you’re the only one I can spare right now. If Roscu follows her usual pattern, she’ll remain in Sposia orbit another few hours, consulting with the Clarr leadership, before she leaves for Ornfra. Make sure you’re there ahead of her.”

“Yes, sir,” Ziinda said.

“As for you, Admiral Ar’alani,” Ba’kif continued, “you’ll turn over command of the Vigilant to Senior Captain Wutroow and prepare a shuttle for Csilla. Your meeting request has been approved.”

Ar’alani stiffened. “Understood, sir,” she said through suddenly dry lips. “I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Ba’kif said. “Senior Captain Wutroow, watch yourself and Sposia very carefully. There’s no reason to believe Jixtus knows about the UAG or the items stored there. But since we don’t know the full extent of his conversations with Patriarch Rivlex, I don’t want to take any chances.”

“Understood, sir,” Wutroow said. “We’ll be ready for whatever anyone throws at us.”

“Good,” Ba’kif said. “I’ll be in contact if and when there are further updates. Until then, you all have your orders. Good luck.”

Ar’alani keyed off her mike. “Junior Commander Larsiom, close comm,” she ordered. “Then alert Senior Warrior Yopring to prep a shuttle for Csilla; full long-range crew; one passenger.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Well, that was an interesting way to spend an hour,” Wutroow said as Ar’alani picked up her questis and stood up. “Any further orders, Admiral?”

“Just the one Ba’kif already gave you,” Ar’alani said. “Stay alert and watch for trouble. Oh, and if trouble does arrive, squash it.”

“The simple orders are always the best.” Wutroow cocked her head. “Speaking of not simple things, any thoughts as to what Ziinda meant by that Thrawn’s gunners comment?”

Ar’alani shook her head. “Aside from the fact that she really didn’t want to talk about it, nothing at all.”

“I presume you’re going to rectify that omission?”

“You presume correctly,” Ar’alani assured her. “But not right now. We’ve got bigger problems than whatever connivance Thrawn might have pulled off at Hoxim. More important, Ziinda and Thrawn are two of our best and most trustworthy assets, and I have no interest in losing or weakening either of them.”

“Does that mean you’re also not going to mention this to the supreme general?”

Ar’alani hesitated. There were still things about Hoxim that no one knew, and that everyone wanted to know.

More than that, there were things people like Ba’kif needed to know. Whatever scheme Thrawn had pulled off at Hoxim, it might be something that could be used in the future.

But if the plan had required Thrawn to once again skate over the line, Ba’kif would be bound by the protocols to pass it on to the Council. And there were only so many times he could cover for Thrawn.

Besides, it wasn’t like Ziinda had actually said anything critical. There was certainly nothing in the protocols that required officers to pass on rumors or half-truths to their superiors.

“Not right now,” she told Wutroow. “We’ll wait until we have more details. Assuming we can get Ziinda to give those to us.”

“Understood,” Wutroow said. “And speaking of things people don’t want to talk about …?”

“If you’re asking about my meeting request to Supreme General Ba’kif, I didn’t say anything about it to you because I assumed it would be denied,” Ar’alani told her. “Now that it’s been granted … I think it might be best to keep it quiet a little longer. At least until I get back from Csilla.”

“I see,” Wutroow said. “You know, there’s an old saying that keeping secrets killed the whisker cub.”

Ar’alani snorted. “There’s no such saying. You just made that up.”

“Well, if there isn’t one, there ought to be,” Wutroow said. “Safe flight to you, Admiral.” She turned her head to look out the viewport at the Orisson, now settling into orbit in the distance. “And hurry back,” she added. “I get the feeling we’re going to need you. Probably sooner than later.”

The hyperspace swirl collapsed to star-flares, and the Stybla patrol ship Jandalin arrived in its target system.

“Destination confirmed, Senior Aide,” the pilot reported. “Glastis Three.”

Thrass looked at the status displays. Destination, in his opinion, was putting it far too generously. Glastis 3 was little more than a flashfly speck in infinite space: a single Defense Force emergency repair blackdock orbiting a marginally habitable planet midway between Csilla and Copero in the south-nadir part of the Ascendancy. The fact that not a single family in the Ascendancy had deemed the system worth developing suggested that marginally habitable was also something of an exaggeration.

Senior Aide Lappincyk gestured to Thrawn, seated to the right of the center section on the curved acceleration couch that stretched across the back of the bridge. “Mid Commander?” he invited.

Thrass leaned forward to look past Lappincyk at Thrawn, noting the single-edged focus on Thrawn’s face as his eyes flicked between the viewport and the displays. The center seat of the couch was reserved for the ship’s master, Thrass knew, with the seat on either side normally left empty. Only when the master deemed one of his companions or passengers worthy of special honor were those seats offered.

Thrawn to Lappincyk’s right, Thrass to his left. Distantly, Thrass wondered if Thrawn recognized the honor he’d been granted by being offered the right-hand seat. Given that it was Thrawn, probably not.

“Thank you, Senior Aide,” Thrawn said. “Sensor officer: Begin a scan of the outer system around us. We’re looking for a dead Stybla cargo ship of Vivan configuration.”

Thrass felt a fresh heaviness in his heart. Dead. He’d been afraid that would be where this would end up. “So you think the hijackers killed them?” he forced himself to ask.

Thrawn sent him a puzzled look. “Of course not,” he said. “Didn’t you read the files I gave you?”

“Most of them,” Thrass said, feeling a bit defensive. Even for someone who dug through official documents for a living, the Clarr legal text was mind-numbingly dry. “I was starting to fall asleep about an hour ago.”

“But you did get to the part about penalties due to blood who commit crimes against other families, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Thrass said, wincing. Those sections had been the exception to the dryness, switching from mind numbing to blood chilling. “I assumed there was some hyperbole involved.”

“There wasn’t,” Lappincyk assured him. “A few centuries ago, the Ascendancy had such a problem with Clarr raiders that several of the other families threatened to band together and obliterate the entire family. Those criminal statutes are the result, and the Clarr guarantee that such atrocities will never happen again.”

“At least, not for long,” Thrawn said. “I’d draw your attention in particular to the punishment for any death that results from a felony crime.”

“You mean the death-by-torture clause?”

“Yes,” Thrawn said. “What can you infer from that?”

Thrass gave a little snort. His first thought was that such a thing was utterly barbaric. His second was that the Clarr must really have needed to reassure their neighbors if they felt the need to enact such laws in the first place.

But it was clear from Thrawn’s look of expectation that neither of those was what he was going for. So what did he want Thrass to see?

Thrass turned to look out the viewport, scowling. Thrawn had already been disappointed at least twice since their arrival at Patriarch Lamiov’s mansion by people’s inability to follow his reasoning. The least Thrass should do was give it a try.

All right. Punishment. Death by torture. Clarr raiders. A Defense Force blackdock in an edge-of-nowhere system. A lonely system, out of the way, with virtually zero chance that anyone would happen by.

And then he had it. “The hijackers can’t risk any of the Stybla crew dying,” he said, turning back to Thrawn. “But they also can’t hold them aboard their ship, at least not for long.”

“Why not?”

“Because kidnapping from another family carries the same punishment as killing them.”

“Exactly,” Thrawn said, the anticipation in his face replaced by approval. “So why would they be here at Glastis Three?”

“They can’t just park the crew out in space,” Thrass said. “If they don’t make it back in time after they make their deal, the crew will run out of air or food and the hijackers will face full Clarr law. But they also can’t just turn them loose, because then the alarm will be given and they’ll have the Defense Force and every family patrol ship in the region looking for them.”

He gestured out the viewport. “So they find an empty system to park the cargo ship where nobody’s likely to stumble across them. But they also need a system that’s not quite empty, so that there’s someone they can call afterward to come out and rescue the crew when they’ve finished selling the stolen goods.”

“Very good,” Thrawn said. “One small addition: The hijackers won’t want to risk calling or having any other direct contact with the blackdock.”

“So they’ll put the cargo ship in an elliptical orbit,” Lappincyk spoke up suddenly. “Disable their drive and their comm and put them in a long orbit that will take a few days to get close enough for the blackdock to spot them.”

“That would work,” Thrass agreed. So simple, really, once it was explained. “Of course, that assumes the hijackers are smart enough to think of it.”

“They are, and they will,” Lappincyk assured him. “Three hundred years ago, the Clarr defeated a numerically superior Irizi force using this exact maneuver to drift one of their warships in close. It was a Clarr triumph, and a blood will certainly be familiar with it.”

“As are you, obviously,” Thrass commented. “A three-hundred-year-old battle. You Stybla certainly keep up with things.”

“Three hundred twenty, if we want to be precise,” Lappincyk said. “As I once told you, we compensate for our lack of influence and successes by keeping track of everyone else’s.”

“I remember,” Thrass said. “So they’re out here somewhere. How do we find them?”

“That would indeed be the next question,” Thrawn said, pulling out his questis. “There are a mathematical infinity of possible curves to choose from, and depending on how long they planned for the cargo ship to be incommunicado the orbit could extend a considerable distance out into space.”

“Any chance the sensors on this ship are good enough to just brute-strength find them?” Thrass asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” Lappincyk said. “This is a close-in patrol ship, and not designed for extensive survey work.”

“So what’s the plan?” Thrass asked, watching Thrawn working at his questis. “Start looking and hope for the best?”

“Fortunately, many of those possible courses can be eliminated,” Thrawn said. “If they came from Sposia on the easiest course, they’ll have arrived twelve degrees below the ecliptic plane. They also won’t have gone very far from their entry point, lest their drive emissions be spotted by the blackdock crew. A Vivan cargo ship carries three weeks’ worth of life-support supplies, so they won’t have set its course to bring it into the blackdock’s view any later than that.”

“What if they don’t bother with any of this?” Thrass asked, an unpleasant thought suddenly occurring to him. “What if they just dump them in deep space somewhere between stars? Without bodies, the Clarr won’t be able to prove there were any killings.”

“Not true,” Lappincyk said. “Clarr law specifies that if a person is missing for over a year they can be presumed dead. If Patriarch Lamiov can prove to his satisfaction that this gang hijacked the Stybla ship, those missing crew would automatically add the further charge of murder.”

“So a three-week drift at the most,” Thrawn said. “Probably no more than two.” He made one final calculation, then tapped his questis. “They should be within the region marked.”

Thrass looked at the overview display, now showing a hazy green region of space around them. “Still a lot of territory to look at.”

“Let’s see if we can narrow it further,” Thrawn said. “Senior Aide Lappincyk, may I have control of the comm?”

“Give me comm control,” Lappincyk called to the bridge crew as he unfastened a mike from the bulkhead behind Thrawn’s head and handed it to him. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“The hijackers will of course have destroyed the cargo ship’s transmitters,” Thrawn said. “But it’s possible to convert a ship’s electromagnetic sensor into a receiver. Let’s see if the crew were clever enough to do so.” He keyed the mike. “Stybla cargo ship V-484, this is Stybla patrol ship Jandalin, under the command of Patriarch Senior Aide Lappincyk. We’re looking for you, but there’s a great deal of space to cover. If you can hear me, vent your aft oxygen reserves and aft thruster fuel tanks and ignite the mixture. The resulting plume should help reveal your position.”

He repeated the message three times, then keyed off the mike and handed it back to Lappincyk. “While we wait, Senior Aide, you should contact the blackdock and alert them to our presence and the fact they’ll be called upon soon to tow in the damaged cargo ship.”

“We won’t need their help,” Lappincyk said. “The Jandalin is fully capable of towing a cargo ship.”

“Capability is not the issue,” Thrawn said. “Once we’ve spoken to the cargo crew and learned where the hijackers have gone, we’ll need to head out immediately if we hope to intercept them.”

“You really think they told the cargo crew where they were going?” Thrass asked.

“Oh, I’m certain they didn’t,” Thrawn said drily. “But perhaps they weren’t as clever as they thought. Senior Aide?”

“Yes,” Lappincyk said, sounding somewhat less than enthusiastic. “I think perhaps we’ll wait to alert the blackdock until we have some solid evidence that the cargo ship—”

“There!” the sensor officer snapped, pointing out the viewport. “Seventy-two degrees to portside.”

Thrass felt a sense of relief wash over him. The distant plume of burning thruster fuel was small but clearly visible against the blackness and unwavering starlight behind it. He looked at the sensor display, watching as the patrol ship’s computer calculated the crippled ship’s course and vector and overlaid them on the visual.

“Helm: Get us over to them,” Lappincyk ordered. “Best possible speed and course for an intercept.” He sent a wry smile at Thrawn as he keyed his mike. “And now, Mid Commander, I believe you suggested that I call the blackdock?”

Early on in the Springhawk’s mad dash to Sunrise, Samakro had realized that, as far as Sky-walker Che’ri was concerned, there were only three possible outcomes.

The first and best was that Che’ri would succeed. Given the fatigue the girl was still shouldering from their previous and equally mad rush to Rapacc, he didn’t hold out much hope for that one. The second possibility was that her brain and body would simply give up somewhere along the way and send her into a deep sleep from which she couldn’t be roused until it was too late to intervene in whatever Thrawn and the Paccosh had planned. That one, in Samakro’s opinion, was the most likely result.

And then there was the third option: the possibility that Che’ri would push herself so hard that she blew past all normal points of physical shutdown and collapsed into some form of psychotic dysfunction.

That one would be disastrous, and not just for Che’ri. Even though the medics would probably be able to cure her once the Springhawk limped back to Naporar, he and Thalias would then be dumped straight into the career-ending scenario he’d warned her about before she and Che’ri agreed to this madness.

Samakro had no way of knowing what the odds were on that one. Frankly, he was afraid to even research it.

Still, as the hours and days crept by, the plan seemed to be working. Che’ri continued to guide the ship through the Chaos on the course Azmordi had worked out for her, taking her breaks when protocol required them, eating meals when she was hungry or when Thalias insisted, and sleeping the four hours per day that Samakro had calculated was the most he could allow her. At every break Samakro checked the Springhawk’s progress and confirmed it was on course, and during Che’ri’s brief sleep periods Azmordi or one of the other pilots continued the ship’s progress via jump-by-jump.

And finally, to Samakro’s relief and mild surprise, they were there.

“One more short jump to go, Mid Captain,” Azmordi reported, offering his questis to Samakro. “I can handle it if you want to let Sky-walker Che’ri get some sleep.”

“She definitely needs it,” Samakro said, checking the data on the questis and confirming that the Springhawk was situated correctly for their arrival at Sunrise. The single jump Azmordi had specified, he noted, would only take about five minutes. “Go set it up,” he said, handing back the questis. “I’ll tell her she’s done.”

Che’ri was at the desk in the duty office, just finishing the last couple of bites of the meat-striped fruit squares she’d requested for today’s lunch. Thalias was standing over her, ready to take the empty plate and holding a fresh juice box ready. Both of them looked over as Samakro came in. “How are you two doing?” he asked as he walked over to them.

“I think we’re okay,” Thalias said. “Che’ri?”

“I’m fine,” the girl said. “Are we ready to go?”

“We’re ready to go,” Samakro corrected. “You’re ready to go get some sleep.”

“No,” Che’ri said, shaking her head. “Not yet. I need to finish it.”

“You’re as finished as you need to be,” Samakro said firmly. “It’s a single five-minute hop, then an in-system jump, and we’ll be there. Lieutenant Commander Azmordi could handle it with his eyes closed.”

“No, Che’ri’s right,” Thalias said. “She needs to do it. The timing … she needs to do it, that’s all.”

“Does she, now,” Samakro said, peering closely at them. Che’ri’s eyelids were drooping, and her face looked gaunt and a little pale. But aside from that she seemed bright-eyed and alert. Way too alert, actually, for someone who’d had as little sleep as she had over the past few days.

Bright-eyed.

“Finish your lunch and we’ll discuss it,” Samakro said. “Caregiver, I’d like a word with you outside, if I may.”

“Certainly,” Thalias said, handing Che’ri the juice box. “Drink a little more juice, Che’ri. I’ll be back in a minute.”

A fully crewed bridge wasn’t the ideal place for a private conversation. But right now, it was more important that Che’ri be out of this particular conversation. “All right,” Samakro said in a low voice as the office hatch slid shut behind them. “Let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?” Thalias asked.

“You know what,” Samakro growled. “Che’ri is way more alert than she ought to be after the run she’s just had. Is this the Magys playing more brain games?”

“I don’t know,” Thalias said tiredly, rubbing her eyes. “Che’ri is … she wants to finish the job, Mid Captain, that’s all. She needs to finish the job.”

“Why?” Samakro countered. “We’re here. The job’s done. What else does the Magys want her to do?”

“I don’t know,” Thalias said again. “She won’t tell me. Maybe she doesn’t know herself.”

“Not good enough, Caregiver,” Samakro said, shaking his head. “I need answers.” He eyed her closely. “Or I’ll take speculation, if that’s all you’ve got.”

“I don’t know if I’ve got anything even that solid.” Thalias exhaled a long, painful-sounding breath. “As best as I can figure, the Magys can … I don’t know. See or know things that are going to happen.”

Samakro felt a tingle at the back of his neck. The Magys affecting the Springhawk’s sky-walker from light-years away was bad enough. But if she was also manipulating the girl toward the future and things that hadn’t even happened yet, that would be far worse. “That’s absurd,” he said.

“Maybe,” Thalias admitted. “Probably, even. And no, I don’t have any proof that that’s what’s happening. But think about it. Isn’t seeing into the future exactly what sky-walkers do?”

“That’s different,” Samakro insisted. “Sky-walkers can only see ahead a few seconds, and only events like hyperspace bumps that are governed solely by physics. You’re talking—what? Hours? Days? And all of it involving people doing things and making their own decisions. How is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” Thalias said. “But I keep thinking about how we got to Rapacc just in time to keep the Kilji warships from attacking and kidnapping the Magys’s people. The only reason we got there when we did was because Che’ri was having terrible nightmares.”

“It’s still not possible,” Samakro said.

But what if it was? Because he had to concede that there was a certain logic to it.

The Magys was carrying the burden of responsibility for her refugees, and had a connection to something she called the Beyond. Che’ri was a sky-walker, with the ability to use Third Sight to see a few seconds into the future. The Magys needed to protect her people and her world. Che’ri was close to Thrawn, whom the Magys had now proclaimed to be her people’s Guardian. Could the two of them somehow be mixing those emotional connections and combining their individual abilities?

“Fine,” he said. “I still don’t believe it, but I’m willing to be convinced. Go check with Che’ri. If she still thinks she can handle the approach, have her report to the nav station.” He leveled a finger at her. “If you think she’s too fatigued—in fact, if there’s any doubt at all in your mind—you take her back to the suite right now and put her to bed. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Thalias said. “Thank you.”

She opened the office hatch and disappeared inside. Samakro stood still another moment, then returned to his command chair.

He was checking the Springhawk’s combat status when Thalias and Che’ri returned to the bridge and crossed to the nav station. The girl was a little unsteady on her feet, Samakro noted, but otherwise seemed all right.

Azmordi turned and looked at Samakro, his eyebrows raised in silent question. Samakro answered with a nod. Azmordi nodded back and keyed flight control over to the sky-walker’s station.

Two minutes later, with Che’ri once again in Third Sight, the Springhawk was in hyperspace. Five minutes after that, they arrived in the Sunrise system.

“Sensors: Full scan,” Samakro ordered. “Lieutenant Commander Azmordi: Locate the planet.”

“Combat range clear,” Dalvu reported from the sensor station. “Mid-range, clear. Far range … clear.”

“Sunrise located, Mid Captain,” Azmordi added. “Computing in-system jump.”

“No,” Thalias said in a quavering voice. “Not yet.”

Azmordi turned a frown toward Samakro. “Mid Captain?” he asked.

“A moment, Lieutenant Commander,” Samakro said, watching as Thalias bent down and held a whispered conversation with Che’ri. He waited until she straightened and turned to him. “You have an explanation, Caregiver?” he asked.

“She says we can’t go closer, Mid Captain,” Thalias said. “I mean, we shouldn’t go closer. It’s not time yet.”

“Any thoughts on when it will be time?”

Again, Thalias leaned over for a couple of seconds, talking to the girl half hidden in the navigator’s chair. “We’ll know, sir,” Thalias said. Her lip twitched. “She’ll know.”

For a moment the bridge was silent. “Very well,” Samakro said. “We’ll hold here for now. Senior Commander Afpriuh, confirm that all weapons systems and crews are ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

The normal bridge conversation resumed, though at a more subdued level than usual. Samakro checked the status boards, did quick evaluations of his bridge crew, and did all the other things a Chiss commander was supposed to do when preparing for action.

But mostly he watched Thalias, standing rigidly behind Che’ri’s seat. If the caregiver even looked like she was falling asleep on her feet, he would have both of them summarily hauled back to their suite and tossed into their beds.

In fact, that might be the best thing to do whether they were half asleep or not. Because Thalias clearly hadn’t thought this though.

The Magys hadn’t had these exaggerated Third Sight abilities when she first came aboard the Springhawk. There were too many things back then that had taken her by surprise, too many decisions she would surely have adjusted or revoked if she’d been able to see even an hour into the future. It was only after she’d been in hibernation in the sky-walker suite in Che’ri’s proximity for several weeks that this connection had happened. Normal logic might not work here, but Samakro assumed there was a fair chance that connection would likewise fade once the two of them had been apart for a similar length of time.

The Magys had had her first success with the Rapacc intervention. Now, if things worked out the way Che’ri and Thalias clearly expected them to, the alien was about to garner herself a second. Two triumphs in a row should be ample confirmation that she now possessed an awesome and incredibly useful power.

What if she decided she didn’t want to give up that power?

The sky-walkers are the key to our entire mission statement, Samakro had once told Thalias. We need to protect that resource as much as we can.

And he would. Against any force or manipulation that might come against her.

Whatever the cost.

Samakro had assumed that both Thalias and Che’ri would have to be carried back to their suite, and had made sure there were enough warriors on hand for transport duty. To his mild surprise, Thalias managed to make it off the bridge under her own power, and was even able to rouse Che’ri enough to stagger along beside her. Samakro made sure the warriors went with them anyway, just in case they collapsed halfway to the suite.

Then they were gone, and the bridge hatch was sealed behind them.

And Samakro could finally get to work.

“Afpriuh: Report,” he said, resettling himself in the command chair.

“Barriers at full power, weapons and weapons crews ready,” Afpriuh said. “Still no attacks from Bogeys One and Two.”

“Bogey Two has a tractor beam on Senior Captain Thrawn,” Dalvu added. “Looks like he’s being pulled to their portside near the amidships docking port.”

Samakro nodded. So far the scenario was playing out exactly the way Thrawn had anticipated, with the Kiljis and their unidentified companion allowing the Aelos to race past their point defenses and into their protection.

Though as Thrawn had also predicted, and as Samakro himself now recognized, there was very little altruism involved. With Samakro having loudly proclaimed his intent to capture or destroy the Nikardun blockade frigate, the enemy commander was playing on that apparent obsession in the hope of drawing the Springhawk close enough to launch a withering attack, ideally inside Sunrise’s gravity well where there would be no easy escape.

“Azmordi, increase speed to match,” he ordered. “I want us slowly gaining on them, but I also want to stay out of the bogeys’ laser range until Senior Captain Thrawn makes his move. Can you do that?”

“No problem, sir,” Azmordi assured him, hunching over his helm controls.

The Springhawk leapt forward. Samakro kept an eye on the tactical, watching as both ships approached the waiting enemies. As always, the timing on this one was going to be critical.

Timing that Samakro had nearly screwed up.

He’d assumed Thalias would come to confront him as soon as the Springhawk and Aelos left Rapacc to head off in their respective directions. If she had, he could have had the necessary conversation with her then and there, and wouldn’t have had to spend the next five hours sending the ship back toward the Ascendancy.

But Thalias had fallen asleep, and the conversation had been delayed, and as a result they’d been far enough out of position that Che’ri had had to really push it in order to get the Springhawk here in time.

But Samakro had had no choice but to play this little charade. If Thalias was still acting as a spy for Patriarch Thurfian, letting her see Thrawn disobeying Ba’kif’s order to return to Naporar and once again trying to dodge the prohibition against preemptive combat would have given Thurfian a double handful of fresh ammunition.

Never mind that Thrawn was completely within his authority as commander on the scene to countermand Ba’kif’s order about a swift return. Never mind also that the senior captain was riding with Uingali aboard a Paccian ship where Syndicure prohibitions were meaningless. Thurfian and those members of the Syndicure who were already predisposed to dislike Thrawn would still have found a way to use that against him, and would possibly have dragged in the rest of the Springhawk’s officers as well.

But as it now stood, all Thalias could tell her Patriarch sponsor was that Thrawn had accepted a plea for help, and that it was she and Che’ri who had forced Samakro to chase after him. The Council and Syndicure might take issue with parts of it, but at least there wouldn’t be any calls for the wholesale slaughter of everyone’s careers.

Assuming, of course, that Thrawn was able to pull this off.

“Ten seconds to Crippler net deployment at Bogey Two,” Afpriuh said. “Targeting orders, sir?”

Samakro eyed the tactical display. Bogey One, the bigger of the two ships and the one that looked like a smaller version of the Battle Dreadnought the Chiss had tangled with twice over Sunrise, hadn’t yet made any aggressive moves toward the Springhawk. That, according to strict Syndicure doctrine, meant the Springhawk couldn’t fire on it.

On the other hand, Bogey Two, the Kilji ship currently tractoring the Aelos toward itself, had opened fire on them back at Rapacc. That made them fair game.

And even at the Springhawk’s distance, a barrage of breacher missiles or plasma spheres would wreak havoc on their ability to fight. It was the obvious move for the Springhawk to make.

“No targeting orders,” he told the weapons officer.

But then, no one had ever said Thrawn’s plans went for the obvious.

Thrawn had suggested that the Jandalin approach the Pleknok system from a specific direction. Lappincyk had countered that the hijackers’ transport would be coming straight from Glastis 3, and that the best chance of intercepting it would be to follow that same vector.

Six hours before arrival, the two of them had a long, quiet talk beside the navigation console. Thrass couldn’t hear what they were saying, but when the conversation was over Lappincyk ordered the pilot to follow Thrawn’s course.

Thirty-two hours after leaving Glastis 3, they arrived.

“Scan the area,” Lappincyk ordered from his usual seat in the center of the acceleration couch. “Passive sensors only. Focus on low-orbit corridors.”

“Hopefully, they haven’t already completed their business and left,” Thrass muttered, watching the display fill in as sensors began collecting and compiling the data.

“Unlikely,” Lappincyk said. “We should be faster than their transport.”

“Considerably faster,” Thrawn agreed. “Actually, I’m almost certain we’ve arrived ahead of them.”

“What if they’re running with an augmented drive?” Thrass asked.

Thrawn shook his head. “The fifty hours required for them to travel from the initial attack at Sposia to where they released the cargo ship at Glastis 3 argues against that theory.”

“They were lugging a cargo ship with them that whole time,” Thrass pointed out, wondering why he was even arguing the point. Apparently, the low-level tension that had been nagging at him since they left Glastis 3 had suddenly blossomed to full strength now that they were actually here. “That would have slowed them down.”

“I took that into account.”

Thrass ground his teeth. Every single time he tried to debate something with Thrawn, he ended up on the losing side.

“We have movement, Senior Aide,” the sensor officer said. “Two ships in low orbit. Configuration … difficult to establish with passive sensors, but they appear to be freighter-class vessels of non-Chiss design.”

“The thieves’ buyers, presumably,” Lappincyk said.

“Or other customers,” Thrass said.

“Perhaps,” Lappincyk agreed. At least with him, Thrass thought sourly, he could occasionally win one. “Keep an eye on them. Now—” He threw a quick look at Thrawn. “—run an active sweep across a thirty-degree cone behind us.”

“Sir?” the sensor officer asked, frowning at Lappincyk over his shoulder.

“Thirty-degree sensor cone aft,” Lappincyk repeated. “We’re looking for—”

“Contact!” the pilot snapped. “Portside zenith, range twenty kilometers. Course running parallel and closing.”

“Sensors?” Lappincyk prompted.

“On it, sir,” the sensor officer said tensely. “It’s … sir, it’s a Chiss light cruiser. Configuration and markings identify it as Clarr family.”

“Senior Aide, they’re demanding we identify ourselves,” the pilot put in. “Tight beam, low power.”

“Respond with the same parameters,” Lappincyk ordered. Pulling out his mike, he keyed it on. “This is Stybla’ppin’cykok, senior aide to Patriarch Stybla’mi’ovodo, aboard the patrol ship Jandalin,” he said. “And you?”

There was a short pause. “Captain Clarr’os’culry,” a voice came back. “Currently in command of the Clarr light cruiser Orisson. What the hell are you doing here, Jandalin?”

Thrass caught his breath as the name suddenly clicked. Captain Roscu … only the last time he’d heard that name it had been Mid Captain Roscu of the Expansionary Defense Fleet, and she and Thrawn had been clashing over Chiss non-intervention policy in the middle of a pirate attack on a Garwian trading hub.

And now she was commanding a Clarr family ship?

“We’re hunting pirates who hijacked a Stybla cargo ship over Sposia a few days ago,” Lappincyk told her. “We believe the pirates were led by someone of Clarr blood, which I presume is the reason you’re here.”

“Our reasons and activities are our concern,” Roscu growled. “How did you find this place?”

“That’s our concern,” Lappincyk said. “So you concede that the hijackers are Clarr blood?”

“I concede nothing,” Roscu said. “Nor do I need to justify Clarr actions to a Stybla. I’ll say this just once: This is a Clarr family matter, and you will leave this system immediately.”

“Excuse me, Captain, but it was our ship and cargo that were stolen,” Lappincyk reminded her. “We have every right to be here.”

“Check your guidelines and protocols, Senior Aide,” Roscu said. “As an agent of one of the Nine and a former Expansionary Defense Fleet command officer, I have every right to order you out of a region where imminent military action is expected.”

“I don’t accept your authority to give that order,” Lappincyk said stiffly. “The Stybla family has a vital interest—”

“Senior Aide?” Thrass murmured. “I believe you have a better hand to play.” He pointed at Thrawn.

For a second Lappincyk just stared at him in apparent confusion. Then his expression suddenly cleared. “You misunderstand the situation, Captain Roscu,” he said.

And to Thrass’s surprise, he stood up and gestured Thrawn to the couch’s center command position. “The Jandalin is currently under the command of someone who is not only also a member of the Nine, but is a current military command officer.” He handed the mike to Thrawn. “Mid Commander?”

Thrawn hesitated, then inclined his head in acknowledgment. “This is Mid Commander Mitth’raw’nuru, Captain,” he said as he sat down. “There’s no reason we can’t work together—”

“Thrawn?” Roscu cut in. “What in hell’s name are you doing on a Stybla ship?”

“As Senior Aide Lappincyk said, I’m working with them to resolve this issue,” Thrawn told her. “Congratulations on finding this system, by the way. From the data I was able to locate, I estimated there could be as many as ten other possibilities before I was able to narrow it down to this one. How did you know they were coming to Pleknok?”

“What, you think you’re the only clever one in the Ascendancy?” Roscu countered scornfully.

“Ah—I see,” Thrawn said. “You didn’t know, did you? The Clarr simply sent ships to all of them.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Yes. I know.”

“Senior Aide, we have incoming,” the pilot said, sounding a little nervous at having to cut into the middle of a clearly deteriorating conversation. “Obbic transport—probably the hijackers. Moving along the vector Mid Commander Thrawn predicted.”

“Understood,” Lappincyk said, and Thrass could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

“Wait a moment,” Roscu said. “You knew where they were coming from but came out way over here? Why didn’t you pick a better spot to intercept them?”

“Because I don’t want to intercept them, Captain,” Thrawn said. “Not yet. Not until we learn which of those two orbiting ships they’re meeting.”

“I thought you wanted your precious cargo.”

“We’ll retrieve it soon enough,” Thrawn assured her. “Both target ships are too deep in the planet’s gravity well for a quick escape. Once we know which ship they’re going for, we’ll move in and take them both.”

“We’ll do nothing of the kind,” Roscu bit out. “Haven’t you learned anything about Ascendancy policy since you blatantly interfered in that pirate attack at Stivic? How the hell are you still an officer in the fleet?”

“Senior Aide, we have another ship incoming,” the pilot reported. “Seventy degrees starboard, twelve zenith, angling in toward the planet. Configuration unknown, but its size is consistent with that of a freighter.”

“Sensors, full scan of the newcomer,” Thrawn ordered. “Get me a configuration as quickly as you can.”

“So much for meeting someone inside the gravity well,” Roscu said. “Any other brilliant ideas, Thrawn?”

“We haven’t finished with this one yet,” Lappincyk put in. “Our projection shows that if both ships keep to their current vectors, they’ll still be inside the gravity well when they meet. Plenty of time for us to move in and take them both.”

Roscu’s snort was clearly audible. “Enough,” she said. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

And to Thrass’s disbelief, the glowing orb of a plasma sphere burst out from the Orisson’s bow, arrowing straight at the Obbic transport.

“Captain!” Lappincyk snapped.

“Too late,” Thrawn said. “Pilot: Get us moving toward the transport—full speed.”

“Senior Aide?” the pilot asked.

“Obey your commander,” Lappincyk told him tartly. “What about the other ship?”

“Captain Roscu, we need you to disable the other incoming ship,” Thrawn said into the mike as the Jandalin leapt forward.

But not as quickly as the Orisson. Even before Thrawn had finished speaking, the Clarr cruiser threw full power to its thrusters, passing the Jandalin and charging toward the transport. “Bit busy here,” Roscu said. “If you want it disabled, do it yourselves.”

“This ship isn’t equipped with plasma spheres.”

“Too bad,” Roscu said. In the distance, the sphere she’d launched intercepted the transport, flashing a momentary glow as it shut down the ship’s electronics. “Handy little things, aren’t they?”

“Captain, we need that incoming freighter disabled,” Lappincyk put in. “In the name of the Stybla, I ask you please to assist us.”

“Request denied,” Roscu said. “I suppose you’ll need to use some of that Thrawn cleverness. Have fun. Don’t worry—once we’ve got the transport, we’ll be sure to deliver your cargo back to you on Sposia.”

“That cargo is not to be touched,” Lappincyk insisted. “We’ll take it aboard the Jandalin.”

“Of course,” Roscu said, a note of malicious humor in her voice. “You’re welcome to it if you can keep up. But it looks like you can’t. Too bad the Stybla don’t have any real warships.”

“Captain, that’s our cargo.”

“I said you’d get it back,” Roscu said. “I swear, you Stybla are always so nervous.”

“Perhaps it’s time you were, as well,” Thrawn said, his voice suddenly grim. “Take another look at the newcomer.”

“What about it?”

“It’s not running,” Thrawn said. “In fact, five seconds after you launched your attack it increased its speed toward the transport. Does that sound like a criminal crew’s behavior?”

“It sounds like a criminal crew who anticipates free goodies,” Roscu said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get there before they do.”

On one of the side displays, the sensor profile of the freighter appeared. “Perhaps not,” Thrawn said. “That’s not a freighter. It’s a Paataatus light frigate.”

For a long moment there was nothing but silence. “Damn,” Roscu breathed.

“Agreed,” Thrawn said. “Pilot, can you increase speed?”

“We’re at full power, sir,” the pilot said.

“Go to emergency power,” Lappincyk ordered. “Mid Commander, all we’ve got are three spectrum lasers.”

“That should be enough,” Thrawn said. “Orisson, why are you slowing?”

Thrass felt his throat tighten. The Clarr cruiser, which a minute ago had been blazing toward the disabled transport, had now slowed its mad rush.

“Because Paataatus light frigates don’t travel alone,” Roscu said darkly. “There are bound to be a few gunboats—”

“Incoming!” the Jandalin’s pilot interrupted. “Five new ships, coming in along the freighter’s—the light frigate’s—vector.”

“Like I said,” Roscu said. “Afraid there’s nothing we can do now but destroy the transport. I’ll set up a laser barrage—”

“No!” Lappincyk snapped.

“Use your head, Senior Aide,” Roscu snapped back. “We can’t take on six Paataatus ships by ourselves. Either we destroy the transport, or we let the aliens have it. And the cargo.”

“We can’t do that,” Lappincyk said. “We have to retrieve the cargo.”

“We will,” Thrawn said, his calmness in sharp contrast with the anger and frustration in Roscu’s voice and the fear and growing panic in Lappincyk’s. “We’ll retrieve the cargo and drive away the Paataatus. Are the Clarr ready to assist, Captain Roscu?”

“You may be casual about violating Ascendancy standing orders, but I’m not,” Roscu said. “Nor am I willing to sacrifice my ship and crew in a futile and losing battle.”

“In that case, we’ll do it ourselves,” Thrawn said. “Pilot: Ready the spectrum lasers. Your target will be the outer cowlings of the Obbic’s aft thrusters.”

“You’re shooting at the transport?” Lappincyk asked in clear disbelief.

“They’ve already been disabled,” Thrawn reminded him. “I don’t think damage to their thrusters will matter that much to them.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because the Paataatus will see us do it,” Thrawn said. As if, Thrass thought distantly, that actually explained anything. “Captain Roscu? It’s not too late to join us.”

Thrass looked at the status display. Running now at full emergency power, the Jandalin was about three minutes from the spot that indicated spectrum laser range. The Paataatus frigate was five minutes away from possible combat, the five gunboats eight minutes away. The Orisson, he noted, could be within intercept range of the frigate in four minutes should Roscu decide not to leave the Stybla patrol ship to face the aliens alone.

And then, even as he watched, the Orisson began veering away from the planet. “Thanks for the offer,” Roscu said. “But as I said, I take standing orders seriously. It’s still not too late for you to let me destroy—”

“Shut her off,” Lappincyk growled.

There was a click from the mike. “Thrawn, are you sure about this?”

“How badly do you need to retrieve the cargo?” Thrawn asked.

Lappincyk closed his eyes briefly. “Very.”

“Then we retrieve it,” Thrawn said. “This is an armed vessel of the Chiss Ascendancy. We’ll prevail.”

“Against six Paataatus warships?” Thrass retorted. Up to now he’d seen the situation in almost theoretical terms; a power struggle between Thrawn and Roscu that would surely end with the two Chiss joining forces. Now, with Roscu’s final refusal and desertion from the field of battle, the full reality had flooded in on him. “One patrol ship armed with nothing but lasers? It can’t be done. It can’t be done.”

“Nothing is impossible, Thrass,” Thrawn said calmly. “As Captain Roscu said, we simply need to be clever. Senior Aide, you don’t happen to have any mines or other explosives aboard, do you?”

“Nothing useful, I’m afraid,” Lappincyk said. “We have some shattercord for burning through sealed hatches, but that would require the target to have already been disabled by one of our Crippler nets, so they won’t—”

“You have a Crippler net?” Thrawn interrupted.

“We have two,” Lappincyk said, frowning at the sudden excitement in his voice. “But they need the target to be mostly unmoving—”

“Where are the launchers?” Thrawn again cut him off. “Portside or starboard?”

“Starboard,” Lappincyk said. “One forward, one aft. But—”

“Perfect,” Thrawn said, pulling out his questis and working rapidly at it. “Pilot, I’m giving you a new course. You’ll follow it precisely until and unless I give you modifications. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said.

Thrass looked at Lappincyk. “What’s a Crippler net?”

“It’s a flexible netting with powerful capacitors attached at various points around its edges,” Lappincyk said, his full attention on Thrawn. “Once it’s wrapped around a ship, it delivers a massive electrical charge through the hull. Like a plasma sphere, but not as powerful. But because the launcher is gas-propelled, it can’t chase down its target like a sphere can.”

“So the target ship has to be motionless.”

“Or nearly so,” Lappincyk said. “In this case …” He shook his head.

Thrass looked at the displays. If there was any term that could describe those Paataatus warships, nearly motionless wasn’t it.

“In this case, fortunately, we won’t need to deliver the weapon,” Thrawn said. He looked at his questis, nodded in satisfaction, and tapped the data to the helm. “Pilot? Questions?”

Thrass frowned as the course came up on the overview. The path Thrawn had marked out was incredibly twisty, looking rather like a drunkard’s staggering path. “No questions, sir,” the pilot said.

“Senior Aide?” Thrawn invited, turning to Lappincyk.

“I still don’t see the plan,” Lappincyk admitted. “But I have nothing better to offer. Do it.”

“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “May I handle the weapons?”

“Use the monitor station,” Lappincyk said, pointing him to an empty bridge chair. “Pilot, transfer weapons control as requested.”

“Yes, sir. Weapons control transferred.”

Thrawn moved to the seat and strapped himself in. “Thirty seconds,” he announced. “Senior Aide, Thrass, make sure you’re solidly strapped in.” He threw a tight smile over his shoulder at Thrass. “This may be a bit bumpy.”

“I’m ready,” Thrass said, wishing that were true. In fact, he was quietly terrified.

And then, as he tried to relax his mind and body, his thoughts flicked back to the Taharim report he’d read all those years ago.

The unorthodox tactics Cadet Thrawn had used in the training simulation. The academy director’s unwavering disbelief that it was possible. Thrawn’s subsequent real-world demonstration in front of not only the director but General Ba’kif himself.

This was just like that, Thrass told himself firmly. This was completely and exactly like that.

Except that Ba’kif wasn’t here. And Thrass would give anything to have the general and a full Expansionary Defense Fleet task force with them.

“Prepare,” Thrawn said. “Pilot: Three, two, one.”

Ar’alani had never been in this part of the Syndicure complex before. It was deeper than the main office and functional areas, deeper than the staff living areas, deeper than the storage, recycling, and power-generation equipment that serviced the entire region, deeper even than the emergency refuges built for the Aristocra.

And as she walked along the bare corridor, listening to the echoing of her footsteps and those of the four armed warriors walking stolidly at her sides, she decided that she never wanted to be here again.

There was evil down here. Evil that had once brought sudden, violent, or torturous death, sometimes to a few, sometimes to thousands. Evil that for one reason or another the Syndicure or Council had decided needed to be kept alive. She could feel the brooding of the occupants, the angry hopelessness, the utter hatred.

But she’d asked for this, and her request had been granted, and she would see it through.

There were five guarded checkpoints between the elevator that had brought her to this level and the small room that was her destination. When they reached the end of the last corridor, her escort unlocked the door and retreated behind the last checkpoint to wait. Straightening her shoulders, reminding herself firmly that there was nothing to be worried about and anyway that she’d asked for this, she watched as the metal panel slid back over the face of the stone wall and stepped through the doorway into the brightly lit room.

Sitting in a bolted-down chair in a posture of casual arrogance, the tendrils of the fungoid symbionts undulating idly as they hung over his shoulders, was General Yiv the Benevolent.

“Hello, General Yiv,” Ar’alani said in Minnisiat as she took another step into the room. Behind her, the door again slid closed. “My name is Ar’alani. I thought we might have a chat.”

“Did you?” Yiv asked, his cleft jaw opening slightly like the mouth of a predator deciding whether or not he was hungry enough to pounce on a bit of promising prey. “Did you also consider that you were intruding upon my solitude?”

“I’d have thought you’d have had enough of solitude.”

“And that I would thus welcome conversation?” Yiv asked. “With you?” The jaw snapped shut, the tendrils on his shoulders giving a slightly magnified twitch. “For someone who has made the arduous trek to my final resting place, you are curiously ignorant of my situation.”

“How so?”

“I have had many conversations over these last months,” Yiv said. “All have been long. None has been pleasant. Solitude is my companion, not my enemy. Do you think you have found a new topic that would change that balance?”

“Not a new topic, no,” Ar’alani said. “But perhaps I have a new angle on an old topic you probably thought you’d grown weary of.”

“And what would that topic be?”

“Betrayal.”

Yiv gave a booming laugh that seemed to echo oppressively from the stone walls of his private prison. “You are indeed a lost child,” he said scornfully. “So many have pressed me in vain to betray my generals or my people. Do you truly think you can succeed where they have failed?”

“Your generals no longer exist,” Ar’alani told him. “They squandered the empire you left them in vain attempts to take power. Your conquered nations are once again free, and the remnants of your people are scattered and lost.”

“So others have told me,” Yiv said calmly. “I believe it no more from you than I did from them. Why else would you keep me alive, save to bargain me to the might of the Nikardun Destiny when it brings you to your knees?”

“We keep you alive because we don’t slaughter defeated enemies,” Ar’alani said. “And because you may still have useful information.”

“I will tell you nothing.”

“Though up to now your journals and records have mostly given us everything we need,” Ar’alani continued. “Tell me, which of your allies encouraged the construction of listening posts KR20 and KR21?”

“We have no allies,” Yiv said scornfully. “We need none. We are mighty conquerors who stand on our own.”

“Of course,” Ar’alani said, mentally crossing her fingers. If her bluff didn’t work, she would have made this trip for nothing. “Still, after all that’s happened—including your disappearance—I imagine Jixtus pretends he wasn’t your ally, either.”

The tendrils hanging from Yiv’s shoulders gave a subtle twitch, as if they’d detected something bad in the air. “What nonsense are you babbling now?” he demanded.

“Didn’t they tell you?” Ar’alani asked, feigning surprise. “Your friend Jixtus has a new set of allies now. Or maybe tools would be the better word. Allies, tools—they seem to be the same with him. At any rate, they’re busy converting the two listening posts he suggested to you into minor shipyards.”

“That he suggested to me?” Yiv asked, his tone changing. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you, General,” Ar’alani said. “I’m talking about betrayal. Jixtus persuaded you to build those listening posts because he needed a pair of structures in those particular spots and figured he’d let you do all the work. Unfortunately, the plan wouldn’t work with their original Nikardun crews, so after they were up and running he made a precise attack on both bases, killed everyone aboard, then set about rebuilding them to his own specifications.”

“You lie,” Yiv said flatly.

Ar’alani shrugged as she pulled the remote from her pocket and keyed it on. The cell’s wall display lit up with one of the vids the Vigilant had taken on its last check of the ruined base. “See for yourself,” she invited.

Yiv watched in silence until the vid ran to the end. “More,” he said.

Ar’alani keyed the next one. Yiv again watched to the end, again without comment. Without waiting for another order, Ar’alani keyed in the next vid, then the next, switching from outside views to the ones her survey team had taken of the base’s interior. That one finished and she started to key up the fifth vid—

“No more,” Yiv said softly.

“I’m sorry,” Ar’alani said, a bit surprised to realize she actually meant it. “It’s hard to watch your people being betrayed by an ally.”

“How would you know?” Yiv countered acidly. “You Chiss have no allies.”

“Perhaps not,” Ar’alani conceded. So no denials, no complaints, no accusations. Did that mean her guess was correct, that Jixtus really was the one behind Yiv’s campaign against the Ascendancy? “That doesn’t mean we don’t have a great deal of experience with betrayal on a personal level.”

“For a commander it is always personal, is it not?” Yiv smiled, his symbionts again twitching. “Oh, yes, I know who you are, Admiral Ar’alani of the Expansionary Defense Fleet. Tell me why you are here.”

“To show you the evidence of Jixtus’s betrayal.”

“No,” Yiv said. “Gloating is beneath you. Why are you here?”

“For information about Jixtus,” Ar’alani said. “We know he’s working with the Kilji Illumine”—now for the second bluff—“and the Agbui. Does he have other allies we don’t yet know about?”

“The Agbui,” Yiv said contemptuously. “Creatures of loud arrogance and silent uselessness, able to persuade a target merely into doing what he already wanted to do.”

“They do have a high opinion of themselves,” Ar’alani agreed, a shiver running up her back. Yiv could be as scornful as he liked, but Agbui uselessness had nearly pushed the Ascendancy into civil war. “Are there others?”

“There are other names.”

“Allies?”

“Perhaps,” Yiv said. “Perhaps simply names of those Jixtus encountered or had heard of. But even those names may yield useful results under careful analysis.”

“Ah,” Ar’alani said, eyeing him closely. “And what will these names cost us?”

Yiv regarded her thoughtfully, the tips of his symbiont tendrils tracing out small patterns across his chest. “You want more than simply names or species,” he said. “You want times and locations of meetings and conversations. You want bits of information that were too vague or unrelated to Nikardun triumphs for me to bother adding to my records.”

The tendrils gave a final twitch, then settled back to their earlier slow undulation. “You want everything there is to know about Jixtus and the Grysks.”

Ar’alani felt her back stiffen. That was a species name she hadn’t heard before. “Jixtus’s people are known as the Grysks?”

“Yes.” The cleft jaw cracked into a smile. “That name was offered at no cost. The rest will have a price.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to be free of this place,” Yiv said without hesitation. “I want to see the sun and the stars again. I want to feel the wind in my face and at my back, and to walk for more than twenty paces before encountering a barrier. I want life again.”

“You know we can’t do that, General,” Ar’alani murmured, her heart sinking. So close, and yet so far.

“Because you need me in custody to trade to the Nikardun Destiny when it threatens to overwhelm you?” Yiv turned to look at the wall display, where the last frozen image from Ar’alani’s vid remained. “The Destiny is no more. I know that.”

He looked back at Ar’alani. “I have no fleet, no soldiers, no power. I’m not a threat to the Chiss. There is no reason you can’t send me away.”

“I’m sorry,” Ar’alani said. “Even if we just moved you to a cell on the surface—”

“Do you not hear me?” Yiv demanded. “I do not wish to live any longer among the Chiss. Take me elsewhere, leave me sufficient equipment and provisions to establish my home, and in return I will tell you everything.”

Ar’alani frowned. “Do you mean exile?”

“Of course,” Yiv said. “Is that such a difficult request?”

“No, not at all,” Ar’alani assured him.

Though actually it was. It was a hugely difficult request. As far as she knew, the Ascendancy had never exiled anyone, certainly not within the scope of modern history. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll speak to my superiors and see what they’re willing to do,” she said.

“Just be certain to warn them that the time to act is limited,” Yiv said. “Jixtus is on the move, and the Chiss Ascendancy is his target.”

“They’re more than aware of that,” Ar’alani assured him, stepping back to the door and giving the rap-rap rap rap-rap signal she and her escort had agreed on. “You’ll be informed of their decision.”

Ba’kif was waiting in the prison command center when she arrived, sitting in front of a bank of displays. “Did everything come through all right?” she asked as she walked toward him.

“Perfectly,” Ba’kif said, waving her to the chair beside him. “I thought he might try to keep his voice down so he could talk with you privately. But that didn’t happen.”

“If anything, he kept his voice deliberately loud,” Ar’alani agreed. “I think he wanted all of us—you, me, and everyone else in here—in on the conversation.”

“Given the direction the talks went, I’m sure he did,” Ba’kif said. “What do you think of his offer?”

“It seemed genuine,” Ar’alani said, looking over the monitors. One of them was showing a silent replay of her conversation with Yiv, with overlays tracking the Nikardun’s subtle physical changes and extrapolating the parallel flow of mental and emotional states. “You’re the ones who’ve been building up his truth/fiction database. What did you see?”

“The same,” Ba’kif said grimly. “And that worries me.”

Ar’alani frowned. “How so?”

“In the months since Thrawn brought him here, he’s never once even hinted at the possibility of a deal,” Ba’kif said. “What’s the only thing that changed with your visit?”

“He trusts a Chiss admiral more than a Chiss general?” Ar’alani suggested, trying for a bit of levity.

Ba’kif shook his head. “He saw your evidence of his listening posts’ destruction.”

Ar’alani felt her face warming, silently cursing her attempt at humor. She’d been so focused on the possibility of getting more information out of Yiv that the full implications of his offer hadn’t registered. “He said Jixtus was on the move,” she murmured. “Yiv expects us to lose.”

“He does indeed,” Ba’kif said. “And he’s trying to find a way off Csilla before that happens.”

Ar’alani nodded, her stomach twisted into a hard knot. She’d gone into military service expecting that the Chiss would be attacked on occasion, and that there would be corresponding ups and downs in its power and influence. But never in her life had the thought occurred to her that the Ascendancy might actually be destroyed by one of those enemies.

“Of course, just because he believes it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen,” Ba’kif pointed out. “But the fact that he does believe it means we need to take the possibility seriously.”

“Especially coming from someone who lost his own fight against us,” Ar’alani agreed. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll contact the Council at once and get this thing rolling,” Ba’kif said. “I have no idea what sort of equipment and provisions Yiv was referring to, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to offer suggestions. We’ll also get him busy listing all those names and other details he promised.”

“I notice you didn’t mention the Syndicure,” Ar’alani said. “Aren’t we going to tell them about this?”

“Not yet,” Ba’kif said, his lip twisting. “You know the Aristocra. They’ll want to debate it and haul us into hearings, and at the end will probably tell us we can’t do it. We don’t have time for the process, and we can’t afford that decision. We’ll let them know when they need to. Not before.”

“Yes, sir,” Ar’alani said, keeping her tone neutral. That wasn’t how these things were supposed to go, and they both knew it. Keeping the Syndicure in the dark that way could bring a galaxy of pain down onto Ba’kif’s head.

But it was nothing compared with the pain that the fall of the Ascendancy would bring. “I understand,” she added. “I’d also recommend the Council formally call on the Nine to provide warships to strengthen the Defense Force.”

Ba’kif huffed out a sigh. “I can suggest it,” he said. “But I don’t think the Council will follow through.”

Ar’alani frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I strongly suspect several of the families will refuse the request,” Ba’kif said bluntly. “The Dasklo and Clarr almost certainly, the Irizi and Ufsa probably. The rest …” He shook his head. “I don’t think the Council will want to aggravate tensions by forcing the Nine to choose between being allied and being loyalist.”

“I see,” Ar’alani said, hearing an edge of bitterness in her voice. Once again, politics were driving the fleet’s agenda. This time, the politics of risking disaster in order to allow someone else to maintain appearances. “Are there any families who have declared themselves allied?”

“Yes, but unofficially,” Ba’kif said. “Patriarch Thurfian has told the Council they can call on up to half the Mitth fleet, and is in the process of deploying them to critical systems where they’ll be instantly available if and when they’re needed. Patriel Lakooni has also offered the frigate Midsummer, currently back at Celwis, though she warns us that the Defense Force would have to find officers and warriors to crew it.”

“Not much help.”

“No,” Ba’kif agreed. “But better than nothing.” He stood up and gestured toward the door. “Come, I’ll escort you back to the main level. I’ll also make sure you get a full copy of the interview and our pattern analysis before you leave, in case you want to review it on the trip back to Sposia.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They walked past the other officers on duty, then out through the command center’s armored door. Ba’kif nodded briskly to the armed warriors standing guard outside, gave a small all-clear hand signal, and led the way down the corridor toward the elevators.

“Don’t look so glum, Admiral,” Ba’kif said as he unlocked the control bar and keyed for the main levels and the less oppressive air far above them. “Just because the families are squabbling now doesn’t mean a looming disaster. They’ll come together as one when the crisis hits. It’s happened many times in the Ascendancy’s past, and it’ll happen again.”

“I know, sir,” Ar’alani said.

Only she didn’t know that. Not for certain.

And she was pretty sure Ba’kif didn’t, either.

“Prepare,” Thrawn said. “Pilot: Three, two, one.”

With a sudden surge of power, the Jandalin twisted off its vector, angling to the right in a tight curve that had Thrass grabbing for his restraints. The starscape outside spun madly as the patrol ship continued its turn, and he could feel the rumbling vibration beneath him as the pilot ran the thrusters back to full power. For a second he could see the approaching Paataatus formation straight ahead of them—there was a sort of soft chuff—and then the pilot continued their curve, turning the ship back toward the crippled pirate. There was a muted flash as the Jandalin’s spectrum lasers fired again—

Lappincyk muttered something that sounded like a curse. “What?” Thrass asked. He looked among the various displays, trying vainly to figure out what Lappincyk was seeing and wishing he knew better how to read the data. Had Thrawn taken out one of the alien gunboats, or maybe even the frigate?

“He fired at the transport again,” Lappincyk said tightly. “What in—?”

He broke off as the ship abruptly reversed the direction of its turn, again briefly facing off against the Paataatus ships—which were significantly closer now, Thrass noted uneasily—before continuing on again out of their path. Another right-hand curve, this one slightly less fierce than the last ones, and then the pilot straightened them out onto a vector that showed nothing but stars ahead. Thrass again looked at the displays, and this time was able to at least see that the pirate ship was behind them and that the Jandalin was now running parallel to the squadron of incoming Paataatus ships, only in the opposite direction.

He frowned. Paralleling the Paataatus, moving past them within easy attack range. Yet none of the aliens was making any move against them? “Thrawn?” he called. “What’s going on?”

“Exactly what I expected,” Thrawn said, a new and subtle note of confidence in his voice. “Something else I deduced from the records of the previous Paataatus battle.”

“Which is?” Lappincyk asked impatiently.

Thrawn pointed to the side out the viewport. “Paataatus tactics are based on a swarm mentality,” he said. “You see how they’re now opening up their cluster as they continue toward the transport?”

Thrass studied the displays. He hadn’t noticed the change in formation before, but now that he knew to look for it he could see that Thrawn was right.

“But why the transport?” Lappincyk asked. “We’re already in laser range. The transport isn’t. Why not attack us?”

“Because part of their pattern is to go after the weakest target first,” Thrawn said. “To swarm it, destroy it, then move on to the next target—”

“Wait,” Lappincyk cut him off, suddenly horrified. “To destroy it? Thrawn, we need that ship intact. You can’t—”

He broke off as the Jandalin again turned into a tight curve that once again had Thrass grabbing for his safety straps. “Thrawn!” Lappincyk shouted over the roar of the thrusters.

Thrawn didn’t answer. The curve straightened out, and Thrass once again saw the Paataatus ships directly in front of them.

But unlike the last two times he’d seen the aliens, this time they weren’t blazing toward the Chiss patrol ship. This time they were blazing away from them. Thrawn’s last maneuver had brought the Jandalin into position directly behind the attack formation.

And even as Thrass belatedly realized that all the twisting and turning had been about getting the Jandalin into precisely this position, the ship’s three spectrum lasers opened fire.

The closest of the Paataatus gunboats took the full impact of the barrage, and on the sensor display Thrass saw a warning cone appear as the lasers dug deeply into the alien’s main thrusters. Thrass watched closely, wondering if the next salvo would destroy the craft completely, or whether it would take a third or even a fourth attack to achieve that end.

But destruction was apparently not Thrawn’s goal for this battle. His second laser blast wasn’t directed at the damaged Paataatus ship, but instead focused on the next nearest gunboat. Another triple laser blast, and Thrawn again changed targets, this time to the third nearest. Even as he fired, the Jandalin was again in motion, accelerating toward the farther wing of the opening Paataatus formation.

Yet Thrass hadn’t heard Thrawn give any additional orders. Did that mean the pilot was still following the original course pattern? If so, had Thrawn really anticipated the battle this far in advance?

Thrass looked at the displays again, concentrating on the one showing the distant transport. It was all well and good to pick off the gunboats one by one from behind while they were focused on a different target. But that strategy had now left the disabled Chiss transport completely exposed to the alien forces arrowing in on it. The frigate was still there, two of the swarming gunboats were still undamaged—

He stiffened. Had that been a flash of laserfire from the frigate?

There was no indication of any fresh damage to the transport. But Thrass was certain he’d seen a flash.

And then, even as he tried to figure it out, the gunboat moving along the frigate’s portside flank sparked a small flash of its own. What in the name of Csilla—?

“Pilot: Ahead full power,” Thrawn ordered, his voice calm but with an edge of urgency to it. “Get me in optimal laser range of the frigate.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said, his words disappearing into the suddenly enhanced roar of the Jandalin’s thrusters.

“As you see, Thrass,” Thrawn said, half turning toward Thrass and raising his voice to be heard over the noise, “the target of a Crippler net doesn’t have to be motionless if you can drop it in front of him and persuade him to run into it.”

“Yes,” Thrass murmured. So that was what the twin flashes had been: the frigate and gunboat slamming into the pair of charged nets that Thrawn had earlier dropped in their path, with all the twists and turns designed to hide their release from the Paataatus.

Only in order to make it work, Thrawn had had to not only precisely anticipate the swarming tactic, but also predict with a high degree of accuracy the vectors the individual alien ships would travel on their way to the transport. Just like he’d apparently anticipated the maneuvers that would be needed to get the Jandalin behind the attack force.

And all he’d had to go on was the data from a single battle nineteen years ago?

Thrass stared at the back of Thrawn’s head, a chill running up his back. What kind of person could do all that?

“Fortunately, Crippler nets are large,” Thrawn commented, as if anticipating Thrass’s thoughts and concerns. “They’re nearly impossible to detect, certainly at warship attack speeds, and they don’t have to hit their targets squarely in order to temporarily disrupt their systems.”

“Impressive aiming nonetheless,” Lappincyk said. “What now?”

“We retrieve the transport and their hijacked cargo and leave,” Thrawn told him. “Observe the Paataatus ships.”

Thrass again looked at the displays. The gunboats had broken off their attack, the ones Thrawn had fired on limping away from the transport with the clear intent of making their escape into deep space. The single undamaged gunboat had joined with its partially paralyzed comrade and were together nudging the semi-incapacitated frigate off its attack vector toward a similar departure.

“Senior Aide Lappincyk?” the pilot called over his shoulder. “We’re coming within laser range of the Paataatus frigate. Do we attack?”

“Mid Commander Thrawn?” Lappincyk asked.

“As Syndic Thrass rightly pointed out earlier, we can hardly hope to stand face-to-face against six warships who’ve been forced to continue hostilities,” Thrawn said. “If the Paataatus have reconsidered their course of action, I see no reason not to let them go.”

He pointed toward the left-hand side of the viewport. “Of more concern right now is Captain Roscu.”

Thrass felt his throat tighten. The Orisson, which had been hanging well back from the field of battle, was again in motion, driving toward the hijackers’ transport. With the danger now past, Roscu apparently thought she could just swoop in and pluck the cargo out of the Jandalin’s fingers.

“Pilot: Emergency power to the drive,” Lappincyk ordered grimly. “Get us to the transport ahead of the Clarr.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said. The roar of the thrusters increased even more, and Thrass felt a brief twitch as the Jandalin leapt forward.

“Arriving ahead of the Orisson may not gain us anything,” Thrawn said over the noise. “Captain Roscu has more than enough weight of weaponry and personnel to force us away.”

“Just get us there,” Lappincyk growled. “Roscu wouldn’t dare block the senior aide to a Patriarch of the Forty by force.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m not sure there’s anything she wouldn’t dare,” Thrawn warned. “But perhaps we can persuade her to reconsider.”

The Orisson was steadily picking up speed as Roscu likewise pushed her cruiser’s drive to its limit. But the ship’s more powerful thrusters also had to contend with the ship’s greater mass, and the computer’s projection still showed the Jandalin reaching the transport first.

“Pilot, on my mark you will execute emergency braking,” Thrawn said.

Thrass frowned. Interrupting the Jandalin’s forward momentum would slow them down and possibly give the Orisson the advantage necessary to reach the transport first.

“On my second mark, resume course and acceleration,” Thrawn continued.

“Thrawn—” Thrass said.

And stopped at a cautionary gesture from Lappincyk. “Let him go,” the senior aide said, just loudly enough for Thrass to hear over the thruster noise. “I think he’s more than demonstrated he knows what he’s doing.”

Thrass ground his teeth, but nodded. The Jandalin continued on—

“Pilot, first mark: Three, two, one,” Thrawn said.

Thrass felt the slight surge as the Jandalin’s forward thrusters went into full braking mode, killing some of the ship’s acceleration. He clenched his hands around his safety straps, wondering what game Thrawn was playing at now.

“Second mark: Three, two, one.”

Once again, Thrass felt a small twitch of acceleration as the compensators lagged slightly behind the surge of the main thrusters’ emergency power. The Jandalin again leapt forward, and he looked back at the displays, wondering if Thrawn’s baffling maneuver had cost them the race to the transport.

He was still trying to figure it out when the glow of a plasma sphere sizzled past the viewport across the Jandalin’s bow.

Thrass jerked, feeling his mouth drop open. “What in the—?”

“Roscu fired on us,” Lappincyk said, his voice hovering somewhere between disbelief and fury. “She fired on us.”

“As I said,” Thrawn called back to them. “There’s little she wouldn’t dare.”

“How did you know?” Thrass asked.

“About the plasma sphere?” Thrawn gave a little shrug. “I served with her. I know how she thinks and behaves.”

“And you knew she would attack us?”

“I suspected she would try to disable us,” Thrawn said. “She probably reasons that once she has the transport and its cargo, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Thrass mouthed a curse. Thrawn was right on that one, anyway. The Stybla could file a complaint once the Jandalin was back in the Ascendancy, but in the meantime the Clarr would have the transport and the cargo.

The cargo that belonged to the Stybla. The cargo that Lappincyk and Patriarch Lamiov were desperate to retrieve. The cargo Roscu was going to simply walk away with.

He squared his shoulders. Like hell she was.

“Are you saying there’s nothing we can do to stop her?” Lappincyk demanded.

“He’s not saying that at all,” Thrass said before Thrawn could answer. “The comm, if you please?”

Lappincyk sent him a brief, speculative look. Then, without comment, he pulled the comm speaker from its holder and handed it over. “Thank you,” Thrass said. “Pilot: Communications, if you please.”

“You have comm,” the pilot confirmed.

“Thank you.” Thrass keyed the mike. “Orisson, this is the Jandalin,” he said. “Captain Roscu, you should be aware that someone under your command has just committed a serious violation of Ascendancy law. As I assume you know, launching an attack on a member of the Syndicure can be considered an act of internecine war. I’m sure your Patriarch would be shocked to hear that someone aboard your ship has been careless enough to put him in that position.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Roscu’s scornful voice came back. “You already identified yourself as nothing more than a senior aide.”

“Attacking a Patriarch’s senior aide is also a serious breach of protocol,” Thrass said. “But this isn’t Senior Aide Lappincyk. You’re talking to Syndic Mitth’ras’safis. I suggest you think long and hard before you continue along your current path.”

There was a short pause. “You’re lying,” Roscu accused. “Why would a Mitth Syndic be aboard a Stybla patrol ship?”

“For the same reason Mid Commander Thrawn is aboard,” Thrass said, an odd thought suddenly occurring to him. Family relationships were sometimes vague and always complicated, and the perceptions of those relationships were often even more so.

But if properly presented, erroneous perceptions could be useful, providing leverage and manipulation in a way that couldn’t later be denounced as outright falsehoods. Thrass, as a Mitth cousin, had some of the same rights and privileges as those enjoyed by blood.

And one of those rights, he knew, was to make personal declarations of—

“My brother and I were asked by our Patriarch to assist Senior Aide Lappincyk in his recovery operation,” he continued, dropping the critical word into the conversation with a casual familiarity, as if he’d referred to the relationship a thousand times over the years. The question now was whether Roscu would catch the designation and the significance he hoped she would place on it.

From the length of the silence at the other end of the comm, it appeared that she had. “This operation is a matter for the Clarr,” Roscu said at last.

Quietly, Thrass let out the breath he’d been holding. “Retrieval of the cargo is a matter for the Stybla,” he countered. As he’d hoped, Roscu had taken the most literal meaning of his comment.

And really, it would have been extraordinary if she hadn’t. She didn’t know Thrawn’s standing with the Mitth—she would assume he was a merit adoptive, as were most of the Nine’s military personnel, but would never have been so crass as to ask.

Now that lack of definitive information had turned around to sting her. Syndics were always either blood, cousins, or ranking distants; and Thrass’s identification of Thrawn as his brother strongly implied that he, too, was in that lofty peak of the Mitth family pyramid.

Roscu might be willing to kill a Stybla Patriarch’s senior aide, especially if she could make it seem like a result of the brief battle with the Paataatus. Killing a high-ranking Mitth, on the other hand, would be far more dangerous.

Killing two high-ranking Mitth should be completely out of the question.

Especially if she could be persuaded that she wasn’t the only one on her end of the conversation. “One other thing,” Thrass said. “Be advised that we’re currently copying these transmissions to the transport. Whatever course of action you decide on, your Clarr family hijackers will be witnesses to it.”

“Impossible,” Roscu insisted. “The plasma sphere we fired earlier will have knocked out their comm.”

“I didn’t say we were using the comm,” Thrass said. “Mid Commander Thrawn has retuned one of the Jandalin’s lasers to a comm frequency and is feeding the transmissions through the transport’s sensor network.”

There was another brief pause. Then Roscu bit out a curse Thrass had never heard in polite society. “I knew it,” she snarled. “I knew he’d meddled in that pirate attack.”

“On the contrary,” Thrass said. Thrawn had half turned in his seat, Thrass noted, a rather stunned look on his face. Thrass gave him a reassuring smile in return. “Just because he knows how to do something doesn’t imply he’s ever actually done it.”

“Syndic Thrass—”

“At any rate, right now your focus needs to be on your own situation,” Thrass cut her off. “As I see it, your only option is to withdraw gracefully.”

“You don’t understand, Syndic,” Roscu said, the anger and frustration in her voice edging toward veiled desperation. “I have orders. I cannot return without the hijackers.”

“Then take them,” Lappincyk spoke up.

Thrass looked at him in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Lappincyk gestured for the mike. Frowning, Thrass handed it over. “Captain Roscu, this is Senior Aide Lappincyk,” Lappincyk said. “If all you want are the hijackers, you’re welcome to them. All we want is our cargo. Once it’s aboard the Jandalin, we’ll withdraw and you can do as you please with both the transport and the criminals.”

Thrass felt his eyes narrow. Was Lappincyk really authorized to make that sort of deal?

Of course he was. Patriarch Lamiov had already said he’d tried to work a deal with Patriarch Rivlex to avoid a crisis between their two families. Bringing a group of Clarr hijackers back to Naporar would force the dangerous confrontation Lamiov had always hoped to avoid.

“Captain?” Lappincyk prompted.

“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Roscu growled.

“I would hope so,” Lappincyk said, his voice going dark. “Because otherwise you’re going to get nothing at all. So. Here’s what you’ll do. First, you’ll break off your rush and take up position three hundred kilometers from the transport. You’ll then transmit an order that we can record and play for the hijackers after we’ve docked, instructing them to leave all weapons on the deck by the air lock and retreat to the engine room. We’ll transfer the stolen cargo to the Jandalin, then confirm the hijackers didn’t accidentally take a piece or two into the engine room with them.”

“I hardly think—”

“If they have,” Lappincyk continued, “or if they resist us in any way, we’ll lock our two ships together and transport the hijackers to Naporar to face the full horror of death by torture as specified in the family accords. I expect you to make the consequences of such foolishness very clear in your message to them.”

“I will,” Roscu said, and Thrass could imagine the words coming out from between clenched teeth.

“Good,” Lappincyk said, giving Thrass a tight smile. “We’re prepared to record your message. You may begin whenever you’re ready.”

Ornfra was an important economic and political hub of the Ascendancy’s northeast-zenith sector. All Nine Ruling Families had strongholds there, as did seventeen of the Forty Great Families. In normal times, it was a thriving and vibrant place, full of life and political intrigue.

Right now, it was a major explosion waiting to happen.

“Have you figured out what you’re going to say to her, Senior Captain?” Apros asked.

“I have most of it,” Ziinda said.

Which was mostly a lie. She actually didn’t have the foggiest idea of how she was going to approach Captain Roscu when the Orisson finally arrived. For that matter, given Roscu’s attitude during their last encounter, she wasn’t even sure the other wouldn’t simply order her comm officer to refuse any attempt at conversation.

But a ship’s captain was supposed to look competent to her officers and warriors, whether she felt like she was or not.

She scowled out the viewport. The space around Ornfra was buzzing with ships, the transports and merchants skittering around timidly, the patrol craft and warships taking a much more aggressive stand. Most of the general comm conversations the Grayshrike was picking up were terse and anxious.

She looked at the tactical, and the prominent icons marking the warships floating watchfully in their various orbits. All of them were from the Dasklo family’s private fleet, of course—Ornfra wasn’t exactly a private Dasklo province, but it was about as close to one as any planet in the Ascendancy got. The other eight Ruling Families had interests here, of course, but they were relatively small, certainly when compared with the Dasklo holdings. The biggest minority presence was probably the Clarr and their massive farming operations, which had themselves been a source of low-grade political tussling between the two families for decades. But despite that rivalry—or perhaps because of it—the Clarr didn’t have any of their own warships here.

The overall System Patrol was a shared force, as it was on all other Chiss worlds. But with the far more powerful Dasklo warships dominating the system it was Patriarch Dasklo’irv’ursimi who was calling the shots, and everyone knew it.

Normally, that somewhat lopsided arrangement seldom rose above the level of minor annoyance. Now, with tensions heightened and accusations and counter-accusations being thrown around, the whole system seemed poised like an air dancer preparing to launch herself off her chosen cliff.

It wasn’t just the civilian ships that were acting skittish, either. For all their outward confidence, the Dasklo were feeling the strain, too. The Grayshrike had already been challenged twice by Dasklo warships, both family commanders demanding to know what an Expansionary Defense Fleet ship was doing in their system. Ziinda had been able to ease their concerns, but from the continual pings of active sensors it was clear her ship was being watched closely.

What those other warships would do when she accosted an incoming Clarr warship wasn’t a question she wanted to think about.

“Basically, I’m just going to explain the situation,” she told Apros. “Hopefully, she’ll be willing to listen.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Apros hesitated. “May I ask you a question, Senior Captain?”

“About Captain Roscu?”

“No, ma’am,” Apros said. “Not directly, anyway.”

Ziinda gestured. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve been looking over the Jixtus vid,” Apros said, pulling it up on his questis, “and I was struck by something odd.”

He keyed it to play and handed it to her. “Is it my imagination, or is the cam that’s taking the vid moving?”

Ziinda studied the image. Unfortunately, five seconds wasn’t much time to establish any kind of baseline. “I assume you’ve run an analysis on it,” she said, handing the questis back.

“Yes, ma’am, I have,” he said, scowling at the image. “It’s too short for the computer to make anything of it. But I could swear the cam is moving past the other ships. And that just seems wrong.”

“How so?”

“If you’re trying for secrecy, I’d think any movement by the cam would attract attention,” Apros said. “So letting it drift seems to be exactly what you wouldn’t want.”

“Agreed,” Ziinda said. “On the other hand, if this is a fraud like we’re thinking, maybe Jixtus just has a flair for the dramatic.”

“Except that he’s trying to sell it as the real thing,” Apros pointed out. “Just seems sloppy, somehow.”

“I get your point,” Ziinda said. “If we can talk the Clarr into giving us a copy of the longer version, maybe we’ll be able to find out for sure.”

“Maybe.” Apros hissed out a breath. “Thank you for your time, Senior Captain.”

“No problem,” Ziinda said. “And keep at it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned serving with Admiral Ar’alani, it’s that small details can turn out to be more important than anyone expects.”

“Senior Captain, we’ve got incoming,” Vimsk announced from the sensor station. “Light cruiser, Clarr crest … it’s the Orisson, ma’am.”

“Mid Commander Shrent, signal Captain Roscu,” Ziinda ordered, settling herself firmly in her chair. And with that, she was out of time to come up with anything fancy or clever. As she’d told Apros, she’d just have to lay it out and hope Roscu listened. “Tell her it’s urgent that I speak with her.”

“More movement, Senior Captain,” Vimsk added. “Two Dasklo destroyers changing orbits. Looks like they’re moving to intercept the Orisson.”

“Senior Captain, I’ve got Captain Roscu,” Shrent said, keying the comm over to Ziinda’s chair.

Ziinda hit the mike key. “Captain, this is Senior Captain Ziinda,” she said. “We have evidence showing that the vid Jixtus gave you is—”

“Sorry, but I’m a bit busy right now,” Roscu’s voice came back, sounding gruff and distracted. “I’ve been told the Mitth have placed a big floating spy platform here, and I intend to find it.”

“Captain, this is important,” Ziinda tried again. “The vid is a fraud. Do you understand?” Faintly, she could hear the sounds of conversation from the Orisson. “The ships are all fakes,” she said, raising her volume in the hope of cutting through the verbal clutter. Was Roscu even listening to her? “Captain Roscu—”

“There it is,” Roscu said, her attention clearly on whatever her people were doing and saying. “Bigger than I expected. I wonder how many people Thrawn has stuffed inside. Raamas, are we even going to be able to tow it in?” There was an indistinct reply—“That’s all right—we’ll figure out something. Maybe Senior Captain Ziinda can lend us the Grayshrike’s tractors. I have to go now, Senior Captain. We’ll talk when we get back.”

“Captain Roscu—”

“They’ve cut off comm, Senior Captain,” Shrent said. “I’ll try to get them back.”

“What was that all about?” Apros asked, frowning at Ziinda.

“No idea,” Ziinda said, the back of her neck tingling. There was something very wrong here. “Mid Commander Shrent?”

Shrent shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. They’re not responding.”

“Those two Dasklo destroyers are still moving toward her,” Wikivv said. “Maybe she’s talking to them.”

“There’s no evidence of any comm activity from the Orisson,” Shrent said.

“Apros, pull up the specs on that ship,” Ziinda said. “I want to know its towing limit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Apros said, working his questis. “Do you want me to check on Mitth spy platforms, too?”

“Get me the Orisson’s towing limit first,” Ziinda said. “Wikivv, I’m seeing an aspect change. What are they doing?”

“Looks like a yaw-pitch rotation, ma’am,” the pilot reported. “Seem to be lining up on a new outward vector.”

“Vimsk, track along the Orisson’s likely vector cone,” Ziinda ordered. “I want to know what they’re aiming for.”

“The Dasklo destroyers are picking up speed,” Wikivv said. “I’m guessing they’ve spotted the turn, too.”

“Afraid that Roscu is going to cut and run,” Apros commented. “Here’s the towing data, Senior Captain.”

“That’s not the plan I was hearing from her,” Ziinda said, looking at her chair displays as Apros’s numbers appeared. As she’d expected, the Orisson could tow pretty much anything up to a medium-large freighter.

So how big was this Mitth spy platform she thought she was seeing? “Vimsk, what have you got?”

“There are no likely systems along that vector cone,” Vimsk said. “In-system, none of the planets line up. There are a few asteroids stretching out toward the outer system—”

And with a horrible shock, Ziinda got it. “Shrent—emergency comm system,” she snapped. “Get Roscu’s attention—I don’t care how you do it—”

“There she goes,” Wikivv cut in as the Clarr light cruiser disappeared from the viewport and displays. “Looked like an in-system jump.”

“Track it,” Ziinda ordered. “And go to battle stations.”

“Senior Captain?” Apros called tensely over the noise as the battle station alert sounded.

“You heard Vimsk,” Ziinda said, cutting off the sound. All across the bridge the officers were hunched over their boards, and on the status displays the patterns of standby lights flicked to green as the Grayshrike’s weapons systems came fully to life. “The moving camera that you spotted in the vid. It wasn’t just moving—it was doing a slow inward orbit, like an asteroid.” She pointed at the tactical. “Like one of the asteroids Roscu is chasing down.”

“Oh, hell,” Apros bit out, his eyes going wide. “You mean like the asteroid at Sunrise? But she said it was a Mitth spy platform.”

“She was told it was a Mitth spy platform,” Ziinda retorted, looking at the sensor display. Vimsk had refined her data now that the Orisson’s final exit vector was known, but there were still at least five possible targets the Clarr ship might be headed for.

But which one?

Ziinda felt sweat breaking out on her forehead. The Orisson was charging straight into a trap, and the Grayshrike was the only ship that could react fast enough to save it. But there would only be time for a single in-system jump. If Ziinda guessed wrong, Roscu and her crew were dead.

And the hell of it was that it would be a guess. The Orisson had made a brief hyperspace jump, arriving almost instantly somewhere else in the system. But its image and drive emissions were all heading back from that spot at the far slower speed of light. Depending on how far Roscu had gone, it could be seconds, minutes, or even hours before the Grayshrike or anyone else on Ornfra could physically spot it.

“Senior Captain, I think she missed,” Wikivv said.

“What?” Ziinda asked, frowning.

“I think she missed with her jump,” Wikivv repeated. “It’s been too long. She should have shown up by now at one of the three most likely asteroids.”

“She might have jumped to one of the farther ones,” Apros pointed out.

“No, she’s right,” Ziinda said with a renewed bit of hope. “Those others are all too far away. If Jixtus is trying to drive the Clarr and Dasklo into all-out war, he needs all of Ornfra to see the Orisson get destroyed.”

“Preferably with a couple of Dasklo destroyers nearby that the Clarr can blame it on,” Apros said. “And they won’t jump to confront Roscu until they can see her.”

“So the Orisson overshot and has to come back,” Ziinda agreed. “That gives us a little breathing space. Vimsk, is there anything about any of those asteroids that makes it stand out?”

“Nothing I can pick up at this distance, ma’am,” Vimsk said, her face pressed against her glare-hooded monitor. “But the missile trap at Sunrise didn’t give off anything I could get, either, even when we were right up beside it.”

Apros muttered something under his breath. “Any ships out there that are just hanging around?” he asked. “It’ll probably be something small and unobtrusive.”

“Scanning now, sir.”

“Apros, what are you thinking?” Ziinda asked.

“They’re not going to leave it to automatic sensors and firing systems,” he said. “Not something this important. They’ll have someone nearby to keep an eye on the asteroid and pick the right moment to fire the missile.”

“Good call,” Ziinda said. She really should have thought of that herself. “Vimsk?”

“Still scanning,” Vimsk said. “But if they’re running on standby, I may not be able to pick them up.”

“We need to get closer,” Apros said. “Wikivv, work us up an in-system jump to someplace midway between the two closest asteroids. Hopefully, that’ll put us close enough.”

“Put it somewhat closer to the closest one, though,” Ziinda added. “I’m still leaning toward that one.”

“And after you get that course, start us on one from that point to midway between the second and third,” Apros said. “We may not have time for a second jump before the Orisson walks into the trap, but we have to try—”

“Got it!” Shrent interrupted, a note of triumph in his voice. “Apologies for the interruption, sir, but I’ve got the status reports from Patrol Command. They’ve got a freighter listed as undergoing repairs in that area.”

“They didn’t tow it in?” Ziinda asked.

“The freighter refused,” Shrent said. “Said they could fix it themselves and didn’t want to pay bluedock fees.”

“Sounds like our controller,” Apros said. “Wikivv?”

“Got it,” Wikivv confirmed. “How close do you want us, Senior Captain?”

Ziinda looked at the tactical and the new mark where the freighter’s position had been added. With Wikivv’s skill with in-system jumps, she could put the Grayshrike well within combat range of the freighter. A thorough pelting with plasma spheres before it knew what was happening, and no one aboard would be triggering that missile anytime soon.

But the asteroid would have its own backup sensor and firing mechanisms in place, and the Grayshrike’s tangle with a similar weapon over Sunrise had shown just how tough the things were to knock out. Taking out the freighter would make the Orisson’s destruction less precise, but no less inevitable.

No, Roscu’s only chance was for the Grayshrike to get close enough to intercept her and wave her off before she got within firing distance of the missile.

“Put us here,” she told Wikivv, marking a spot on her questis and sending it across the bridge to the helm station. “That should keep us out of easy shot of the missile but close enough to everything to warn off the Orisson when it arrives.”

“Understood, ma’am,” Wikivv said. “A few more seconds.”

Ziinda looked at the weapons status boards, confirming everything showed green. “Ghaloksu, are your crews ready?”

“They are, Senior Captain,” the weapons officer confirmed.

“In-system jump ready, ma’am,” Wikivv announced.

“Acknowledged,” Ziinda said, bracing herself. This was it. “In-system jump: Three, two, one.”

The view outside flickered, and suddenly the ship traffic was gone. In the near distance, off the Grayshrike’s portside bow, was the asteroid Wikivv had brought them to. “Yaw rotation seventy degrees portside, four degrees zenith,” Ziinda ordered, searching the starscape for the freighter. There it was, forty degrees further off to portside and about three times the distance currently between the Grayshrike and the asteroid. “Apros, pull up the record of our battle with these things at Sunrise. Roscu will probably need some convincing. Shrent, stand ready to signal the Orisson the instant it—”

And then, flicking in from the outer system, the Orisson was there.

Face to face with the asteroid. Two kilometers away.

In perfect position to be destroyed.

The seconds ticked by, each one stretching toward eternity. Ziinda stared out the viewport at the Orisson and the asteroid, poised together like an oblivious whisker cub sitting beside a hungry groundlion, a knot of futility twisting in her stomach. So that was it. She’d tried to save the Orisson, and she’d failed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Vimsk working at her board …

“Senior Captain?” the sensor officer spoke up, her voice odd as it broke the taut silence. “I checked back … ma’am, the asteroid’s been in position for nearly a minute.”

Ziinda turned her eyes to the secondary sensor display, watching as Vimsk replayed the record. She was right: The missile had been ready to fly since before the two captains even began talking about an in-system jump.

So why hadn’t it?

“Some kind of malfunction?” Roscu asked. “In that case, I’m getting clear—”

“No, no, don’t move,” Ziinda interrupted, her brain racing. It wasn’t a malfunction. Not with these people. No, for some reason they’d deliberately decided not to fire.

But why? Were they waiting for one of the Dasklo destroyers to make an appearance? Having both families present when the Orisson was destroyed would give an extra push to their hoped-for war, a bigger slap across the face than if the Clarr warship died out here on its own.

But there was something else. Something Ziinda could sense, but not quite put her finger on.

And then, abruptly, she had it. Their hoped-for war.

“It’s not a malfunction,” she told Roscu. “Remember why they sent the missile into the Ornfra system. They’re trying to goad the Ascendancy into war.”

“Yes, I got that,” Roscu said impatiently. “Why aren’t they firing?”

“Because they’re hoping they won’t have to use it,” Ziinda said. “It’ll look better if we start fighting on our own, without any more help from them.”

“So what do we do?”

“Exactly what they want.” Ziinda braced herself. “You’re going to open fire on the Grayshrike.”

“What?” The word came simultaneously from Roscu and Apros.

“I fired across your bow,” Ziinda said. “They’ll have seen that as a challenge, and you need to respond.”

“Ziinda, I can’t do that,” Roscu insisted. “An act of aggression by the Clarr family—”

“There’s no time for argument,” Ziinda ground out. “They’re sitting out there in that freighter with their finger on the firing button. We have to assume that if you try for a jump they’ll pick up on it and take you out before you can move. We need to give them a show while we figure out what to do next.”

“Very well, Grayshrike,” Roscu said, her voice gone glacially calm. “Here we go …”

And with that, a full volley of laserfire erupted from the Orisson’s bow and shoulder weapons and blasted across the Grayshrike’s hull.

“Evasive,” Ziinda ordered. “Pull us back and to starboard—make it look like we’re trying to get away from the Orisson. Roscu, keep on us like you don’t want us to get away. Not too quick—we don’t want them to realize you’re also moving away from the missile.”

“Acknowledged,” Roscu said as a second salvo raked across the Grayshrike’s hull. “You going to fire back?”

“One more salvo,” Ziinda said. “Right now, I’m trying to talk you down, pointing out that this doesn’t help your case against the Dasklo. Ghaloksu?”

“Barrier down thirty percent,” Ghaloksu said tightly. “You want to ease up a little, Orisson?”

“Belay that,” Ziinda said before Roscu could answer. “These people know what a fake fight looks like. This one has to be a hundred percent real.”

“One hundred percent it is,” Roscu said grimly. “Let’s just hope we don’t kill each other in the process.”

“Yes, let’s hope that,” Ziinda agreed. “Ghaloksu, get ready to return their laserfire.” The Orisson’s third salvo slashed into the Grayshrike—“Fire.”

The Grayshrike’s lasers blasted away, the focused energy cutting across the Orisson’s hull. “Keep us drifting to starboard,” Ziinda ordered. “Roscu, keep your bow turned toward us. I think I’ve got a plan.”

“Understood,” Roscu said, a subtle change in her voice. “Yes, I see where you’re going with this. You’ve got a better handle on my position—just let me know.”

“Another few seconds should do it,” Ziinda said. “Wikivv, keep us moving. Vimsk, what’s happening with the asteroid?”

“It’s holding position,” Vimsk said. “But the Orisson is still at its targeting point.”

“Understood,” Ziinda said, looking at the tactical. Another few seconds, maybe two more exchanged volleys, and the Orisson would be in position.

“Incoming!” Apros snapped. “Portside zenith; portside nadir.”

Ziinda looked out the viewport, biting out a quiet curse at the two warships that had suddenly appeared.

The two Dasklo destroyers had arrived.

“Shrent, warn them off,” she ordered. “Make sure they know who we are, inform them that our mission has the official backing of Supreme General Ba’kif, and tell them we have the situation under control.”

“I’m not going to sit by and let them harass me,” Roscu said. “Be advised that if they fire on me, I will fire back.”

“You do that and you’ll be walking right along the enemy’s path.”

“I don’t care,” Roscu said flatly. “You get them clear, or I will.”

Ziinda clenched her teeth. Only Roscu would never get to fulfill that promise, she knew. The aliens watching eagerly from their freighter would let the fight start, maybe even let the Orisson inflict some damage on the Dasklo ships, then turn the Clarr ship into scrap and corpses.

“The Dasklo senior captain refuses to acknowledge, ma’am,” Shrent said tightly. “They say we have no jurisdiction here.”

“Of course they do,” Ziinda muttered. Didn’t anyone in this damn system listen?

Of course they listened. They just didn’t listen to anyone except themselves. The families were folding into their own defensive rings, gathering their allies and facing off against their rivals.

The stage was set. Jixtus had made sure of that. Now it would only take a single spark to turn the Ascendancy into its private version of hell.

“Senior Captain?” Apros called, gesturing out the viewport. “Look, ma’am. What do you think?”

Ziinda followed his pointing finger. One of the destroyers was moving across the field of view, clearly planning to circle behind the Orisson where the two Dasklo ships would have Roscu in a crossfire. It was a standard tactic, designed to force an opponent away from their chosen position or risk annihilation.

But what Apros had spotted was that the destroyer’s path would take it across the Grayshrike’s bow … and, perhaps more significantly, would briefly pass between it and the distant freighter.

“Do you think they’re smart enough?” she asked.

“Don’t have to be smart, ma’am,” Apros said. “They just have to be quick.”

“Then let’s hope they’re quick,” Ziinda said grimly, shifting her attention to the tactical. Perfect—the Orisson’s subtle maneuvering during its battle dance with the Grayshrike had shifted its bow almost far enough out of line with the missile’s launch vector. “Apros, set it up,” she confirmed. “Roscu, time to go. Surge forward to get a closer shot at me—that’ll get you completely out of the target zone, hopefully long enough for you to fire up the hyperdrive and make your jump before they can counter. Ready?”

“Negative on that, Grayshrike,” Roscu said. “I’m not leaving.”

“Roscu, you need to get the hell out of here.”

“Not with a pair of Dasklo punch-cans in my face,” Roscu growled.

“You’ll leave, or I’ll destroy you myself,” Ziinda warned.

“And start the war you keep babbling about?” Roscu said scornfully. “You wouldn’t.”

“It wouldn’t start a war,” Ziinda said. “Patriarch Rivlex might relish an excuse to take a poke at the Dasklo, but he’s not going to go up against the Defense Force.”

“Look, Irizi—”

“More to the point, I need a distraction if I’m going to pull this off,” Ziinda said. “And I need it in ten seconds. So is it going to be pride, or results? Your choice.”

Silence. Across the bridge, Apros was talking urgently with Ghaloksu, who was nodding and working the weapons board. Three seconds of silence … four … “Fine,” Roscu said, her voice trembling with anger and frustration. “Surge forward and in-system jump set. Give me a count.”

Silently, Ziinda let out the breath she’d been holding. “Acknowledged, Orisson,” she said, looking out the viewport. The Dasklo destroyer was almost in position. “Stand by: Three, two, one.”

There was a burst of power from the Orisson’s thrusters, shoving it toward the Grayshrike just enough to take it out of the hidden missile’s line of fire as the Clarr’s hyperdrive activated. A telltale surge, and the Clarr warship was gone.

“Ghaloksu, stand by,” Ziinda said, watching the Dasklo destroyer. It was still on its original vector, but its acceleration had slowed as the captain saw that its quarry had escaped. It continued on, moved into position—

“Fire spheres,” Ziinda ordered.

The plasma spheres shot out of the Grayshrike’s bow launchers, arrowing toward a collision with the destroyer. Ziinda watched them disappear into the starscape, again holding her breath. If this didn’t work, she was going to be in severe trouble with the Council, the Syndicure, and at least two of the Nine. Be quick, she thought urgently toward the destroyer’s captain and crew. Please be quick.

And then, just when she was starting to think the Dasklo captain was the most oblivious warship commander she’d ever seen, he finally spotted the attack bearing down on him. The sensor display showed his maneuvering thrusters suddenly come to life, his main thrusters desperately kicking up to full power, as he squirmed to get out of the way. The destroyer leapt forward and angled upward, just far enough to let the spheres shoot harmlessly beneath its stern.

The freighter lying dormant in the distance directly behind it, its own view of the Grayshrike’s launch having been blocked by the destroyer’s bulk as it passed between them, never saw it coming.

“Lasers,” Ziinda snapped as the spheres impacted on the freighter, multiple sparks of released ionic energy engulfing the ship and paralyzing its electronics systems. “Take it out before they can—”

She broke off as the freighter disappeared in a violent explosion. She shifted her eyes to the asteroid, feeling a horrible and helpless premonition.

Just in time to see it, too, disintegrate in a shattering of multiple internal blasts.

“Damn,” Apros muttered into the sudden silence. “So the freighter wasn’t there to trigger the missile.”

“No,” Ziinda agreed soberly. “They were there to keep the missile from launching on its own.”

“A dead-man switch,” Apros said. “One way or another, that missile was going to do damage.”

Ziinda nodded, watching with sudden weariness as the expanding cloud of debris reached the Grayshrike and washed over its hull. Tiny pieces, of course, with nothing large enough or threatening enough to kick in the viewport’s automatic blast shields. If there was one thing consistent about Jixtus’s alien friends, they were very good at making sure they didn’t leave anything behind that could give investigators a clue as to their identity, location, or capabilities.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try. “Mid Commander Shrent, send a message to Supreme General Ba’kif,” she said. “Include the record of everything that’s happened since we first hailed the Orisson, and request that someone be sent to collect as much of this debris as possible and get it to Sposia. Maybe the UAG can dig out something useful.”

“Yes, Senior Captain,” Shrent said. “Ah—Senior Captain? The Dasklo destroyer is hailing. The captain demands to know what the—ah—what you were doing firing on him.”

Ziinda looked at Apros, noting the sour look on her first officer’s face. “Put him through,” she told Shrent.

She and the Grayshrike had thwarted Jixtus’s plan to start a war, had opened Captain Roscu’s eyes a little to what was really happening in the Ascendancy, and had cost the enemy a powerful and expensive weapon that they’d spent a lot of time drifting into position. Now she was going to have to placate the very angry representative of one of the Ruling Families and try to open their eyes a little.

She sighed. This was turning out to be a very long day.

Patriarch Lamiov stood beside the conference room table, gazing down at the crate Lappincyk had set there, shaking his head in a gesture of relief. “Against all odds,” he murmured, running his hand gently over the box. “Against all hopes.” He looked up and gave Thrass and Thrawn a wry smile. “Against even all my expectations. You did it.”

“Hardly alone,” Thrass pointed out. “It was Senior Aide Lappincyk who found the key to defusing the situation.”

“But you were the ones who led Roscu to the door where that key could be used,” Lappincyk reminded him.

“I recognize it was a team effort,” Lamiov said. “I also recognize that the Stybla are in debt to the Mitth, as I personally am in debt to you. If there is anything I can ever do for you, you have only to ask.”

“There is one thing,” Thrawn spoke up. “Tell us what’s in that box.”

Lamiov smiled again. “I believe I mentioned once that that’s a secret.”

“I know,” Thrawn said. “But the question is no longer whether it’s a secret. The proper question is whether it should remain one. I’m a warrior, Patriarch. The more I know about the weaponry available to me, the better I can defend the Ascendancy and its people.”

“You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” Lamiov said, still smiling. “Whoever said it was a weapon?”

Thrawn nodded toward Lappincyk. “Senior Aide Lappincyk.”

Lamiov looked at his aide, his smile slipping a bit. “Excuse me?”

“Not in words, of course,” Thrawn said. “But in actions and responses. The first indication was actually before our departure. Your own comment he knows suggested a fear that the Clarr Patriarch knew something he shouldn’t. That was followed by Senior Aide Lappincyk’s violent reaction when he learned the hijacked transport might be captured and plundered by the Paataatus.”

He gestured toward the box. “There’s nothing I can think of that would fit inside that crate and cause such fear except a weapon.”

“An alien weapon,” Thrass added, a small fact connecting in the back of his mind. “The Universal Analysis Group center on Sposia. That’s under Stybla control, is it not?”

“I believe that’s enough speculation for one day,” Lamiov said, standing up. “Once again, I thank you for your assistance—”

“No,” Lappincyk spoke up softly.

Lamiov looked down at him, his eyes hardening. “Excuse me?”

“It’s no use, Your Venerante,” Lappincyk said. His tone was respectful, but firm. “They already know too much. If we let them go now, they’ll just continue to poke and investigate until they uncover the truth.” He looked at the two Mitth. “And in the process, they may shake loose the stones of the wall we’ve worked so hard to build.”

For a long moment the two Stybla stared at each other. Beside Thrass, Thrawn shifted in his seat, clearly preparing to speak. Thrass got there first, touching his arm warningly. Thrawn hesitated, then settled back again in his chair, leaving unspoken whatever he’d been about to say.

There were times for persuasion, Thrass knew. There were times for arguments, promises, and even threats. Here and now, though, was the time for silence.

He counted twenty heartbeats before Lamiov finally stirred and turned reluctantly back to the two Mitth. “You understand,” he said, “that what I’m about to tell you is a secret of the highest order. A secret that could bring ruin to the Stybla and Mitth families, perhaps even lead to the destruction of the Chiss Ascendancy. Are you prepared to embrace this secret to your graves and beyond?”

Thrass felt a prickling on his skin. Embrace this secret to your graves and beyond. Those were the words of the most stringent and binding oaths in the Mitth repertoire. “I am,” he said.

“As am I,” Thrawn said.

“Very well.” Reluctantly, Thrass thought, Lamiov sat back down. “Five thousand years ago, under the leadership of the Stybla, the Chiss entered a period of exploration, traveling outward into the Chaos and even into Lesser Space. We dealt with many alien races, and obtained a number of unknown artifacts. Those artifacts, as you’re aware, have been hidden away in the UAG center for observation and study.”

He seemed to brace himself. “Let me tell you about the one called Starflash.

“We no longer remember who obtained the item and brought it back to the Ascendancy. But they brought with it a report of what it did, how it worked, and the terrible consequences of its use. The Stybla built the Bastion, the forerunner to the UAG, and hid it away, never to be used.

“But then, centuries later, came an invasion by a merciless enemy. Our outer worlds were overrun and the Defense Force pushed back, until only Csilla remained unconquered. The enemy gathered all its ships and armies, preparing for what is now known as the Final Assault on Csilla. We knew there was no way we could stand against them, and we knew that if we lost the Chiss faced extinction.

“And then, the Stybla Patriarch remembered Starflash.”

He stopped, and for a moment the room was utterly quiet. Lamiov gazed off into the distance, his eyes holding a hint of that long-past horror. Thrass waited in the stillness, keeping watch on Thrawn out of the corner of his eye, ready to make another move if the other began to speak. But this time, at least, Thrawn recognized it was a time for silence.

“We’d never seen Starflash in operation,” Lamiov resumed the story. “Indeed, its very design made it a single-use weapon. But we knew how to operate it. The problem was that it would take twenty warriors to activate it … and for those twenty it would be a suicide mission.” His eyes focused on Thrawn and Thrass. “The Mitth volunteered.”

“The Tragic Patriarch,” Thrawn murmured with the air of someone finally understanding a long-elusive mystery. “Her four sons, the ones who died in battle. They were part of the Starflash team, weren’t they?”

Lamiov nodded. “All four volunteered, insisting that they face the same dangers and sacrifices as the rest of the Mitth.”

“What exactly did the weapon do?” Thrass asked.

“Starflash is an energy weapon,” Lamiov said, “but something entirely different from spectrum lasers or plasma spheres. It sends a massive burst of tachyonic and lightspeed energy into the surface of the sun, which then triggers a return burst many thousands of times more powerful.”

A shiver ran up Thrass’s back. “A return burst, as in back at the Starflash itself?”

“Yes,” Lamiov said softly. “As I said. A suicide mission.”

“So I gather the plan was to load the weapon into a heavily armored ship and send it into the center of the waiting fleet,” Thrawn said, his voice almost calm. Small wonder, Thrass thought—for him, this wasn’t so much a heartbreaking chapter in Chiss history as it was a military problem. “They waited until the enemy had gathered as closely as possible, then triggered it.”

“Yes,” Lamiov said. “Afterward, once the Ascendancy had freed the outer worlds from the minor garrisons the enemy had left behind, the Patriarchs unanimously decided to keep the details locked away in secrecy, never to be revealed to the Syndicure or the general public. The truth of the Final Assault was known only to the Patriarchs of the Ruling Families and their senior aides, the latter group tasked with passing the secret on to each successive Patriarch.”

He paused, a whisper of fresh pain crossing his face. “What we hadn’t anticipated, and what the Starflash records hadn’t described, was the effect on Csilla’s sun. Apparently, the brief disruption of its surface layers extended deeper than expected into its core. Over the next few decades it began to cool, ultimately forcing Csilla’s citizens to either move underground or abandon it entirely.” He gave Thrass a small, tired smile. “And no, we don’t know if it will ever recover. My personal feeling is that it won’t.”

“At any rate, the Aristocra were impressed by the courage and sacrifice of the Mitth,” Lappincyk said. “It was the impetus for bringing them into the ranks of the Ruling Families. It’s also the reason your family emblem is that of a blazing sun, though of course the true significance of that has been buried beneath the ice of time.”

Thrass winced. “Ironic, given that the sun actually blazed less afterward.”

“True,” Lamiov said heavily. “But of course no one could have anticipated that. Even if they had, the choice was between using Starflash or facing annihilation. I doubt the Patriarchs would have chosen otherwise.” He waved a hand as if trying to wipe away the memories. “But you can see why it was also decided that this part of our history should never become public knowledge.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Needless to say, as per your oaths, you’ll likewise keep it to yourselves.”

“To our graves, and beyond,” Thrass assured him. “So what exactly is in the box?”

“We salvaged what we could of Starflash after the destruction,” Lamiov said. “The Defense Hierarchy Council has occasionally asked to study one or more of the pieces as part of their effort to duplicate or adapt the device to other uses. Efforts that have never borne fruit, I may mention.”

“The box contains a section of one of the tachyon flow synchrotron accelerators,” Lappincyk added. “The Council thought it might be adapted to a new particle beam weapon they’re working on.”

“Under the circumstances, I’d have thought you’d have asked them to examine it on Sposia,” Thrass said. “There it would at least have still been under UAG security.”

“Normally, we would have,” Lamiov said with a wry smile. “In this case, the Council balked at taking their prototype out of their research security.”

“May we see it?” Thrawn asked.

Again, Lamiov and Lappincyk exchanged looks. This time, the silent debate was shorter. “If you wish,” Lamiov said. He gestured to Lappincyk, who produced a foldknife and began slicing into the seals. “Though I’ll warn you there’s nothing much to see.”

They sat in silence until Lappincyk had finished opening the box and pulling out the top section of customized molded padding. “Please,” he invited, gesturing at the contents.

Thrawn stepped around the table and over to the box. He craned his neck, peering at the object inside. “Syndic?” Lamiov added to Thrass.

“That’s all right,” Thrass said, waving away the offer. “I trust that it’s what you say.”

“Then your trust is misplaced,” Thrawn said his voice suddenly dark. He straightened up, his gaze steady on Lamiov. “This isn’t a piece of the Starflash weapon.”

“What makes you say that?” Lamiov asked evenly.

“The cylinder surface is pitted, and the edges are ragged as if it had been part of something torn apart by violence,” Thrawn said. “But the casing connectors show no sign of the degradation that would have occurred had it been hit by a massive particle flux.”

“Where would you have seen an instance of such effects?” Lappincyk asked.

“You saw one yourself,” Thrawn countered. “The ions in a plasma sphere impact are well known to cause similar degradation.”

“And your conclusion?” Lamiov asked, his voice still calm.

For a long moment Thrawn locked eyes with him. Then, abruptly, he stiffened. “The Stybla didn’t have just one Starflash weapon,” he said. “You had a second.”

He threw a hooded look at Thrass, then returned his gaze to Lamiov. “You have a second.”

“Indeed,” Lamiov said, his own voice now as grim as Thrawn’s. “And therein lies the true hope and threat to the Ascendancy. You see now why we were so desperate to retrieve the waylaid accelerator section. Not only could the Paataatus conceivably gain an understanding of the underlying technology, but our reserve Starflash would be useless without it.”

“Does the Council know about this second weapon?” Thrawn asked.

“The second item,” Lamiov corrected. “We refer to it only as the item.”

“Where did it come from?” Thrass asked. “Did you create it?”

“No,” Lamiov said, shaking his head. “The technology remains far beyond our capabilities. Like the first item, it was obtained from somewhere in Lesser Space, though this one has been in our possession for only a few hundred years. The details have been either lost or deliberately suppressed, but it’s said the Stybla learned of its existence and sent a team to locate and capture it.”

“Who else knows about it?” Thrawn asked.

“Those of us in this room, plus General Ba’kif and Admiral Ja’fosk,” Lamiov said. “No one else. Not even the techs studying the device know what it is.”

“So there are six of us,” Thrass said.

“Yes,” Lamiov confirmed. “Six of us, holding together the future of the Ascendancy.”

“What will you do with it?” Thrawn asked.

“You mean now?” Lamiov gave a little shrug. “We’ll continue as we have. We’ll guard it, study it, try to learn from it, and hold it against the desperate day when its horrible devastation may once again be needed.” He blinked, and Thrass noticed with surprise that the Patriarch’s eyes were wet with tears. “And if that day comes,” he said, almost too softly to hear, “perhaps there will then be two Chiss Patriarchs who will be known to the future as the Tragic.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn said, and Thrass saw a muscle in his cheek give a small twitch. “If that’s all, Patriarch, the Springhawk’s departure has already been delayed longer than the Council is probably comfortable with. If you can call a shuttle, or allow Syndic Thrass to do so—”

“Actually, Mid Commander, I’m afraid the Council and Springhawk will have to wait a bit longer,” Lamiov said, holding up a warning hand as Thrass started to stand up. “The Stybla Patriels are gathering for a short ceremony that will be taking place in three hours.”

Thrawn shot a frown at Thrass. “A ceremony that concerns the Springhawk?”

“A ceremony that concerns you.” Lamiov paused, as if gathering his thoughts or words. “In the two days since Senior Aide Lappincyk sent his message reporting on the success of your mission—and speaking particularly of your pivotal role in retrieving the wayward section of the item—I’ve had several conversations with the Patriels and other top-ranking Stybla officials. While I obviously couldn’t express the full nature of your success, I could and did emphasize to them the incredible importance of your act. As a result of those conversations—”

He paused again, and to Thrass’s surprise he seemed to draw himself up a little taller. “I wish to offer you an honor that has seldom been given to Stybla, and even more infrequently to members of other families. Your name, Mitth’raw’nuru, will henceforth carry the additional appellation odo. In Tybroic, the original language of our family, it was the word-mark of a guardian or protector who had proved worthy of the most extraordinary respect.”

Thrawn darted another quick look at Thrass. “I’m honored, Patriarch Lamiov,” he said, a bit uncertainly. Wondering, Thrass suspected, whether this was truly a reward for reclaiming the Starflash, or whether it was to be a perpetual reminder of his commitment to keeping the secret. “I respectfully wonder if the Mitth leadership will be bothered by such a name change.”

“You’re welcome to ask Patriarch Thooraki about that yourself,” Lamiov said, smiling. “He’s already arrived to attend the ceremony. Now.” He lifted his hands, pointing one finger each at Thrawn and Thrass. “Lappincyk will take you to your rooms so that you may dress and look over your parts of the ceremony. Your clothing is already laid out, and the procedures will be on your questises shortly. If there are no further questions, I’ll see you in three hours.”

Early on in his career, Samakro had discovered that if the timing was just right a dubious report could sometimes fall between the cracks during either the filing, reading, or official attention stages. That extra time could be useful if the officer in question needed to dig up additional data, precedents, or legal loopholes. If the officer was extremely lucky, the whole thing might disappear into the record storage facilities without anyone who cared ever even looking at it.

Here, unfortunately, there wasn’t a chance in hell of any of that happening.

“Of course he’s angry,” Samakro growled as he stood just inside the Springhawk’s sky-walker suite, impatience digging at him as he watched Thalias and Che’ri frantically throwing together the travel bags Ba’kif had ordered them to bring. “His neck was already stuck out all the way to the Plikh homestead with the whole Magys thing. Now we come back late, without Senior Captain Thrawn, and with two more battles with alien ships to report? We’re lucky he hasn’t melted down completely.”

“But it’s not your fault,” Che’ri said, her voice tense and miserable. “I can tell Supreme General Ba’kif that it was me, not you.”

“I appreciate that, Che’ri,” Samakro said, forcing back some of his own anxieties. Whatever part Che’ri had played in this, she didn’t need him throwing more weight on her shoulders. “But I was the commander on the scene, and I gave the orders. That means it’s on me. All of it is on me,” he added, emphasizing the word. “Don’t worry—I’ve been in trouble with the Council before.”

“So have we,” Thalias said, giving Che’ri what was probably the best smile she was able to pull off right now. “It’ll be okay.”

“Of course it will,” Samakro said, eyeing the tension lines in Thalias’s face. She was worried, too, and with a lot more reason than Che’ri. The absolute worst the Council would do to a wayward sky-walker would be to order an early retirement and a transfer to her permanent family. Thalias could be facing anything from loss of family position to full eviction from the Mitth to actual prison time. “I should also point out that making senior officers wait won’t exactly endear us to them.”

“Ready,” Thalias said, snapping her travel bag shut and sealing it. “Let me just grab those last things, Che’ri—we can pack them in during the shuttle ride.”

There were three warriors waiting at the shuttle landing site, more than the one that would indicate a simple courtesy guide, but less than the eight that would normally be deployed for an honored Aristocra or a dangerous prisoner. They gave Samakro the restrained and perfunctory greetings typical of warriors who wanted to keep themselves as uninvolved as possible, and the group piled into a twelve-person tube car and were whisked to Defense Force HQ.

Samakro had guessed there would be two other officers besides Ba’kif waiting for them in the hearing room. There were, in fact, four others plus the supreme general.

Not a good sign. But at least no one from the Syndicure had talked their way into the inquiry.

“Thank you for your promptness, Mid Captain,” Ba’kif said after the usual introductions and official greetings had been made. “Please take a seat at the table.” His eyes shifted to Thalias and Che’ri, standing a little to Samakro’s side. “Thank you for coming as well, Sky-walker; Caregiver,” he continued. “Please wait in the lounge area where you first entered this corridor until we’re ready for you. One of the warriors will show you the way.”

“Yes, sir,” Thalias said, and out of the corner of his eye Samakro saw her take hold of Che’ri’s arm and turn them both toward the door. One of their escort warriors opened it and gestured them through, then followed, closing the door behind him.

“And now, Mid Captain,” Ba’kif said as Samakro eased himself into the witness chair, “let’s start with Senior Captain Thrawn’s decision to put an alien into hibernation aboard the Springhawk.”

Thalias had never been to Ool before. In fact, up until she read Thrass’s data cylinder she’d barely even known the planet existed.

During the trip back from Sunrise, though, she’d made it a point to learn as much as she could about the place. Ool had over two billion inhabitants, a rich and diverse agricultural base, several large manufactory groups and thousands of smaller ones, and a fair amount of tourist traffic, especially for its beaches and mountain skiing. It also had extensive mining in some of the mountain spines, including one of the Ascendancy’s only three pure nyix mines.

And situated near a small town, wedged between a modest packbull ranch and a spring-fed lake, it had a scholars’ retreat that the data cylinder identified as Seekers’ Shadehouse.

A place that was totally and ominously absent from all of the guidebooks and location listings she could find.

That part of Ool also turned out to be somewhat difficult for a casual traveler to get to. The nearest interstellar transport landing area was over a thousand kilometers away, the skybus from there to that sector only got her within fifteen kilometers, and the local driver Thalias hired at the depot had never heard of Seekers’ Shadehouse. Fortunately, he was willing to fly her to the Ardok Ranch, which was the actual address Thrass had provided.

The ranch house was situated in roughly the center of the fenced land, with the barns, feed storage, and other outbuildings scattered around it. As the skycar made its descent, Thalias caught a glimpse of a small group of buildings nestled alongside a line of trees between the ranch’s eastern fence and the lake. That, presumably, was the Shadehouse.

A woman was waiting on the ranch house porch beside the front door as Thalias walked up the steps, the skycar that had brought her already headed back to the bus depot. The rancher was dressed in coveralls, boots, and jacket, with a questis hanging at her side on a shoulder strap. “Afternoon,” she said in a cheerful tone. “Welcome to the wilds of Ool. What can I do for you?”

“I think I’ve come to see you,” Thalias said. “My name is Mitth’ali’astov.”

“Nice to meet you,” the woman said. Her voice was still friendly, but there was a hint of caution as she looked Thalias up and down. “I’m Cohbo’rik’ardok, co-owner with my husband Bomarmo of the Ardok Ranch. What did you want to see me about?”

“Let me make sure first that I have the right person,” Thalias said, aware that she was stalling. She knew perfectly well who Borika was; she was just reluctant to carry the conversation where it had to go. “You’re the Cohbo’rik’ardok who used to be Irizi’rik’ardok?”

“Yes,” Borika said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I became part of the Cohbo family when I married Bomarmo.” Her lip twitched in a wry smile. “I hope you’re not here to help the Mitth make a list of former Irizi. That would be a full-life job.”

“Certainly more of my life than I would want to spend on the effort,” Thalias assured her. “No, I’m here to talk about a girl I know named Che’ri, and some problems she’s been having. Am I also correct that before you were Irizi you were Kivu’rik’ardok?”

Borika’s smile faded. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t remember much about my early life.” She raised her eyebrows slightly. “As I imagine your friend Che’ri doesn’t, either.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Thalias said cautiously. “How did you know?”

“Oh, come now,” Borika chided gently. “For anyone familiar with the Seekers program, her lack of a family name is a dead giveaway that she’s a sky-walker.”

“Yes,” Thalias murmured. “Seekers, you said. As in the Seekers’ Shadehouse?”

Borika nodded. “Not its official name, of course. Rather, not the name that’s listed on maps and reference tables. But there are a few of us around who know. How do you know Che’ri’?”

“I’m her caregiver,” Thalias said. “I understand you do some research with the girls?”

Borika’s eyes flicked over Thalias’s shoulder, doing a quick sweep of the horizon. “We should probably move this conversation off the porch,” she said, opening the door and gesturing Thalias inside.

“Thank you,” Thalias said, stepping past her through the opening.

She found herself in a large, homey great room. In one of the near corners a pair of couches faced an entertainment center; in the other, another group of couches and individual chairs were arranged in a circle around an open-air firepit topped by a conical vent hood. At the far end of the room were a dining table and six chairs, with a pass-through to a half-seen kitchen beyond. It was as if the stories of old-time backwoods ease and comfort had come to life. “Very nice,” she said.

“Thank you,” Borika said as she closed the door behind them. “And now, I think you need to show me some authorization.”

Frowning, Thalias turned around.

Borika was no longer just a simple country rancher. Her face was hard and unreadable, her gaze heavy with suspicion as it dug into Thalias’s face.

Her hand rock-steady as it held a charric pointed at Thalias.

In some ways, the Stybla honoring ritual reminded Thrass of all the Mitth welcoming ceremonies he’d attended over the years. The clothing was equally formal, the precise and stylized invocations and responses were all too familiar, and the overall air of solemnity could have placed the event at any homestead, stronghold, or Patriel mansion in the Ascendancy.

And yet, despite its closeness and simplicity, this ritual was far deeper than anything he’d ever experienced.

There were only eighteen people present: Thrass, Patriarch Lamiov, Senior Aide Lappincyk, Patriarch Thooraki, the thirteen Stybla Patriels who were able to travel to Naporar for the ceremony, and Thrawn himself. In addition, while Mitth welcoming ceremonies were invariably performed in Cheunh, the core section of this particular rite was carried out in Tybroic, the long-dead ancient language of the Stybla family.

It was a considerably rarer ceremony than any other that Thrass had ever heard of. He’d asked Lappincyk about it earlier, while Thrawn was off practicing his lines, and learned there’d been exactly eight other non-Stybla who’d been granted this honorific over the past five thousand years. When Lamiov had said such events were infrequent, he’d been vastly overstating the case.

It was considerably shorter than the Mitth ceremonies, too. But then, unlike any of those, there was no one here whom anyone was trying to impress.

Thrass was talking to a couple of Stybla Patriels afterward, officials who were trying hard to pretend they cared who he was, when he was thankfully rescued by Patriarch Thooraki. “Good to see you again, Syndic,” the Patriarch greeted him, taking Thrass’s arm and steering him toward an unoccupied corner of the chamber. The room, too, was smaller than the usual Mitth norm, yet somehow carried a far greater depth of age and significance. “How is your mother? I keep meaning to look in on her, but somehow never get around to it.”

“She’s fine, Your Venerante,” Thrass assured him, feeling a twinge of guilt. It had been over two months since he’d talked to her for more than five minutes himself. “I’ll tell her you asked about her.”

“Thank you.” Thooraki gestured around them. “Impressive place, isn’t it? I understand some of the tapestries and carved wood decoratives are from the original Ruling Family assembly hall.”

“Really,” Thrass said, looking around. “And they put them here on Naporar instead of in their homestead?”

“The Stybla assembly hall was impressively large,” Thooraki said drily. “They should have plenty of such mementos to spread around. I presume you’re wondering why Lamiov didn’t also grant you the odo honorific?”

“To be honest, Your Venerante, that didn’t even occur to me,” Thrass told him truthfully. “I did very little to retrieve the item.”

“Because Lamiov and I did discuss it,” Thooraki continued. “Your modesty notwithstanding, you did play a key role.”

“But you decided that having a Mitth cousin carrying a Stybla honorific might not be well accepted in the Syndicure?” Thrass hazarded.

Thooraki shrugged. “If a Mitth Patriarch can carry the honorific, I don’t think a cousin having it would be a problem.” He smiled wryly at Thrass. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Thrass winced in embarrassment. The Twelfth Patriarch, Mitth’omo’rossodo the Tragic. “No, I hadn’t,” he admitted. “It never even occurred to me.”

“She was the first Mitth to receive the title,” Thooraki said, a shadow of sadness creeping into his tone. “Though I doubt even such a rare honor did anything to alleviate the pain of her sons’ deaths.”

“According to Thrawn, she gave up her art shortly afterward.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Thooraki said. “But no, it wasn’t your contribution or your family status that tipped the balance. We decided that it would be best if you and Thrawn weren’t quite so obviously a team.”

Thrass frowned. “What kind of team?”

“The best kind,” Thooraki assured him. “The two of you combine impressive political and military skills, which will put the Mitth in position to influence future decisions in both the Syndicure and the Council. The kind of team that can only be achieved by people who know each other, trust each other, and can work fully in sync. A team of kin, of friends—” He gave Thrass a faint smile. “—of brothers.”

Thrass stared at him. “How did you know?”

Thooraki waved a hand. “Senior Aide Lappincyk’s report was quite thorough.”

“So this was a setup from the very beginning?” Thrass asked, the first stirrings of anger starting to weave their way through him. “You pushed Thrawn and me together, forcing us to become”—his tongue tripped over the word—“close friends?”

Thooraki snorted. “Forcing you? Please, Syndic. No one forces friendship or brotherhood on anyone. I merely noted how well you and Thrawn got along, how your interests meshed, how comfortable he was with you. As you may have noticed, he’s not particularly relaxed with many people.”

“And the incident with Lappincyk after Thrawn’s graduation from Taharim Academy?” Thrass countered. “He wasn’t trying to rematch him to the Stybla at all, was he?”

Thooraki looked Thrass straight in the eye. “If you hadn’t acknowledged that Thrawn was indeed your friend—and I mean acknowledged it to yourself, because everyone else had already seen it—then yes, he was indeed going to offer Thrawn a position.”

Thrass swallowed hard. What could he say to that? “I see,” he murmured.

Thooraki held the stern look another moment. Then he smiled, the reproving glare fading into an almost fatherly expression. “Come now, Thrass, don’t be sullen. This was at its heart politics, and you know how politics is played.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Thrass conceded. “And you’re right. Thrawn was probably my friend long before I realized it.”

“And your brother?”

Almost unwillingly, Thrass smiled. “And my brother.”

“Good.” Thooraki paused, turning to look around the room. “We’ve been watching the two of you for a long time, Thrass. Thrawn since General Ba’kif was alerted to point him out to your colleague Syndic Thurfian, you from—well, from your birth.”

“And what do the Stybla get out of all this?” Thrass asked.

“A quiet and lasting friendship with the Mitth,” Thooraki said. “An alliance that has survived intact for over a thousand years.”

“A situation rarer even than the odo ceremony itself,” Thrass commented.

“Indeed.” Thooraki nodded across the room. “And speaking of alliances and friendship, your teammate looks to need rescuing.”

Thrass followed his gaze. Thrawn was conversing with two of the Stybla Patriels. From their expressions, it looked like they were politely probing for information. From Thrawn’s expression, it was clearly information he wasn’t prepared to give them.

“You’d best help him out,” Thooraki continued. “I’ll be spending a few more days here talking with Lamiov, but I have a shuttle waiting to take Thrawn to the Springhawk and you back to Csilla. No rush, just whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Your Venerante,” Thrass said, bowing. “Thank you, too, for your time and your insights.” He smiled tightly. “And for guiding me where I needed to be, whether I recognized that need or not.”

“You’re welcome, Syndic Thrass,” Thooraki said, smiling back. “I’ll look forward to speaking with you again in the future. And to seeing to what new heights you and Thrawn will carry the entire family.”

Qilori didn’t like dealing with Chiss. Not in ones or twos, not in groups, especially not on ships that were crawling with them.

Which made being on a massive orbiting transfer station with a couple of thousand of the cursed creatures something on the order of his own version of hell.

But there was nothing for it. Schesa was a major Chiss world, right at the edge of the Ascendancy, and aliens weren’t allowed on the surface without an escort, a sponsor, or official authorization. Thrawn was gone, Qilori didn’t know anyone else here, and getting the necessary permissions would take longer than he had.

Luckily, he had neither the desire nor the need to walk among that many blueskins. All he needed was access to Schesa’s massive orbiting triad long-range transmitter, and for that the transfer station and the credit chit Thrawn had given him worked just fine.

Besides, there was something delicious about directing the destruction of a Chiss senior captain from one of the Chiss’s own stations.

“You’re fortunate you caught me,” Jixtus’s voice came over the comm booth speaker, his tone unnaturally reserved. “I was just about to continue my journey to Ornfra.”

“With all respect, sir,” Qilori said, “I think you’re going to want to go to Csilla instead.”

“And why would you think that?”

“Because Thrawn is on his way there right now,” Qilori said. “And he’s not aboard his usual Chiss warship. He’s on a Nikardun blockade frigate that was co-opted by the Paccosh.”

“Really,” Jixtus said. “And how would you know this, Qilori of Uandualon, given that your job was to guide General Crofyp and the Anvil against those same Paccosh?”

Qilori’s winglets twitched. In his excitement over delivering this news, he’d almost forgotten that Jixtus had set up the plan that Thrawn had so deftly turned into a fiasco. “The attack didn’t go as expected, sir,” he said, pulling back some of his enthusiasm. “The Paccosh had the blockade frigate, as I said. And Thrawn arrived at … an inopportune moment.”

“You’re saying two of the Kilji Illumine’s mighty warships couldn’t handle a Paccian blockade frigate and a Chiss heavy cruiser?”

“No, sir, they couldn’t,” Qilori said. He’d really forgotten how badly this had all gone. “But one of the Kilji ships did escape back to Sunrise.” He braced himself. “Unfortunately, the Paccosh and the Chiss were able to follow it.”

“And yes, to destroy it,” Jixtus said. “Did you think I wouldn’t have heard of this from the Grysk vessel that escaped that disaster?”

“I … wasn’t sure how far from Sunrise it would get,” Qilori said. “Before it had to stop for repairs, I mean. I thought …”

“You thought to deliver me news in a timely fashion,” Jixtus said, the veiled threat in his voice disappearing. “That was well done. Certainly you couldn’t have changed the course of any of those events. You say Thrawn is on his way to Csilla?”

“Yes, sir,” Qilori said, his winglets relaxing, a brief gush of annoyance coloring his relief. This wasn’t the first time Jixtus had pretended to be dangerously upset with him, and he hadn’t liked it any of those times, either. “He spent a couple of hours using the triad transmitter to send some messages, then said he needed some specialized equipment to test one of the other people at Sunrise.” He paused. Jixtus wasn’t the only one who could play to the drama, after all. “He thinks that person could be another Magys.”

“He said that?” Jixtus asked, his voice suddenly heavy with suspicion. “He said those words?”

“I don’t remember the specific words,” Qilori hedged. “But that was the intent. He said you’d wanted to find the Magys, but that others on Sunrise would do as well.”

“He told you that, did he?” Jixtus asked. “Just came out and told you?”

“Yes,” Qilori said. “You don’t believe him?”

Jixtus gave a snort. “Of course not. He’s manipulating you, Pathfinder. Trying to deflect or diffuse my attention away from the Magys.”

“I don’t know,” Qilori said hesitantly. “He sounded sincere.”

“Nonsense,” Jixtus said. “I’ve investigated the matter thoroughly. The Magys is the only one. Thrawn is simply trying to make us think otherwise.”

“Or perhaps there’s only one at a time?” Qilori suggested.

There was a short pause. “An interesting thought,” Jixtus conceded, some of his contempt fading. “But if that’s even a possibility, why tell you? Why not keep it a secret?”

“Maybe because he doesn’t expect it to remain a secret much longer,” Qilori said, feeling the pieces starting to come together. “I spoke briefly with two soldiers who’d eluded the Paccian slaughter. They said—”

“What Paccian slaughter?”

“The Paccosh brought in a force to reclaim the mine you’d set your slaves to working,” Qilori said, the nervous twitching of his winglets starting up again. “They … all the Grysk overseers died in their attack.”

“I see,” Jixtus said. “Not unexpected, I suppose, under the circumstances. You were speaking of my two outriders?”

“The two soldiers who’d eluded the attack, yes,” Qilori said. “They wanted me to tell you that when you spoke the word they would sow chaos and reap death among your enemies. But they also said they would bring you the one.”

“The one? What one?”

“I don’t know,” Qilori admitted. “We were interrupted before they could finish. But I wonder if they might have learned about another like the Magys.”

“And so Thrawn gives you that same message,” Jixtus said thoughtfully. “Suspecting you would pass it on to me, and that I would automatically reject it.”

“Which would make you less likely to believe it even if it came from another source,” Qilori said.

“Yes. Interesting.” Jixtus muttered a word too softly for Qilori to catch. “Or possibly the outriders were referring to someone else entirely. Still, it’s worth considering. Did Thrawn say anything else?”

“Nothing of value,” Qilori said. If Jixtus was still on the Whetstone, it was likely that Generalirius Nakirre was listening in on the conversation. Definitely not the time to bring up Thrawn’s theory that the Kiljis were manipulating Jixtus and his entire plan. “But the fact that he wants testing equipment would suggest he has some idea who this other Magys candidate is.”

“If such truly exists,” Jixtus cautioned. “But I agree that the chance is too good to pass up, especially since it can be investigated without a major disruption of other plans. I’d intended to intercept and destroy Captain Roscu at Ornfra; now, I’ll hand over that task to the FateSpinner and travel to Csilla myself. I assume you’ll remain on the Schesa transfer station for the immediate future?”

“Certainly, if you want me to,” Qilori said.

“I do,” Jixtus said. “Tell me, what became of the other Pathfinder, the one on the Hammer?”

“Thrawn and the Paccosh took him with them,” Qilori said, his winglets setting up another flutter. “Thrawn wanted to get to Csilla as quickly as possible.”

“Before I could intercept him?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Qilori said. “He may be in a hurry for other reasons.”

“He may,” Jixtus agreed. “Remain where you are. After I’ve dealt with Thrawn, I’ll arrange for you to be picked up. It won’t be long.”

“Yes, sir,” Qilori said, his winglets calming. Waiting here meant more time spent among the blueskins, but at least there was an end in sight.

“And your other mission?” Jixtus added. “What is its status?”

Qilori’s winglets flattened. The mystery of how the Chiss navigated through the Chaos. “I’ve made some progress,” he said, keeping it vague. Fortunately, Jixtus was unlikely to ask for details, not with the Kiljis sitting there listening.

“Good,” Jixtus said. “Then I bid you farewell for now, Qilori of Uandualon. The next time we speak, Thrawn will have been eliminated.” He paused. “And then you can offer your explanation on how Pathfinder Sarsh survived the destruction of the Hammer at Sunrise.”

Qilori’s winglets twitched. “Of course,” was all he could think to say. “I look forward to that conversation.”

Standing just inside Vault Four, far below the surface of Sposia, Patriarch Lamiov listened to the brief report and gave the proper acknowledgment. “His shuttle just landed,” he announced as he put away his comm. “He should be here shortly.”

Ba’kif nodded. About time. “Do you want me to go back up and meet him halfway?”

“No, that’s all right,” Lamiov said. “The guards have their orders. And there’s no point in drawing more attention to this whole thing than we already have.”

“I suppose,” Ba’kif said, wincing a little. “I hate to think how many panicked reports have already flooded Csilla and Naporar about an alien warship orbiting Sposia.”

“Oh, probably no more than a few hundred,” Lamiov said with a wry smile. “Hopefully, all of them will be automatically attached to my assurances that everything is under control before Ja’fosk sends half the Defense Force charging to the rescue.”

“Hopefully,” Ba’kif said. “Though if he didn’t react that way when Jixtus and his Kilji friends showed up, I don’t see why he’d do it now.”

“Never discount the novelty factor,” Lamiov said. “No one on Sposia has ever seen a Nikardun blockade frigate before.”

“Certainly not one painted with a Paccian subclan symbol.”

“No,” Lamiov agreed. “Like him or hate him, Thrawn’s always had a knack for bringing fresh problems to the table.”

“And the Syndicure does so enjoy fresh problems.”

“Indeed.” Lamiov looked over at the Vault Four door. “Do you ever regret it, Labaki? The path we started down all those years ago?”

“Do I regret it?” Ba’kif asked, feeling a fresh sense of his own age. Once, there’d been ten or twelve friends who’d persisted in calling him by his old Stybla core name when they were in private. Now Lamiov was the only one left. “Or do I regret him?”

“Not sure that’s a different question,” Lamiov said. “But without Thrass …” He shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to end this way.”

“It hasn’t exactly ended yet,” Ba’kif reminded him. “And to answer your question, no, I don’t regret it. Though I’ll admit there’ve been times when I was defending him in front of some group of syndics that I wished we’d chosen someone else.”

“Was there anyone else?”

“No,” Ba’kif said. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? There wasn’t, there isn’t, nor is there likely ever to be one again. Not since Thomoro the Tragic has the Ascendancy produced anyone with Thrawn’s unique combination of strategic and tactical skills plus the ability to observe, analyze, and predict.”

“If only he also had Patriarch Thomoro’s political skills,” Lamiov said ruefully.

“Which I doubt he ever will,” Ba’kif said. That had, after all, been the whole idea of working with Patriarch Thooraki to team him up with Thrass. The two of them working together … “But it’s no good dwelling on what might have been.”

“I suppose not.” Lamiov gave a small, rather pained chuckle. “I heard once that pondering what-ifs and other missed opportunities is a sign of old age. I wonder which one of us it is.”

“It’s you, of course,” Ba’kif assured him. “I gave up aging years ago.”

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten.” Lamiov nodded toward the vault door. “You have any idea what he wants?”

“He didn’t say,” Ba’kif said, a shiver running through him. “But with the turmoil in the Ascendancy, and the sudden and suspicious alien focus on Sunrise … I don’t really want to guess.”

“Neither do I,” Lamiov said. “But that hasn’t stopped me. You?”

Ba’kif shook his head. “No.”

For the next few minutes they waited together in silence. Then, at last, the door was opened from the outside by the guards, and Thrawn stepped into the vault.

Ba’kif watched Thrawn’s face closely as he strode up to them, wondering if his own presence here had caught the other off guard. But if Thrawn was surprised to see his superior it didn’t show in his expression. “Patriarch Lamiov,” Thrawn greeted him, giving each of them a small head bow. “Supreme General Ba’kif. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Your request didn’t leave much room for argument,” Lamiov said.

“Yes, and I’m sorry if my communication was overly brusque,” Thrawn said. “But the timing is going to be critical, and I still don’t know how much margin for error I have.”

“Apology accepted,” Lamiov said. “Tell us what you want from us.”

“I need an item from Vault Four,” Thrawn said. “I know UAG policy is to not allow alien artifacts to leave Stybla control—”

“Tell us what you need,” Lamiov said.

“And what you need it for,” Ba’kif added.

“I believe Jixtus is part of an alien force seeking to conquer this region of the Chaos,” Thrawn said. “Or possibly even the entirety of it. I also believe he has a fleet nearby that he intends to bring against the Ascendancy.” He seemed to draw himself up. “My intent is to draw him into an ambush before he launches his attack.”

“Violating explicit Syndicure protocol,” Ba’kif murmured.

“If necessary, yes.”

Lamiov twitched his fingers in invitation. “Tell us all.”

They listened in silence as Thrawn described his plan … and as he spoke, Ba’kif felt a coldness settle over him. It was madness, he told himself over and over, the coldness in his heart deepening with each detail Thrawn revealed.

The recitation ended, and Thrawn stood waiting for comment. Ba’kif gave Lamiov a furtive look out of the corner of his eye, but the other seemed to have attention only for Thrawn. Ba’kif waited, allowing the Patriarch to break the silence first.

Finally, Lamiov stirred. “So,” he said, his voice as hollow as Ba’kif’s heart was feeling. “Sunrise.”

“Sunrise,” Thrawn confirmed.

“I assume you know what this could do to the people there.”

“I do.”

“And you’re still willing?”

A shadow of pain crossed Thrawn’s face. But his nod was firm. “I believe it to be the Ascendancy’s best chance, Your Venerante. Sunrise is the only place Jixtus cares enough about to gather his forces to. If we don’t do this—if I don’t do this—he’ll continue to pit family against family until we’ve battered ourselves so far down that we won’t survive his assault.”

“But all that prodding will take time,” Ba’kif pointed out. “Surely he won’t attack until he’s sure he can win. That gives us time.”

“Does it?” Lamiov countered. “We’ve had skirmishes at Csaus, Sarvchi, Shihon, and now Jamiron. It seems to me the Ascendancy is doing its very best to tear itself apart. Willingly, even eagerly.”

“You approve of this plan?” Ba’kif countered. “Have you considered the implications? All the implications?”

“If you mean am I aware of what the cost might be for giving my consent, then the answer is yes,” Lamiov said. “And I accept it.” He waved Ba’kif toward the door. “If you prefer to choose otherwise, you’re welcome to wait in my office.”

Ba’kif looked at Thrawn. So many years on this path. Perhaps Lamiov had been right earlier about that path coming to an end.

But if so, it wasn’t going to end with Supreme General Ba’kif cowering from consequences in an underground room. “Thank you, Your Venerante,” he said. “But no. I’ve trusted Senior Captain Thrawn in the past, and I’ve seen him achieve remarkable results. I think I can trust him one more time.”

“Thank you,” Thrawn said quietly. “Both of you.”

“Save your thanks until we’ve seen the final end,” Lamiov warned. “As you said, time is short. Let’s get to work.”

An hour later, they were finished.

“You know how to use it?” Ba’kif asked as Thrawn made one final check of the straps securing the crate inside the shuttle’s cargo bay.

“I do,” Thrawn said. “Once again, Supreme General, I thank you—”

“Your thanks can wait,” Lamiov cut in, gazing at his comm, a tense expression on his face. “You need to get back to your ship right away. Admiral Dy’lothe and the Venturous have just arrived … and the admiral’s calling on your Paccian friends to surrender.

“Or to be destroyed.”

He would give it all he could, Thrass remembered promising himself as he and Thrawn left the Stybla honoring ceremony. He would do it for the honor of the Mitth and the glory of the Ascendancy. Or he would die trying.

Even now, careening inexorably toward his death, he could nevertheless appreciate the irony.

A massive alien spaceship, snatched out from under the noses of a Chaf task force determined to gain sole possession of it. He and a single human female from Lesser Space, attempting to take the ship to an uninhabited refuge world from which they could offer the treasure trove of Republic technology to the full Hierarchy Defense Council.

Only it hadn’t worked out that way. The ship was too damaged to reach the world they’d hoped to bring it to. Worse, there was a whole group of survivors aboard that no one had known about when Thrass first agreed to this mission.

And the reality of their chosen crash site dictated that either he and his human pilot companion could survive, or the other innocent humans could. But not both.

“You can’t handle the landing alone,” the pilot said, her voice grim but resolute. “But I could do that while you go.”

She was right, of course. Thrass could escape. There was a ship aboard that he should be able to fly back to the Ascendancy. He could yet survive to do all the great things Patriarch Thooraki expected of him and Thrawn.

But no. “And who would keep the remaining systems from self-destruction while you cleared a path through the pylon for me?” he countered.

She had no answer for that, because there wasn’t one. If Thrass left, everyone aboard would die.

He thought about his father, and how he’d given his life for a man he didn’t even know. How could Thrass turn his back on these people, save himself, and condemn all of them to certain death?

The answer was simple. He couldn’t.

There would be no honor in this for the Mitth. Nor would there be glory for the Ascendancy. It was likely no one would ever even know what happened here today. They almost certainly would never find whatever remained of the ship.

Perhaps that was for the best. He’d seen the Ruling Families battling together, striving to turn small advantages into political gains. A ship bristling with alien technology could spark a frenzy that might have huge and lasting effects on the always precarious balance of power.

If Thrass couldn’t bring glory, at least he could perhaps succeed in not bringing destruction.

“Your people will come here someday,” the woman said quietly. “Until then, the survivors have enough food and supplies to last for generations. They’ll survive. I know they will.”

Thrass looked at the displays, at the image of the stone-filled valley rushing up toward them. He hoped she was right. But like the ship itself, it was probably something no one would ever know.

The survivors might eventually figure out what had happened. But even if they did, they wouldn’t remember Thrass. Perhaps they would remember the woman who had worked to save them, but not the Chiss who’d died at her side.

But that wasn’t important. He would know, and the woman would know.

Are you prepared to embrace this secret to your graves and beyond? The old Mitth oath whispered through his mind. Was that promise heavy with responsibility but empty of reality? Or did its words truly hint at something beyond death?

He didn’t know. But he was about to find out.

“I hope someday humans and Chiss will be able to work side by side in peace,” he told the woman.

“As do I, Syndic Mitth’ras’safis of the Eighth Ruling Family,” she said, taking his hand.

“Then let us bring this part of history to a close,” he said, trying to put some confidence into his voice. “May warrior’s fortune smile on our efforts.”

And if not on theirs, he added silently, perhaps warrior’s fortune would smile on Thrawn.

The man who was, and who had truly always been, his brother.

The stars reappeared, and the Orisson was finally back home.

And the time had come, Roscu thought with a certain dread, for that conversation with Patriarch Rivlex.

But not quite yet. The Orisson had made the last half of the voyage in a single leg, and even in the relatively smooth space between Chiss worlds prudence dictated that a pilot build a hefty margin of error into the course calculations. As a result, the Orisson had emerged from hyperspace a long way from the planet itself, far enough in fact that Rhigar’s sun was barely distinguishable from the background stars.

“Helm, get me an in-system jump,” Roscu ordered.

“To the planet?” Raamas asked.

“Where else?” Roscu asked, frowning.

“I thought you might want to take a look at the Junkyard first,” Raamas said. “See if that alien fleet is still there.”

“And see if we can get one of them to chase us again?” Roscu countered. “No, I think we’ll give that a pass. At least until after we’ve talked to the Patriarch.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Raamas nodded to the pilot. “In-system jump to Rhigal.”

“Acknowledged.”

And as the pilot started the necessary calculations, Roscu thought about her last contact with the outside universe. That strange conversation with Senior Captain Ziinda.

Her proposal had been sheer insanity, of course. Heading off to an alien world to try to trap and destroy an enemy fleet wasn’t something a responsible captain did, certainly not on a whim, and absolutely not without orders. Roscu’s primary responsibility was to the Clarr family, her second was to her ship and crew, and neither obligation permitted that kind of adventurism. She and Raamas had discussed it briefly after Ziinda’s call, and both had been in agreement.

Which didn’t mean they were ignoring the situation’s potential for disaster. The Orisson had already tangled briefly with one of these alien warships, and if Jixtus was indeed the imminent threat Ziinda claimed he was then he and his forces definitely needed to be dealt with. But not in some haphazard way, and not in the midst of family distrust and heightened antagonism.

And definitely not if it meant blindly following Senior Captain Thrawn. She wasn’t ready to take a step like that.

“Ready, Captain,” Raamas said.

“Take us in.”

There was the usual flicker, and they had arrived. “Contact System Patrol and get us a low equatorial orbit,” she told the pilot. “Commander Raamas, have a shuttle prepared. Comm, get me Lieutenant Rupiov at the homestead defense center.”

“Captain, we have a signal already coming through,” the comm officer said. “Patriarch Rivlex is calling you.”

“Send it here,” Roscu said, keying her chair’s speaker. The things she had to say to the Patriarch weren’t for the rest of the bridge crew to hear.

“Yes, ma’am.” The officer keyed for reception.

“Captain Roscu, this is Patriarch Rivlex,” the Patriarch’s voice boomed, the words stiff with anger.

Boomed across from the bridge speaker. Roscu looked sharply at the comm officer, got a helpless look in return and a gesture at the comm board. Apparently, Rivlex’s ground-based comm center had overridden her choice of speakers, forcing the conversation to go public.

And that, Roscu realized with a sinking heart, was not good.

“Captain Roscu here, Your Venerante,” she said.

“Finally,” Rivlex bit out. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past day. Jixtus said you’d been attacked, and that he hadn’t been able to contact you.”

“We’ve been in hyperspace, Your Venerante,” Roscu said. “We wanted to get back to Rhigal—”

“You wanted to get back?” Rivlex interrupted harshly. “Did I or did I not send you to Ornfra to find evidence of Dasklo duplicity?”

“Yes, Your Venerante, you did,” Roscu said. “But as Jixtus said, we were attacked and decided—”

“You don’t look damaged, Captain,” Rivlex said, again cutting her off. “You made it all the way here without putting in at a bluedock for repairs. I’ll ask again: Were your orders to go to Ornfra?”

Roscu ground her teeth. It was a pattern she’d seen before: The Patriarch picking someone who’d displeased him and grinding that person into the dirt in front of friends, colleagues, and other officials. A double helping of shame and humiliation, usually topped off with a withdrawal of position, status, or sometimes even family affiliation. “My orders were to go to Ornfra,” she said.

“And did you achieve the goal that was set before you?”

“No, Your Venerante, I did not.”

“That was all I needed to know. Commander Raamas?”

“Yes, Your Venerante?” Raamas called.

“You’re hereby promoted to captain and reinstated as commander of the Orisson,” Rivlex said. “You will prepare a shuttle and send former Captain Roscu to the homestead. Then you will go to Ornfra and get me the proof I need to take down the Dasklo.”

“Understood, Your Venerante,” Raamas said briskly. “Do I report back to you on my findings, or do I communicate directly with Jixtus and your new fleet?”

“Ah, yes—my new fleet,” Rivlex echoed, his voice going even darker. “I’d almost forgotten that Roscu deliberately intruded on a secret military assemblage that she had no business pressing her nose into. Did she tell anyone else about it?”

“No, Your Venerante, she didn’t,” Raamas assured him. “I assumed it was to be kept within the family, and have therefore kept close watch on her communications.”

“Excellent, Captain,” Rivlex said, some of the anger easing from his voice. “Excellent indeed. See that Roscu is put into wrist restraints before she’s returned to me. There may be charges of treason added to the list.”

“Yes, Your Venerante,” Raamas said. “We’ll communicate our findings directly to you. May I ask if we may take a day or two of leave before traveling to Ornfra? My crew’s been in space for a long time.”

“Are you hard of hearing, Captain?” Rivlex growled, the anger back in full force. “No, you may not take leave. I want that evidence now. Do you hear me? Right now.”

“Of course, Your Venerante,” Raamas said. He looked at Roscu, a small smile touching the corners of his lips.

Roscu felt a bitter taste rise into her mouth. So here it was, the final hammer on the end of her career. Only now did she remember how casually Raamas had accepted his demotion when Roscu first talked the Patriarch into letting her take command of the Orisson. Looking back, she could see now that he’d simply hidden his resentment until he could stab her in the back.

And by her own actions, Roscu had set herself up for destruction.

“Then prepare your ship, Captain,” Rivlex said. “As for you, Roscu, I’ll see you very soon.”

The comm chimed, and he was gone.

“Orders, Captain?” the pilot asked in an uncertain voice.

“Prepare the Orisson for hyperspace,” Raamas said.

“Yes, sir. And the shuttle?”

Raamas looked at Roscu. “What shuttle?”

Roscu frowned, noting peripherally that none of the rest of the bridge crew was reacting in the slightest to his strange comment.

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said, all brisk and businesslike again. “Course?”

“Wait a minute, Commander—Captain,” Roscu corrected herself. “The Patriarch ordered you to send me to the homestead.”

“I was also ordered to head out as soon as possible,” Raamas reminded her.

“But—”

“I believe Senior Captain Ziinda specified Schesa as the rendezvous point,” he continued. “Set our course there.”

“Captain, what are you doing?” Roscu asked in a low voice. Raamas was about to make the worst mistake of his career, and she couldn’t just sit by and watch him do it. “You can’t simply ignore the Patriarch that way.”

“You mean the Patriarch who ordered an alien ship to track us down and shoot us out of the sky?” Raamas countered, his voice suddenly cold. “The Patriarch who’s made a deal with the owner of that alien ship? The Patriarch who relieved you of command because you were more worried about the Ascendancy than his vendetta against the Dasklo?”

“None of that makes a difference,” Roscu said.

“I believe it makes all the difference,” Raamas said. “I told you before that I thought we were standing on an edge. I’m even more convinced of that now.”

“But you also said you didn’t like Ar’alani’s plan,” Roscu pointed out.

“Because you didn’t like it,” Raamas said. “And that was mostly because Senior Captain Thrawn was going to be in charge, and it was clear you didn’t want to submit your ship to his authority.” He smiled tightly. “But it’s not your ship anymore, is it?”

Roscu felt her throat tighten. It wasn’t that easy, she knew. Given her history with Thrawn, turning over her command was only part of it.

But Raamas was right. The Ascendancy was in trouble, and it was the suspicions and passions of people like Patriarch Rivlex that were driving that rush to destruction. Someone had to step out of the tangle, rise above the family politics, and do something.

She and Raamas were Clarr. But they were Chiss first.

“Your ship, Captain Raamas,” she said, standing up and stepping to the side of the command chair. “Your orders.”

“Thank you,” Raamas said, stepping over to the chair and sitting down. “Helm, you have your orders. Schesa, if you please. Best possible time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And once we’re under way,” he added, looking up at Roscu, “Captain Roscu and I will explain exactly what it is we’ve gotten the rest of you into.”

“Does the summons always come this quickly?” Thurfian asked, skimming over the Circle of Unity protocols with one eye and keeping the other on two of his servants as they packed a travel bag with his official robes of office and a couple of spare sets of informal clothing.

“I really don’t know, Your Venerante,” Thivik said. Unlike Thurfian, he had both eyes and his full attention on the servants and their packing. “There hasn’t been one called since well before my time.”

Which also meant well before the late Patriarch Thooraki’s time. Apparently, this kind of official meeting was as rare as was suggested by the slightly archaic language of the protocols. “Is the tube car ready?”

“Yes, Your Venerante,” Thivik said, checking his chrono. “Don’t worry, we still have time.”

“I know,” Thurfian said. “But I don’t want to be the last one there.”

“You won’t.” Thivik cleared his throat. “There’s one other matter. There’s a young woman on her way here to see you. Mitth’ali’astov—you may remember her?”

Thurfian looked up sharply, the Circle of Unity protocols suddenly forgotten. “Thalias is coming here? Who authorized that?”

“I did,” Thivik said calmly. “She said it was vitally important.”

Thurfian grunted as he looked back at his questis. “Unless it has something to do with Jamiron or our missing Senior Captain Thrawn, it can wait.”

“She didn’t say what the matter concerned.”

“Of course not,” Thurfian said. Which probably meant it was about Thrawn, only she didn’t want to say so.

No surprise there. Ever since Thurfian made that deal with Thalias to get her aboard the Springhawk, she’d completely ignored her side of the bargain. She’d outmaneuvered him first by taking the Trials and moving up the family ranks, then by somehow gaining Patriarch Thooraki’s favor. Those two ploys together had made her essentially untouchable.

But Thooraki wasn’t here to protect her anymore. Thurfian was Patriarch now, with all the power of the Mitth family at his fingertips. Maybe it was finally time to collect on her unpaid debt. “When is she due?” he asked.

“She could arrive at any time.” Thivik pulled out his comm. “In fact, her tube car’s just pulling in. Shall I escort her to your office?”

“No time for that,” Thurfian said. “She can ride to Csaplar with us, or she can wait until I’m back. Her choice.”

“Yes, Your Venerante,” Thivik said, heading for the door. “I’ll ask her.”

Thurfian and the servants arrived a few minutes later to find Thivik and Thalias seated in the center seat cluster of the Patriarch’s private tube car, the four guards who would be accompanying him to the capital spread watchfully around them. The driver was also ready, seated in the top bubble and running a last check on the car’s equipment. “Your Venerante,” Thalias said solemnly to Thurfian as he stepped inside. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“I presume Senior Aide Thivik has already informed you I’m heading to Csaplar for an important meeting,” Thurfian said as he seated himself across from her. Outside, the servants finished stowing the luggage in the external compartments, and the car glided smoothly away from the mansion and toward the exit from the vast underground homestead chamber.

“He did,” Thalias said. “He also said you still have some additional work to do before we arrived.”

“Then we’re both on the same page,” Thurfian said. “Whatever you came to say, say it and then go sit in the back of the car.”

“Could we have a bit more privacy?” Thalias asked, pointing to the seats at the front of the car. “What I have to say is confidential.”

Thurfian suppressed a grimace. The Patriarch’s tube car was longer than the standard versions, and as a result had a tendency to bob and sway somewhat more. Most of the homestead’s staff didn’t have a problem with that, but Thurfian had found it a bit disconcerting, especially when he was trying to read.

But he wouldn’t be reading while he was talking to Thalias, and if moving up there got her part of this trip finished off faster, it would be worth it. “Go ahead,” he said.

She stood and headed toward the front group of seats. Thurfian followed, waving back the two guards who started to follow. Thalias sat down in the right-hand seat, and Thurfian took the one facing it. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”

A couple of days in hyperspace, and the Springhawk reached the Sunrise system. A quick in-system jump later, they’d arrived at the planet itself.

“Full scan,” Samakro ordered, looking between the sensor display and the starscape outside the viewport. There shouldn’t be much to see out there, he knew: a couple of Chiss warships, a couple of Paccian ones, maybe a transport or two if the Paccosh had managed to bring in additional forces. Jixtus and his Grysk fleet, at least, should still be well behind them.

“Signal coming in, Mid Captain,” Brisch called from the comm station. “It’s the Vigilant.”

“Thank you,” Samakro said, keying the comm as the Vigilant’s location came up on the display. The Nightdragon man-of-war was in low orbit directly ahead of the Springhawk, just about to disappear around the planetary rim. “This is Mid Captain Samakro aboard the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet warship Springhawk,” he said formally.

“This is Admiral Ar’alani,” Ar’alani’s voice came back. “Welcome to Senior Captain Thrawn’s last stand.”

Samakro grunted. “Not really funny, Admiral.”

“Sorry,” Ar’alani apologized. “How did your mission go?”

Samakro focused on Thalias, standing stiffly beside the navigator’s seat. She hadn’t said much about her meeting with Patriarch Thurfian since her hurried return from the Mitth homestead and her insistent request that Samakro get the Springhawk into hyperspace as quickly as possible. “I’m told the contact went fine.”

“You’re told? I thought you were the one handling that.”

“Thalias convinced me that she had a better chance of persuading one of the Aristocra to deliver our message to the Syndicure than I did.”

“And did she?” Ar’alani persisted.

“Thalias?” Samakro invited.

Thalias stirred. “I think so,” she said.

Which was about as much as Samakro had gotten out of her already. Apparently, she still wasn’t going to offer more detail. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Thrawn and Uingali are out at that asteroid cluster you passed on your way in,” Ar’alani said. “With all that clutter it’s fairly hard to see into, which would make it a perfect sniper nest. Thrawn thinks he has a better plan for it.”

“I’m not surprised,” Samakro said drily. “What does Uingali think?”

“They’re keeping this one very close to the table,” Ar’alani said. “If they come back with Uingali convinced, that’ll be your answer. Thrawn also has a group towing some of the asteroids of various sizes closer in toward the planet. The Paccian troop transport is still on the ground with the Magys, clearing out one last pocket of Grysk slavers.”

“We ever get confirmation that’s who they are?”

“Not really,” Ar’alani said. “We’re just assuming Qilori’s name for them was accurate. The Grayshrike’s on the other side of the planet from you, along with nine Paccian gunboats that arrived yesterday. Senior Captain Ziinda is having a conference with all the commanders, and she left an invitation for you to join them if you got in before they finished.”

“We’re on our way,” Samakro said, motioning the order to Azmordi. “How many of your old subordinates were you able to contact before you left the Ascendancy?”

“More than I expected, frankly,” Ar’alani said. “I talked to the patrol cruisers Parala and Bokrea and the light cruisers Whisperbird and Stingfly.”

“How did they sound?” Samakro asked.

“Receptive,” Ar’alani said. “I’m guessing the Syndicure’s order kicking us off planetary defense duty was part of it. None of us joined the Expansionary Defense Fleet to sit on our hands in orbit while some Aristocra explains what ungimbaled lasers we all are.”

“And Senior Captain Thrawn does have something of a reputation,” Samakro pointed out.

“As a commander or an ungimbaled laser?” Ar’alani said. “Never mind—he probably has both. Speaking of reputations, we also have a surprise guest: Captain Raamas and the Clarr family warship Orisson caught up with us just as we were getting ready to leave Schesa and asked to come along.”

“Really,” Samakro said, frowning. Orisson—why did that name sound familiar? “Unnaturally generous of the Clarr family, I must say.”

“I don’t think family kindness had anything to do with it,” Ar’alani said. “That’s the ship that nearly got taken out by the asteroid missile at Ornfra.”

“Oh—right,” Samakro said as the name finally clicked. He’d read that report, but his attention had been focused on the weapon itself, plus the part the Grayshrike had played in neutralizing it. “I thought the captain’s name was Roscu.”

“It was,” Ar’alani said. “Raamas isn’t saying much about it, but it sounds like their Patriarch kicked Roscu out of the command chair when she questioned his role in the current situation.”

“What role would that be?”

“That’s another topic Raamas isn’t talking much about. But I get the feeling that with the Clarr Patriarch comfortably out of sight and earshot he’s unofficially returned command to Roscu. Her stint in the Expansionary Defense Fleet gave her a lot more combat experience than he has, and Raamas is smart enough to know that.”

“Right,” Samakro said, making a face. Once again, family politics running into military realities. “Well, I’m sure we’re happy to have them aboard.”

“Ziinda seems to think so,” Ar’alani said. “I need to go out to the asteroid cluster for a quick consultation with Thrawn, but I’ve told Ziinda that you’re on your way. She’ll give you all the current thinking for our preliminary setup.”

“Sounds good,” Samakro said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Will do. Ar’alani out.”

The comm went silent, and Samakro shifted his attention to the nav display. Azmordi had put the Springhawk on a vector that would skim them across the upper atmosphere behind the Vigilant and bring them around to where they could rendezvous with the Grayshrike and the other assembled ships. The estimated ETA, he noted, was twenty minutes. “Lieutenant Commander Azmordi, any way you can speed us up a bit?”

“I can dig us a little lower into the atmosphere if you’d like,” the pilot offered. “That would shave off a couple of minutes.”

“Do it,” Samakro said. “I’ve always hated being late to parties.”

“Yes, sir,” Azmordi said, throwing a quick grin over his shoulder at Samakro as he worked his board. “Eighteen minutes to rendezvous.”

Samakro nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “Thalias, you and Che’ri might as well head back to the suite. Excellent job, Che’ri, on getting us here.”

“Thank you,” Che’ri said.

Samakro frowned. There’d been something odd in her voice. “You all right?” he asked, standing up and crossing the bridge toward her.

He was halfway there when the girl let out a scream.

Samakro covered the rest of the distance in three long strides. “Che’ri?” he demanded, braking to a halt. Thalias had crouched down beside the chair and was staring up at the girl’s face, her expression rigid, her hands stiff where she gripped Che’ri’s arms. Taking another half step forward, Samakro leaned past her for a closer look of his own.

One glance was all it took. Che’ri’s face was twisted almost beyond recognition, her neck strained, her eyes wide and bulging as she stared at something light-years beyond the Springhawk’s viewport. “Medic to the bridge,” he snapped.

“No,” Che’ri said, her voice as unrecognizable as her face. “Don’t take her away.”

Samakro felt his blood turn to ice. He looked down at Thalias, saw the tension in the caregiver’s face turn to horror. “Che’ri?” he asked. “Che’ri!”

“Don’t take her,” the girl said in that same voice.

“Who are you?” Thalias asked. She shot a look up at Samakro—“Are you the Magys?”

“I need her,” Che’ri said. “We all need her. An enemy is coming.”

“We know that,” Samakro said. “We’ll be ready.”

“You will not,” Che’ri said. “The way is uncertain. Our futures are uncertain. Only together can we see the path.”

“Magys, you’re hurting her,” Thalias said, clearly fighting to keep her voice even. “Whatever you’re doing to Che’ri, it’s hurting her.”

“I will not harm her,” Che’ri said. “She and I will see the path. Only she and I together can see the path.”

“You’re already hurting her,” Samakro said. A part of his mind was still refusing to accept what he was seeing and hearing.

But it was real. It was horribly real. Che’ri might be here in body, but she was speaking someone else’s words with someone else’s voice. Already he could see her twisting into something he’d never seen before. “The nightmares—remember the nightmares you gave her? Those could have killed her.”

“But they did not,” Che’ri said. “Nor will this kill her.”

“Mid Captain Samakro is right,” Thalias said. “Even if it doesn’t kill her, it’ll hurt her. It’ll hurt and change her. She may never be whole again.”

Che’ri shook her head, a brief and disjointed turn to the right and another to the left. “She will not mind. She will accept being us.”

“I don’t believe you,” Thalias bit out. “If she’s really willing, release her and let her say that for herself.”

“Release her?” Che’ri’s lips curled in an almost smile, her mouth opening as if she wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite remember how. “Do you think I alone hold her? All those who now touch the Beyond are gathered together for the protection of our world. All are in agreement. All will help us to find the path.”

Samakro felt his lips curl back from his teeth in a snarl. So not only was the Magys invading Che’ri’s mind, but a whole damn planet’s worth of dead people thought they should get in on this, too?

“They will not approach her,” Che’ri said.

Samakro frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“They will not approach her.”

Samakro looked at Thalias, got the same puzzled look in response—

Behind him, the hatch opened. Samakro turned his head, saw two medics hurry onto the bridge.

“They will not approach her,” Che’ri repeated more sharply.

Samakro waved the medics back, cursing to himself. Even without the Magys’s meddling, Che’ri’s Third Sight could see that far into the future. What would it be like when she’d fully taken control of the girl?

“You can’t do this to her, Magys,” Thalias said. “You owe us, remember? We saved your life and freed your planet from its conquerors.”

“Triumphs that will turn to dust if all is ultimately lost,” Che’ri countered. “Only if we can see the path can any remnant be saved.”

Samakro looked down again at Thalias, his stomach tightening. How much of Thrawn’s plan had the Magys already seen? Any of it? All of it? Was she even now glimpsing the scene of mass destruction Samakro knew was coming?

“All right,” Thalias said suddenly. Her face was pale, but her voice was firm. “We’ll see the path together. But it won’t be you and Che’ri. You’ll take me instead.”

“You cannot see the path,” Che’ri scoffed.

“No, actually, I can,” Thalias said. “I told you once before that I also had Third Sight.”

“You had it once,” Che’ri said. “But you long ago lost it.”

“Not all of it,” Thalias said doggedly. “I felt the presence of those in the Beyond as we approached the system. I knew of the existence of the Guardian before Che’ri told me of him.” She looked up at Samakro. “And I know the Guardian would be displeased with you if you tore the life from a young girl.”

For a moment Che’ri didn’t answer. “Your Third Sight is gone,” she said.

“It’s not gone, merely dormant,” Thalias said. “You and those in the Beyond will just have to push a little harder to get it to work.”

“Thalias, you can’t do this,” Samakro murmured. “You can’t let her take you.”

“If I don’t, she’ll take Che’ri,” Thalias said. “She already has her. This is the only way to persuade her to let go.”

“But she’s right,” Samakro said. “Your Third Sight is long gone. It’ll be like running a fire hose through you to get this to work.”

“I don’t care,” Thalias said.

“Maybe I do.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” Thalias shot back. “You and the Springhawk can’t do without Che’ri. You can do without me.”

“No,” Samakro said firmly. “I’m not sacrificing your future, either.”

Thalias shook her head. “I don’t have a future anymore, Mid Captain,” she said quietly. “I pulled a charric on Patriarch Thurfian.”

Samakro felt his eyes widen. “You what?”

“I had to,” Thalias said. “He let me leave Csilla, but I know he won’t forget.” She shifted her eyes again to Che’ri’s face. “Argument over. Magys, I’m ready. Let her go and take me.”

Samakro looked into Thalias’s eyes … and with that, he finally knew the truth.

She was no spy, no matter what Thurfian had forced her to say. Her loyalty was to Thrawn, to Che’ri, and to the Springhawk. She would die before she would betray any of them.

Which left him only one option.

“Just a minute, Magys,” he called. “There’s one more point you need to consider.”

“What point is that?” Che’ri asked.

“You speak about the future,” Samakro said. “The question you need to ask is whether or not you yourself have one.”

“You speak a riddle.”

“Then let me make it clear,” Samakro said. “Mid Commander Dalvu, are we within view of the Sunrise nyix mine area?”

“Yes, Mid Captain.”

“Good,” Samakro said. “Senior Commander Afpriuh, prepare a spread of laserfire for that region.”

“Mid Captain, what are you doing?” Thalias asked, her eyes going wide.

“And prepare two breacher missiles as follow-up,” Samakro added. “Are you listening, Magys?”

“I am,” Che’ri said.

“Here are your choices,” Samakro said. “You release Che’ri—right now—and you leave her and Thalias strictly and completely alone. Otherwise, in sixty seconds you and every one of the people within ten kilometers of you dies.”

The bridge, Samakro noted, had taken on a brittle silence. “Magys, did you hear me?”

“I heard,” Che’ri said uncertainly. “You would never do such a thing. Your commander would never do such a thing.”

“Senior Captain Thrawn isn’t here. I am.”

“He cares about non-Chiss lives.”

“Yes, he does,” Samakro agreed. “You threaten his people, and see how fast that changes. Forty-five seconds.”

“Mid Captain, you can’t do this,” Thalias pleaded.

“I can, and I will,” Samakro said coldly. “She’s threatened you and she’s attacked Che’ri. As far as I’m concerned, that’s an automatic death sentence. Thirty-five seconds.”

“Without me, you will die,” Che’ri said, a strange sense of pleading in her voice. “Without seeing the path of battle, we will all die.”

“You underestimate Senior Captain Thrawn,” Samakro said. “He understands his enemies. He knows their patterns and their weaknesses, and what it’ll take to defeat them. In fact, I’d wager he sees a battle’s future even more clearly than you do. Twenty seconds.”

He counted out five more seconds. Then, abruptly, Che’ri stiffened and collapsed in her seat, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

Silently, Samakro exhaled out his tension. “Secure lasers and breachers,” he ordered. “If you’re still listening, Magys, you’ve made the right decision. Senior Captain Thrawn and I will continue to protect your world and your people to the best of our ability.” He lifted a finger. “Just remember that if you’re tempted to change your mind, I haven’t changed mine. And my order can always be reinstated.”

He stood up, wincing at the sudden twinges in his knees. “Caregiver, do you need help getting her back to the suite?”

“No,” Thalias said, her face unnaturally pale as she also stood up, her hands still gripping Che’ri’s arms. “I can manage. Che’ri?”

“I’m okay,” Che’ri said. Her breathing had slowed, but she was unsteady as Thalias helped her to her feet. “I … could I get something to eat?”

“Of course,” Thalias assured her as she guided the girl around the chair and started maneuvering them toward the hatch. The two medics were still standing there; at a gesture from Samakro, they hurried forward to assist. “You can rest while I fix you something.”

The medics reached them, taking Che’ri’s arms and continuing her path across the bridge. Thalias started to follow, hesitated, and turned back to Samakro. “Thank you, sir,” she said.

He shrugged. “Just protecting the Springhawk’s assets.”

“I thought we were real, live, socially valuable people,” she said, giving him a small, tired smile.

“There’s always some middle ground.”

“Yes.” Her smiled faded. “Would you really have fired those lasers?” she asked, her voice almost too soft to hear.

He looked her straight in the eye. “Would you really have fired that charric?”

A muscle in her cheek twitched. “I need to see to Che’ri.”

“Yes,” he said. “Keep me advised about her condition.”

She nodded and hurried after Che’ri and the medics. The group disappeared through the hatch, and Samakro returned to his command chair. “We still on course for the Grayshrike?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Azmordi said. “That was … intense, sir.”

“Indeed it was,” Samakro agreed. “Let’s hope the Magys took the lesson to heart.”

“Mid Captain, we have incoming,” Dalvu said tightly. “Multiple warships coming out of hyperspace.”

“Acknowledged, Mid Commander,” Samakro said, eyeing the tactical, watching as the ship count slowly increased. “Lieutenant Commander Brisch, signal Senior Captain Thrawn. Tell him our guests have arrived.”

Sunrise.

Qilori found himself running the name through his mind back and forth, over and over, as the Great Presence guided him along the final leg of the long journey. It was the name Thrawn had coined for the planet, he’d been told, and Jixtus had accepted it for convenience of discussion. But surely the world’s inhabitants had originally called it by another name.

Had that name been something bright and glorious, reflecting a satisfying past and an optimistic future? Did those who still remained call it by a different name now that it had been shattered by war? Would they rename it yet again after witnessing the battle about to take place in the sky above their heads?

Or would there even be anyone left there to remember or rename? Qilori had seen the horrific damage, the aftermath of a brutal civil war. According to Thrawn, that war had been instigated and encouraged by Jixtus and his Agbui agents. Once the Grysks had taken all they wanted from the world, would Jixtus then finish the job, destroying whatever was left?

After all, the galaxy had a long history of ruthless destroyers who preferred not to leave witnesses behind. Would the people of Sunrise fall into that category?

More important, would Qilori?

Something in the distance ahead touched his mind: another Pathfinder, deep within the Great Presence, approaching the world ahead. Probably Sarsh, he decided, the navigator whom he’d helped rescue from the Hammer only to then be forced into the service of Thrawn and the Paccosh. Unfortunate, probably even unfair, but at least his presence showed that Thrawn was definitely still at Sunrise.

Or was he?

Qilori’s winglets twitched beneath his sensory-deprivation headset. Sarsh was near Sunrise, but it almost seemed as if he was coming toward the Whetstone. Was Thrawn leaving the system, then?

He hoped not. Jixtus would be furious if the Chiss had finished his search ahead of schedule and was returning to the Ascendancy with his cargo of prescient aliens.

Or was Thrawn instead somewhere beyond the planet and now returning to it? Qilori couldn’t tell. The Great Presence could provide the location of another Pathfinder and a certain degree of identification, but distances and directions of movement were always tricky to estimate.

And then, Sarsh vanished from Qilori’s awareness.

The surprise of it nearly jolted him out of his trance. But a second later the other Pathfinder suddenly reappeared. Only now he seemed to be going the opposite direction, traveling back toward Sunrise. For another few seconds he continued on; then, once again, he disappeared.

Had he dropped back out of hyperspace? That was the usual reason a Pathfinder’s presence vanished. But if Thrawn was out in the vast nothingness between the stars, why would he suddenly choose to drop back into space-normal?

There was no time to figure it out now. Jixtus had ordered the fleet to rendezvous at the far edge of the Sunrise system, beyond any chance of being detected from the inner system, and the Whetstone was fast approaching its destination. Qilori made one final microscopic adjustment to the ship’s direction, awaiting the guidance of the Great Presence.

And then they were there. He keyed the controls, and the Great Presence faded as the Whetstone once again returned to space-normal.

Qilori reached up and slipped off his headset, blinking in the subdued bridge lights as he checked the nav displays. They were in the outer Sunrise system, just as he’d been ordered.

His winglets smoothed with relief. Whatever else happened, at least Jixtus couldn’t add a navigational mistake to Qilori’s list of failings. He looked at the sensor display, mentally counting down the seconds.

And then, suddenly, there they were, bursting into view all around him: the FateSpinner, the three WarMasters, and the eleven BattleChiefs. All fifteen arrived in perfect formation as their silent Attendant navigators brought them back to space-normal in rapid-fire succession. Qilori had seen the Attendants’ exquisite coordination before, and he still didn’t know whether they could sense one another in hyperspace the way Pathfinders could or whether they simply had an incredible sense of position and timing.

Jixtus was already on the comm, speaking with the other Grysk commanders in their own language. Off to one side, Generalirius Nakirre’s skin was shifting around even more than usual in that unpleasant alien way of theirs. Anticipation or dread, Qilori didn’t know which.

Or perhaps it was frustration. Qilori hadn’t had very much interaction with the Kiljis, but even so he’d gotten the impression that Generalirius Nakirre had expected to be a major part of Jixtus’s grand scheme. Instead, his role had apparently been merely to ferry Jixtus around the Ascendancy, looking innocent, while Jixtus stirred up discord until he was ready to reveal the true invasion fleet.

Apparently, the suggestion that the Kiljis were in fact Jixtus’s masters had just been another of Thrawn’s lies.

Qilori had spent a lifetime of navigating aliens through the Chaos, most of whom had treated him like the hired servant that he was. He’d seen Nakirre’s level of self-importance in many others, the most recent being General Yiv’s Nikardun and Haplif’s Agbui. Both species had challenged the power of the Chiss Ascendancy and both had broken against it.

Maybe this time it would be the Chiss who would find themselves breaking before a greater force.

Jixtus finished his conversation. “The fleet stands ready,” he said, switching back to Minnisiat. “You, Pathfinder, will take us on an in-system jump to the planet.”

Generalirius Nakirre stirred in his seat. “Vassal One can do that.”

“The Pathfinder will do it,” Jixtus said, his tone making it clear that there would be no further argument. His veiled face turned briefly to the Kilji leader, then back to Qilori. “Pathfinder?”

“Yes, sir,” Qilori said. “Shall I send the jump coordinates to your other ships?”

“The fleet will follow in its own time,” Jixtus said. “I will first speak alone with the Chiss. I’m curious to see if Thrawn will offer me two alien lives as you predicted.”

Qilori’s winglets stiffened. He’d hoped Jixtus had forgotten about that conversation, or at least had put aside the threat he’d appended to Qilori’s fumbling theories about Thrawn’s strategy. “Yes, sir,” he managed. “In-system jump is ready.”

“Execute,” Jixtus ordered.

Bracing himself, Qilori keyed the helm. A flicker of stars, and the planet Sunrise loomed dark and all but dead.

A fitting backdrop, Qilori thought as he stared in stunned disbelief at the utter devastation that had now appeared in front of them.

Qilori had expected to find Thrawn and his allies ringed by the force the Ascendancy had sent to detain him. The number of vessels was the first surprise, with nearly thirty warships visible, ranging in size from gunboats to the Nightdragon he’d warned Jixtus about.

But they weren’t in any battle array. Nor were they even standing defiantly against Thrawn. They were dead.

All of them.

Qilori let his gaze sweep slowly across the scene, winglets undulating in horror and revulsion. The warships were everywhere, some drifting in more or less stable orbits, others in the more extreme hyperbolic paths that would in hours or days end their existence in fiery crashes on the planet’s surface. None of them was showing any signs of internal activity. The Whetstone’s sensors indicated that most of their reactors were still providing power, but that power was minimal and slowly fading. Battle debris was scattered everywhere, with some of the larger ships trailing thin tendrils of smoke. One of the gunboats off to the side was slowly turning, the light from the distant sun glinting off torn hull plates, its own trail of smoke long and thick and twisting in a bizarre expanding corkscrew shape that surrounded it. The smoke glistened in the distant sunlight as if it was more of a drifting metal slurry than simple vaporized debris, and he wondered briefly what kind of weapon could have generated such a cloud. A couple of ships showed spots of flickering flame where broken oxygen lines fed into laser damage. Whatever had happened here, the Whetstone must have just missed it.

“Move us,” Jixtus ordered. “I wish to see it all.”

“Move closer,” Nakirre repeated. As if, Qilori thought, the Kilji’s orders or presence aboard his ship truly mattered anymore.

The thrusters activated, sending the Whetstone past the edge into Sunrise’s gravity well. All the ships must have likewise been deep in the well, Qilori noted with a quiet ache, with no hope of escaping into hyperspace. No wonder all of them had died where they stood.

“The ships still exude the heat of life,” the vassal at the sensor station said. “The bodies aboard continue to cool.”

“A few hours at the most, then,” Qilori said. Did that explain what he’d seen while nestled within the Great Presence? Had Pathfinder Sarsh been trying to escape the carnage of battle in a ship whose hyperdrive had first sputtered and then failed completely?

“So Thrawn refused the order to surrender,” Jixtus said, a mix of satisfaction and disappointment in his voice. “I thought he might.”

“Why would he do such a thing?” Qilori murmured.

“He’s always considered himself unbeatable,” Jixtus said. “Now, here, his luck finally drained away.” He gave a sound that was half snort, half chuckle. “And as the Ascendancy spirals toward its doom, so these Chiss have engaged and destroyed themselves and each other. Sunrise and its people are ours.”

“So it would seem,” Qilori said, his eyes still fixed on the wreckage. Jixtus could invoke comparisons all he wanted, but to Qilori the whole disaster was still inexplicable. How could such a thing have happened?

A glint caught his eye: A small asteroid in the near distance, drifting just outside the field of wreckage, had reflected a ray of sunlight. There were probably a dozen of the rocky objects out there, he saw now, their sizes ranging from that of gunboats all the way down to that of single-person escape pods. Probably strays from the asteroid cluster the sensors showed in the near distance behind them. As if nature itself had observed the battle and sent representatives for a closer look.

He frowned, throwing a longer look at the cluster. A tight-knit group of rocks like that, within sensor and comm range of the planet and close enough for a quick in-system jump, would offer perfect cover for an observation post.

And in fact, now that he was focusing on it he thought he could see some faint glints of reflected light.

But the Whetstone’s sensors showed no sign of movement or energy readings out there. If someone had indeed set up such a post, the battle had apparently ranged far enough to take it out as well, leaving only dead ships or scrap behind.

Or else the glints were coming from metal deposits in the asteroids, and all the rest was Qilori’s own nervous imagination.

“There,” Jixtus said, jabbing a finger toward the viewport. “Those two ships close in to the planet. Did I just see laserfire between them?”

Qilori shifted his attention from the asteroids and the wrecked ships and peered in the direction Jixtus was pointing. Beyond the corkscrewing smoke trail were two ships drifting along together, neither of them under power. Both were ships he recognized: the Chiss Nightdragon Vigilant and Uingali Foar Marocsaa’s stolen Nikardun blockade frigate Aelos.

And as Qilori watched, feeling an odd sadness, a small, useless flicker of laserfire did indeed flash between the two derelicts.

“Take us over to them, vassal,” Jixtus ordered, shifting the jabbing finger to the Kilji at the helm. “And you, vassal”—he pointed at the comm station—“send a broadcast signal calling for survivors.”

“Do as he orders,” Nakirre muttered.

“A signal is already coming in,” the comm vassal said, keying his board.

“Is that you, Generalirius Nakirre?” a voice came tentatively from the speaker, the words half buried in the crackle of a damaged transmitter.

“It is,” Nakirre confirmed. “Is that you, Senior Captain Thrawn?”

“It is I,” the other said, and this time Qilori was able to recognize his voice.

But it was no longer the voice of calm confidence and borderline arrogance that had always been the mark of this particular blueskin. Thrawn’s voice was wounded, dismayed, lost. His schemes, his plans, his self-assurance—all had come to nothing.

Earlier, Qilori had wondered if Thrawn and the Chiss would break against the Grysk fleet. Instead, they’d broken against each other.

“I’m afraid you’ve arrived too late to bring the enlightenment you once promised me,” Thrawn said. “Perhaps you will have more success elsewhere. Does Jixtus of the Grysks still travel with you?”

“I do,” Jixtus spoke up. “Tell me, Thrawn of the Chiss: Did you find those prescient cousins of the Magys you came here to seek?”

“I found him, yes,” Thrawn said.

Jixtus turned toward Qilori, and Qilori could imagine a knowing smile behind the black veil. “Him,” Jixtus repeated. “So there was just the one?”

“There are never more than two,” Thrawn said. “The Magys and the Magysine, they’re called.”

“Ah,” Jixtus said. “And do you have both of them with you aboard the Aelos?”

There was just the barest hesitation. “No,” Thrawn said. “They’re on the surface, traveling to a place of safety.”

“I see,” Jixtus said. There was a dull thunk somewhere beneath them as the Whetstone bumped against a small piece of floating debris. “Safety from me? Or safety from you?”

“Why would they need safety from me?”

“Of course,” Jixtus said. “Let me tell you what I think. I think you lied to Qilori of Uandualon and somehow managed to pass that same lie to the Grysk observers left behind on Sunrise. I think there are more than one of these Magysines. I think you’ve already found all of them. I think they’re currently huddled together with you aboard your wrecked ship.”

“My ship is hardly wrecked,” Thrawn said. “Our repairs are already under way.”

“Efforts that will soon come to naught,” Jixtus said calmly. “You have no electrostatic barrier, no lasers to speak of, and insufficient power to activate either to any real effect. A single laser salvo, a single missile, and you will be just more battle debris. I notice our sensors suggest there may yet be a great many survivors aboard the Vigilant.”

“Your quarrel is with me, Jixtus of the Grysks,” Thrawn said, a bit of life coming back into his voice. “Leave the dead and dying alone.”

“If they are truly dying, would it not be merciful to ease their suffering?” Jixtus asked. “But you’re right. You are the one I came to Sunrise to destroy. I have only pity and contempt for those who unwisely chose to fall at your side. I therefore offer a trade: their lives for the alien Magysines aboard your ship.”

There was another pause, a longer one this time. “I can’t give them to you,” Thrawn said. “They’re too young, too delicate. Their lives are too precious.”

“I would treat them well,” Jixtus assured him. “They would be as honored guests among the Grysks.”

“And guests is all they would ever be,” Thrawn said bluntly. “I doubt you would be willing to invest the time and patience necessary to properly train them.”

Jixtus gave a contemptuous snort. “Time and patience, you say? Truly, you underestimate me. I’ve put a great deal of time and patience into you and your Ascendancy already. A little more invested to obtain such a prize would hardly be a loss.”

“What time?” Thrawn scoffed. His voice was a little stronger, as if he’d realized the end was near and had decided to face his final enemy with dignity. “You’ve just barely arrived in this region of space. I tell you that years of patience would be required to train the Magysines.”

“I am hardly new to this war, Thrawn of the Chiss,” Jixtus retorted stiffly. “Years of patience, you say? That is indeed what was required to train and nurture General Yiv the Benevolent and his Nikardun. Guiding him and pointing him toward his conquests took even more patience.”

“I fail to see what patience was necessary,” Thrawn said. “Yiv simply lashed out at everyone in his path. That hardly required guidance.”

“If you believe that, you’re less perceptive than I realized,” Jixtus said. “The order and locations of his conquests and alliances needed to be carefully mapped out if we were to create the necessary encirclement of your Chiss Ascendancy.”

“By conquests, you refer to the Vak Combine and Garwian Unity?”

“There was no need for Yiv to conquer the Garwians,” Jixtus said. “All that was needed to keep them quiet and cowering was to create a treaty between Yiv and their Lioaoin enemies.”

“So you conquered some and intimidated others,” Thrawn said. “What of the nations you drained of their resources and then crushed underfoot?”

“What of them?” Jixtus asked, his black robe shifting as he gave a small shrug. “They were of no value except as practice for Yiv’s soldiers. A few others, like the world currently below us, had certain specific resources, but weren’t worth the effort of conquering.”

“So those were the ones the Agbui were sent to destroy from within?”

“Some of them were,” Jixtus said. “The Agbui are quite good at such things. The one named Haplif, in particular, was one of the best. The Chiss will pay dearly for depriving me of his future services.”

“His service against whom?” Thrawn countered. “You’ve already destroyed everything in the region.”

“Not everything,” Jixtus said. “Perhaps I’ll send the Agbui against your Paccian friends. Or against the Vaks and Garwians.”

“Trying to make their worlds like Sunrise would be a mistake,” Thrawn warned.

“Possibly,” Jixtus said. “True, Sunrise was an entertaining exercise in subjugation and destruction, but as you can see it was quite costly. Perhaps I’ll simply enslave the Garwians and Vaks, lest I discover too late their worlds also have hidden resources. Agbui persuasion isn’t limited to destruction, after all.”

“Indeed,” Thrawn said. “It was quite clever, using the nyix the Agbui confiscated from Sunrise to corrupt your targeted Chiss officials. Fortunately, we were able to thwart that ploy.”

“Only temporarily,” Jixtus said. “Our latest effort will soon bear the same bitter fruit you see below you.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn said. “Still, you made a serious error when you sent Yiv against the Paataatus.”

“Why do you say that?”

“So you claim that after years of working destruction from the shadows you’ve finally stepped into the light,” Thrawn said, ignoring Jixtus’s question. “You’ve traveled among the Ruling Families, offering proof of treachery with one hand and the assistance of Grysk warships with the other. Only it was all lies. There was no deceit among the families, and your warships were never going to be given to any Chiss family. They would always remain under your sole control.”

“Would you hand over warships to beings already marked for destruction?” Jixtus countered. “If you had any warships left to hand over, that is.”

“Point taken,” Thrawn said heavily. “But surely you couldn’t have known this would be the view you would face upon your arrival. Did you truly think it would be safe for you to come alone, without your fleet to support you?”

“Of course not,” Jixtus said, an edge of malicious satisfaction in his voice. “If you can still see, look outward, and witness the arrival of your final doom.”

And then, sweeping into view directly behind the Whetstone, the fifteen massive ships of Jixtus’s fleet arrived. “Do you see them, Thrawn?” Jixtus asked. “Do you see them?”

“I see them,” Thrawn confirmed. “An impressive array. I believe introductions are in order?”

“You wish to know the names of the warships that will slaughter you and finish the destruction of your pitiful force?” Jixtus asked. “Why?”

“Why not?” Thrawn replied. “Are you so desirous of personal glory that you would deny your force captains their share of it?”

Jixtus snorted. “Do you think to drive a wedge between my captains and me? You are indeed foolish. But no matter. The largest ship, the one now coming up along the starboard side of this pathetic little Kilji war cruiser, is my flagship, the FateSpinner.”

“Impressive,” Thrawn said. He was hiding his apprehension well, Qilori thought, but the sight of the massive Grysk warship had to be digging a claw into his heart.

“It is indeed,” Jixtus agreed. “It’s a Shatter-class WarMaster, the greatest class of warship in the Grysk armada. Flanking it on portside, starboard, and dorsal are my three StoneCrusher-class WarMasters Emery, Armageddon, and SkySweep. Screening the core ships are my eleven Prism-class BattleChiefs. I’d offer their names, but there’s no point in overburdening you with details when your time is so short.”

“Fifteen vessels in all,” Thrawn said. “I note that there are more here than you offered the Clarr Patriarch.”

“Of course,” Jixtus said. “A moment, if you please.”

He rattled off a few sentences in the Grysk language, and Qilori saw the battle formation slowly break apart as the warships headed toward different sections of the battleground.

“I’m sending them off to search for the ships most likely to hold survivors,” he said, switching back to Minnisiat. “You’ll recall I offered to trade Chiss lives for the Magysines?”

“You spoke only of the Vigilant.”

“I’m adding further inducements,” Jixtus said. “And you’re correct about the numbers. Patriarch Rivlex wasn’t the only arrogant fool who accepted my warships. The Chaf and Ufsa Patriarchs were also eager to add Grysk power to their fleets. I, for my part, was happy to have safe harbors where my ships would have easy access to supplies and fuel.”

“Yet you’ve now brought all of them here,” Thrawn said. “What if the Patriarchs notice their departure? Will they not wonder whether your promise of control was a lie?”

“Is that where your final hope rests?” Jixtus asked. “That the Patriarchs will see their folly and reconsider their agreements with me?”

He gave a contemptuous snort. “No, Thrawn. As you once thought to utilize the Magys and her people to see your battles laid out before you, so too is this final expectation also in vain. My warships will return to their nests once we finish here, long before the Patriarchs can become concerned, probably before they even notice their absence.”

“It would have been wiser to leave one or two behind to calm any concerns,” Thrawn suggested.

“As I see now, I could have,” Jixtus agreed. “But I came to Sunrise expecting to fight a major battle. I didn’t expect to find that you’d done my job for me.”

“So this is your entire fleet?”

Qilori’s winglets twitched. That was an odd question.

Jixtus apparently thought so, too. “Why do you ask?”

“I offer a trade,” Thrawn said. “Answer my question, and I’ll tell you why it was a mistake to send the Nikardun against the Paataatus.”

Qilori looked sideways at Jixtus. The Grysk was sitting motionless, his veiled face turned toward the viewport and the two damaged ships the Whetstone was making its way toward. “Very well, I’ll play your game,” he said. “I really don’t care about Yiv or his failures, certainly not now that he’s gone. But I’ll admit to some curiosity. Yes, this is my entire fleet. Not the entirety of Grysk forces, certainly—our armada would fill the Csilla sky. These are merely what I deemed necessary for the destruction of the Chiss Ascendancy.”

“Minus the warship we’ve already taken from you.”

Jixtus made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “The HopeBreaker. Yes. The FateSpinner’s sister ship. Like Haplif’s death, be assured that the loss of that ship will be held for full payment against you.”

“I apologize for bringing up a painful subject,” Thrawn said. “I merely mention it because the record of its destruction will provide detailed instruction to the Chiss Defense Force as to how to face your warships and destroy them. You might wish to ponder that before you consider another move against the Ascendancy.”

“Pondered, and dismissed,” Jixtus said contemptuously. “By the time I bring my warships openly into your war, there won’t be enough left of your Defense Force to worry about. Especially not with well over half of the Expansionary Defense Fleet already lying waste here. Explain to me Yiv’s mistake.”

“The mistake was that the Paataatus were quite unhappy at his attempt to conquer them,” Thrawn said. “That anger was matched with an equal degree of gratitude for my assistance in breaking the last Nikardun stranglehold on them.”

“And so …?”

“And so they were happy to do me a favor,” Thrawn said. “Are you still there, Generalirius Nakirre?”

“I am,” Nakirre spoke up.

“You sent your Kilhorde against several of the small nations to the south and southeast of the Ascendancy,” Thrawn said. “Unfortunately for them, that also put them to the north and northwest of the Paataatus Hiveborn. Having a large military force operating that close to their borders was deemed unacceptable.”

“What are you saying?” Nakirre demanded.

“I’m saying that your Kilhorde is gone,” Thrawn said. “A multipronged Paataatus attack fleet engaged and destroyed it. All of it. The worlds and peoples on whom you hoped to force your enlightenment have been set free.”

“No,” Nakirre insisted. “You lie. The Illumine Kilhorde is mighty and unshakable.”

“Unfortunately, it also had several weaknesses, both in design and in combat doctrine,” Thrawn said. “Flaws that were easily gleaned from the battle data we retrieved from your picket cruiser Hammer. That information was of course shared with the Paataatus prior to their attack.”

Qilori looked sideways at Nakirre, cringing as the Kilji’s skin roiled across his body like waves on an agitated sea. Jixtus, in contrast, was utterly unmoving, his face turned toward the generalirius.

And then, abruptly, Nakirre leapt to his feet. “You did this!” he snarled, jabbing a finger at Jixtus. “Your arrogance—your refusal to accept the Kilji Illumine as true allies—your failure to provide adequate support for our conquests of enlightenment—”

Without a word, Jixtus pulled a small hand weapon from inside his cloak and fired a single shot.

Qilori’s winglets spasmed with shock as Nakirre jerked and collapsed to the deck, his skin finally and forever going still. “Sir—!” Qilori gasped.

“Calm yourself, Pathfinder,” Jixtus said. “If the Kilhorde is gone, the generalirius is of no further use to me.” He looked around the bridge, his covered face turning to each of the Kiljis in turn. Then, apparently satisfied that there would be no further resistance, he returned the weapon to its hidden holster. “And now, Thrawn of the Chiss. Are you ready to give me the Magysines?”

“One final comment before I answer,” Thrawn said. “I wish to remind you that the data from the Hammer’s recent confrontation here at Sunrise, along with our observations during our own battles with your warships, have likewise highlighted several weaknesses in Grysk combat abilities and tactics. You would be wise to take that into account before you answer my question.”

“And what question would that be?” Jixtus asked.

“The most critical one of all,” Thrawn said. “Are you ready to surrender?”

Fifteen Grysk warships.

Roscu again ran the analysis through her head as she gazed at the images starting to swarm around one another on the tactical. All of them larger than her own light cruiser; three of them considerably larger; one of them ridiculously larger.

And so naturally Thrawn was sending her against the SkySweep, one of the midsized StoneCrushers.

At least he wasn’t sending her against it alone. Two other light cruisers from Ba’kif’s reinforcement group were hitting the SkySweep from two other sides, trading laserfire and fending off its missiles while simultaneously trying to slip in plasma spheres and breachers. So far only a couple of each weapon had made it through the SkySweep’s point defenses, but those had successfully hit the vulnerable areas Thrawn and Ar’alani had identified and marked.

If the Chiss were going to prevail, Roscu knew, that targeting data was going to be the key. So far, despite the Grysk warship’s lopsided size advantage, the skirmish was playing out better than would normally be expected. Certainly it was going better than the records Roscu had seen of the last time Chiss warships had gone up against one of these things.

And of course, Thrawn’s numerical advantage meant none of his forces had to deal one-on-one with any of the enemy. Even though most of the Chiss warships were smaller than any of their opponents, attacking at two or three to one allowed them to keep the Grysks off balance and unfocused.

In the distance off the Orisson’s starboard flank, Roscu could see Paccian gunboats and a pair of Chiss light cruisers buzzing around two of the smaller BattleChiefs, keeping up the laserfire and plasma sphere attacks while at the same time maneuvering to keep the two warships blocking each other’s fire and otherwise hampering their movements. Beyond them, the Parala and Bokrea had taken on another BattleChief, and while both patrol cruisers were taking serious fire they were still operational.

But that could change at any moment. Roscu had spotted the escape pod that left the Kilji warship and was immediately tractored across to the FateSpinner, presumably with Jixtus aboard. Once he was on the bridge of his flagship and directing his side of the battle, the Grysk superiority in ship size and firepower could quickly make itself felt. Roscu could only hope that Thrawn was on top of things on the Chiss side.

In the meantime, the Orisson had a Grysk warship to destroy.

“Continue laserfire,” she ordered, checking the tactical one last time, then focusing her attention on the viewport. “Prepare three breachers; launch on my command.”

“Uh-oh,” Ar’alani said. Two of the Grysk BattleChiefs had abruptly broken off from the Chiss forces and were on the move.

Heading straight for the Paccian gunship that held the Vagaari gravity-well generator. “Thrawn?” she called.

“I see it,” he said. “Mid Captain Apros, I think you’ve been identified. Get ready to run.”

“Understood, Senior Captain,” Apros’s voice came tightly over the Vigilant’s speaker. “Am I still on the primary vector?”

“Yes,” Thrawn said. “Turn onto it now, but hold position until your attackers have delivered their first volley. Then turn off the field and run at full acceleration.”

Ar’alani felt her stomach tighten. The gravity-well generator ate up a lot of the power that could otherwise be utilized by the drive and the enhanced electrostatic barrier Uingali had added to the gunboat while the Springhawk’s techs were busy getting the generator installed. On an immediate tactical level, it made sense for Apros to do his running with the generator off.

But on a slightly longer strategic level …

“I’ll tell you when to turn it back on,” Thrawn continued. “At that time you’ll also dump the rest of your load of smoke.”

“Understood, sir,” Apros said. “Standing ready.”

Ar’alani keyed the comm back from general to Thrawn’s private frequency. “You sure you want the Grysks to have a clear shot?” she asked.

“We need them to,” Thrawn said. “Their first shot will be from a distance, and we need them to think that the gunboat has extra protection—”

“Which it does.”

“Yes, though not the kind they’ll assume,” Thrawn said. “I want them thinking they need to get closer, possibly to point-blank range, before they fire again.”

“You realize how risky that is, don’t you?” Ar’alani warned. “We could lose it all.”

“Not all,” Thrawn assured her. “But I agree it would make the rest of the battle far more costly.”

Ar’alani nodded, acutely aware that the rest of the Vigilant’s bridge was listening in on this conversation. She was the senior officer on the scene, which meant that she should be the one making these victory-or-defeat decisions. Handing them off to Thrawn or anyone else still made the end result her responsibility. “I could go to his assistance,” she offered.

“You can’t get there any faster than the Grayshrike,” Thrawn pointed out. “Besides, right now the Vigilant is the only thing keeping the FateSpinner pinned down and out of the battle. I need you right where you are.”

“Understood.” Ar’alani keyed back to the general frequency. Unfortunately, he was right on both counts. “Everyone stay sharp,” she called. “Apros … good luck.”

“I’m told the Syndicure has begun an investigation into our family over your dealings with Jixtus,” Roscu said, gazing unblinkingly at the man across the desk. “An inquiry running in parallel with those into the Chaf and Ufsa families.”

“So I hear,” Patriarch Rivlex said, staring back just as unblinkingly. “Once again, the Syndicure oversteps its bounds and authority.”

“I’m told the Chaf and Ufsa Patriarchs have already agreed to step down,” Roscu said. “And that the Clarr Patriels have asked you to do the same.”

“The Patriels likewise overstep their authority,” Rivlex said. “Why exactly are you here, Roscu?”

Roscu. Not Captain Roscu, but just Roscu. Rivlex’s entire senior officer corps had petitioned Rivlex to reinstate her rank in the Clarr family fleet, but the Patriarch wasn’t going to back down over even that small gesture. He’d dug in his heels, defined his enemies, and was in for the long term.

Unfortunately, at the moment his enemies list seemed to include everyone in the Ascendancy who wasn’t him.

“This is merely a courtesy call, Your Venerante,” Roscu said. “I’ve been offered reinstatement in the Expansionary Defense Fleet.”

“Congratulations,” Rivlex said sourly. “I trust you’ll be happy scouring the Chaos for new threats.”

“I’ve also,” Roscu continued, “been offered a commission in the Defense Force.”

And that one finally sparked a reaction. Rivlex’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he seemed to draw back a little. “The Defense Force?”

“Yes,” Roscu said. “Specifically, the position of Admiral Dy’lothe’s second officer aboard the Venturous.” She paused. “The Groundlion man-of-war currently in orbit over Rhigar.”

“I know where the Venturous is,” Rivlex said. His voice was still carefully controlled, but Roscu could tell he understood the full implications of such an assignment.

The Syndicure had tried to cover up the whole Sunrise incident, and for a while they’d succeeded. But now, after five weeks of silence, the details had begun to leak out to the general public. Rather to Roscu’s surprise, her name was being batted around nearly as often and as prominently as Ar’alani’s, Ziinda’s, and Thrawn’s.

Which meant that putting Roscu into an honored and powerful post aboard the Venturous wouldn’t just be a show of gratitude. It would also be a deliberate and pointed message that any sanctions Dy’lothe was ordered to enforce weren’t directed at the Clarr family as a whole, but solely at the intractable Patriarch who refused to accept responsibility for his actions.

“That’s all,” Roscu said, standing up. “I understand you’ll be meeting with the Patriels in half an hour. I imagine you’ll want some time to prepare.” She nodded. “Good day, Your Venerante.”

Rhigar Patriel Clarr’etu’vilimt was waiting in the corridor as Roscu left the office and headed toward the homestead defense center. “Well?” he asked, falling into step beside her.

“I don’t know,” Roscu admitted. “He wasn’t happy about me being aboard the Venturous, but I don’t know if that was enough to change his mind about resigning.”

“Let’s hope it was,” Retuvili said grimly. “Turning him over to the Syndicure for interrogation and censure would be a horrible precedent to set. But keeping a possible traitor as the family’s Patriarch would be even worse.” He looked sideways at Roscu. “Are you going to take the Venturous post?”

“Depends on if Patriarch Rivlex decides to see reason,” Roscu said. “I’d rather stay with the family fleet, but our honor and position are more important than my personal wishes.”

“Well, whatever happens, rest assured you’ll always have a place here,” Retuvili said. “Commander of the homestead defense force, captain of the Orisson—whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“I appreciate the offer, and I’ll certainly consider it,” Roscu said. “As regards the Orisson, though, I’d say it already has an excellent commander in Captain Raamas.”

“I agree,” Retuvili said, a small smile playing at his lips. “Though prestige-wise, he’s hardly on a level with The One They Could Not Kill.”

Roscu frowned. “The what?”

“Hadn’t you heard?” Retuvili asked, all innocence behind his smile. “That’s what they’re calling you these days on Rhigar. The One They—”

“Yes, I got it the first time,” Roscu interrupted. “How do they figure that?”

“There was the asteroid missile attack at Ornfra,” Retuvili said, ticking off fingers. “The sneak attack by the Grysk ship later in that same system. Then finally the Sunrise battle. You survived them all.”

“So did Raamas and the rest of the Orisson crew,” Roscu growled. “So why are they hanging the name on me?”

“Because the Clarr family needs heroes right now,” Retuvili said quietly, his smile fading. “For better or worse, you’re the one they’ve latched onto.”

Roscu sighed. “Fine,” she said. “But as soon as Rivlex is gone, the hero thing ends. All right?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Retuvili promised. “But that isn’t exactly how the hero thing works.”

“Then figure out how to make it work that way,” Roscu said firmly. The One They Could Not Kill. It was silly, it was embarrassing, and it was inaccurate.

But she had to admit it did have kind of a nice ring to it.

It was seldom, Ar’alani thought to herself, that she’d seen a single word that could be packed with so much hostility, hopelessness, and sheer injustice. But this one managed all that, and more.

Exile.

She looked up at the two men sitting across from her. Supreme General Ba’kif, seated behind his desk, was wearing his usual neutral face, with nothing there for her to read. Thrawn’s face, as he sat silently at the desk’s other front corner, was mostly unreadable, with a hint of pleading in his eyes.

Pleading for understanding, perhaps? Pleading for sympathy?

He’d better not be pleading for forgiveness, Ar’alani thought darkly. She wasn’t in the mood to forgive someone who hadn’t done anything wrong.

She focused on Ba’kif. “This is wrong, sir,” she said. “Completely and totally wrong. Senior Captain Thrawn deserves a promotion, a new honor chain, and the gratitude of every single one of the Nine and the Forty.”

“So what exactly does that make this sentence of exile?” Ba’kif asked mildly. “What do you see in it?”

“Resentment,” Ar’alani told him. “Embarrassment.” She looked at Thrawn. “Revenge.”

“Good,” Ba’kif said. “Because that’s exactly what the Syndicure intended when they approved it.” He paused. “And that’s exactly what we want them continuing to believe.”

Ar’alani frowned, focusing a little harder on Thrawn. She’d been right the first time: The pleading was indeed for understanding.

But not understanding for his situation. Understanding for something else entirely.

“Well, that clears that up,” she said. “Would you like to scrape a little more dirt off the viewport for me?”

“There was no other way,” Ba’kif said, his voice quiet. “The Syndicure was looking for a scapegoat, someone to blame for what happened at Sunrise.”

“What happened at Sunrise was the salvation of the Ascendancy,” Ar’alani said bluntly. “You know that as well as I do.”

“The temporary salvation, at least,” Ba’kif agreed. “And I know that many in the Syndicure share that view. But agreeing with it and accepting it are two different things. The Ascendancy’s unity had been fractured, with serious tensions lingering within the Nine and the Forty. Blaming everything on Thrawn was the only way to offer closure, and to allow all the aggrieved parties to save face and regain their honor. The only way to put the Ascendancy back together.”

“They should have found another way,” Ar’alani growled. “If they wanted a scapegoat, they could have picked any one of us.”

“They did,” Thrawn said quietly.

Ar’alani frowned at him. “What?”

“He means they did pick,” Ba’kif said. “Only they picked all of you.”

Ar’alani looked back at the supreme general. “I don’t understand.”

Ba’kif sighed. “There was a sizable percentage of the Aristocra who wanted to bring charges against every commander and every senior officer in Thrawn’s core group,” he said. “You, Wutroow, Samakro, Ziinda, Roscu—” He snorted. “There were even some who wanted to charge Thalias and Che’ri. The point is that by putting Thrawn at the focus of their anger and embarrassment, we could persuade them to leave the rest of you alone.”

“Think of it as a game of Tactica,” Thrawn suggested. “Supreme General Ba’kif has sacrificed his nightdragon in order to protect his groundlion and whisperbirds—”

“Wait a minute.” Ar’alani fixed Ba’kif with a hard stare as one more part of this insanity suddenly became clear. “This was your idea?”

“It was,” Ba’kif said, holding her glare calmly. “The Grysk threat isn’t over, Admiral. You know that. We need you and the others—the people who’ve seen Thrawn in action and learned from him—to continue in your positions of authority if the Ascendancy is to be protected.”

“And so you sacrifice him to the Aristocra?” Ar’alani demanded. “You send the Ascendancy’s best protector to uselessly waste the rest of his life on some lost planet?”

“Well … not exactly.” Ba’kif gestured to Thrawn. “Senior Captain? This part was your idea.”

“As I’m sure you know,” Thrawn said, “after the Sunrise confrontation the Council sent the Springhawk to the edge of Lesser Space to see if we could gather any clues as to the Grysks’ location.”

“And to look into those other names you got from General Yiv,” Ba’kif added.