Thrawn (Star Wars) (Star Wars: Thrawn) - Softcover

Timothy Zahn is the author of more than forty novels, nearly ninety short stories and novellas, and four short-fiction collections. In 1984, he won the Hugo Award for Best Novella. Zahn is best known for his Star Wars novels (Heir to the Empire, Dark Force Rising, The Last Command, Specter of the Past, Vision of the Future, Survivor’s Quest, Outbound Flight, Allegiance, Choices of One, and Scoundrels), with more than four million copies of his books in print. Other books include the Cobra series, the Quadrail series, and the young adult Dragonback series. Zahn has a B.S. in physics from Michigan State University and an M.S. from the University of Illinois. He lives with his family on the Oregon coast.

chapter 1

All beings begin their lives with hopes and aspirations. Among these aspirations is the desire that there will be a straight path to those goals.

It is seldom so. Perhaps never.

Sometimes the turns are of one’s own volition, as one’s thoughts and goals change over time. But more often the turns are mandated by outside forces.

It was so with me. The memory is vivid, unsullied by age: the five admirals rising from their chairs as I am escorted into the chamber. The decision of the Ascendancy has been made, and they are here to deliver it.

None of them is happy with the decision. I can read that in their faces. But they are officers and servants of the Chiss, and they will carry out their orders. Protocol alone demands that.

The word is as I expected.

Exile.

The planet has already been chosen. The Aristocra will assemble the equipment necessary to ensure that solitude does not quickly become death from predators or the elements.

I am led away. Once again, my path has turned.

Where it will lead, I cannot say.

...

The hut was small, apparently made from local materials, situated in the center of the forest clearing. Surrounding it were eight tall, rectangular boxes with two distinct sets of markings. “So this,” Captain Voss Parck said, “is what you brought me all the way down from the Strikefast to see?”

“Yes, Captain, I did,” Colonel Mosh Barris said sourly. “Turns out we may have a problem. You see those markings?”

“Of course,” Parck said. “Bogolan script, isn’t it?”

“It’s Bogolan script, but not Bogolanese,” Barris said. “The translator droids can’t make top or bottom of it. And the two power generators behind the hut don’t match any Imperial designs.”

Standing to the side, watching his captain and the Strikefast’s senior troop commander discuss the mysterious settlement they’d found on this unnamed world, Cadet First Class Eli Vanto tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

And wondered what he was doing here.

None of the other ten Myomar Academy cadets had been ordered down with Parck’s shuttle. Eli didn’t have any particular expertise in unknown artifacts or tech. It wasn’t like he needed planetside experience, anyway— ­he was on track to become a supply officer. There was no reason he could think of why he’d been singled out this way.

“Cadet Vanto?” Barris said.

Eli wrenched his mind back from his musings. “Yes, Colonel?”

“The droids said there are half a dozen trade languages out here that use Bogolan script. You’re our expert on obscure local languages.” He gestured to the crates. “So?”

Eli moved closer, wincing a little. So that was why he was here. He’d grown up on the planet Lysatra in this part of Wild Space, pressed up against the so-­called Unknown Regions. His family’s shipping company worked mostly in and around their homeworld, but they did enough business in the Unknown Regions that Eli had picked up proficiency in several of the local trade languages.

But that hardly made him an expert.

“It could be a variant of Sy Bisti, sir,” he said. “Some of the words are familiar, and the syntax is right. But it’s not standard.”

Barris snorted. “Hard to imagine a standard for a language so obscure that even the droids don’t bother with it.”

Eli held his tongue. Sy Bisti was actually a perfectly well-­defined and eminently useful language. It was the people who still used it, and the worlds they lived on, that were obscure.

“You said you can read some of it?” Parck prompted.

“Yes, sir,” Eli said. “It seems to be mostly tracking information and the name of the company that supplied the contents. Also a short bit proclaiming the grandeur and honor of that company.”

“What, they engrave promotionals right on their shipping crates?” Barris asked.

“Yes, sir. A lot of small business out here do that.”

“You don’t recognize the business name, I assume?” Parck asked.

“No, sir. I believe it’s Red Bype or Redder Bype. Possibly the owner’s name.”

Parck nodded. “We can see if there’s anything in our records. What about the second script?”

“Sorry, sir,” Eli said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Terrific,” Barris muttered. “So whether it’s a smuggler base or the survival camp from a shipwreck, it still comes under UA protocols.”

Eli winced. The Unknown Alien protocols were a relic from the glory days of the Republic, when a new species was being discovered every other week and the Senate wanted every one of them contacted and studied. The modern Imperial Navy had no business handling such chores, and even less interest in doing so, and the High Command had repeatedly said so.

Rumor at the Academy was that Emperor Palpatine was working to revoke the protocols. But for the moment they were still standard orders, and far too many of the senators supported them.

Which was going to put a crimp in the Strikefast’s schedule. The ship’s officers and crew weren’t exactly thrilled at having a bunch of cadets underfoot anyway, and Eli could tell they were looking forward to dumping them back on Myomar. This was going to delay that happy send-­off for at least a couple of extra days.

“Agreed,” Parck said. “Very well. Have your troops make themselves comfortable while I have a tech analysis team sent down. Keep an eye out in case your smuggler or castaway comes back.”

“Yes, sir.” Barris’s comlink signaled, and the colonel pulled it out. “Barris.”

“This is Major Wyan at the crash site, Colonel,” a taut voice came. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you’d better come see this.”

Eli frowned. He hadn’t heard anything about a crash. “There was a crash, sir?” he asked.

“One of the V-wing starfighters went down,” Parck said, nodding across the clearing where distant lights could be seen flickering through the tendrils of evening mist wafting through the trees.

Eli nodded silently. He’d noticed the lights earlier, but had assumed they were just more of Barris’s survey team.

“I’ll be right there,” Barris said. “With your permission, Captain?”

“Go ahead,” Parck said. “I’ll stay here with Cadet Vanto and see what else he can tell us about the writing on these crates.”

Eli had gone through nearly all of it when Barris and a black-­uniformed, black-helmeted navy trooper returned carrying a V-wing pilot’s flight suit.

A flight suit stuffed with grass, leaves, and strange-­smelling red berries.

“What is this?” Parck demanded.

“This is what we found near the crash site,” Barris said grimly as they set the suit on the ground in front of the captain. “The body’s gone. Nothing left but this—­this—­” He waved a hand.

“Scarecrow,” Eli murmured.

Parck sent him a sharp look. “Is this something you people do out here?”

“Some farmers still use scarecrows to keep birds out of their crops,” Eli said, his face warming. You people. Parck was letting his Core World prejudices peek out. “They’re also used in festivals and parades.”

Parck looked back at Barris. “Have you looked for the pilot?”

“Not yet, sir,” Barris said. “I’ve ordered a troop perim­eter set up around the settlement, and I’m having another platoon of troopers sent down.”

“Good,” Parck said. “Once they’re here, expand your search and find the body.”

“Yes, sir,” Barris said. “We might want to wait until morning, though.”

“Your soldiers afraid of the dark?”

“No, sir,” Barris said stiffly. “It’s just that we also found the V-wing’s survival pack. The blaster, spare power packs, and concussion grenades are missing.”

Parck’s lip twitched. “Primitives with weapons. Wonderful. Very well. Search until dark, then resume in the morning.”

“We can keep the search going all night if you’d like.”

Parck shook his head. “Hard enough to navigate unfamiliar terrain in the dark. I’ve seen too many night patrols get disoriented and start jumping or shooting at one another, and the mist you’ve got rolling in will just make it worse. We’ll keep aerial surveillance going, but your troopers would do better to stay in camp until daybreak.”

“Yes, sir,” Barris said. “Maybe whoever took the grenades will be considerate enough to blow themselves to pieces before they get to us.”

“Perhaps.” Parck looked up at the darkening sky. “I’ll head back to the ship and arrange for a wider starfighter cover pattern.” He lowered his gaze to Eli. “Cadet, you’ll stay here with Colonel Barris’s team. Study the settlement, and see if there are any more inscriptions. The sooner we learn everything we can, the sooner we can leave.”

It was nearly full dark by the time Barris’s men finished creating their perimeter. The tech team had set up an examination table protected by a transparent weather canopy where they could study the grass and leaves they’d taken from the flight suit. They’d started their work when Major Wyan and his search party returned empty-­handed from the forest.

So they hadn’t found the V-wing pilot’s body. Still, there were no indications of wounded or dead among his team, either. With grenades and a blaster in the hands of primitives or a castaway of unknown species, Eli was privately willing to call it a draw.

“So that’s what was in the flight suit?” Wyan asked, walking over to where Barris was watching as the two techs spread out the scarecrow’s stuffing.

“Yes,” Barris said. The breeze momentarily shifted direction, and Eli caught a whiff of an odd aroma he’d smelled earlier. Probably from some of the berries the techs had crushed for analysis. “So far it seems to be just local flora. Maybe the whole thing was some kind of religious ritual—­”

And without warning there came the flash and thunder crack of an explosion from behind them.

“Cover!” Barris shouted, spinning around and dropping to one knee as he hauled out his blaster. Eli hit the ground behind one of the big crates, then peeked cautiously around its side. Halfway to the edge of the clearing, a patch of grass was smoldering with the afterburn of the explosion; beyond it, navy troopers were running toward the closest part of the sentry line, blasters drawn and ready. Someone flicked on a searchlight, the brilliant glow sweeping across the forest and lighting up the mist flowing between the trees. Eli followed the spot of light with his eyes, searching for a glimpse of the enemy who was attacking them—­

And instead watched as Barris was slammed flat on his face by a second explosion.

“Colonel!” Wyan shouted.

“I’m all right,” Barris shouted back. Behind him, the collection of grasses and leaves on the examination table was burning brilliantly, the table itself canted half over by the blast. On the table’s far side, the two techs were shakily getting back up onto hands and knees. Swearing under his breath, Eli stayed flat on the ground, bracing himself for the inevitable third explosion.

The inevitable failed to happen. One by one, he heard the perimeter troops check in with Barris, confirming the defenses were secure. Wyan conducted a search of the first twenty meters of forest outside the clearing and reported that the unknown attackers had fled.

Though considering that no one had apparently seen anything in the first place, the fact they didn’t now didn’t strike Eli as being very comforting.

The explosions themselves were equally mysterious.

“They definitely weren’t concussion grenades,” Wyan said. “Not nearly powerful enough. Our best guess is that they were blaster power packs with the sturm ­dowels pulled out.”

“That doesn’t sound like something ‘savages’ would be able to figure out,” Eli said, frowning.

“Very well deduced, Cadet,” Wyan said sarcastically. “Colonel Barris thinks our castaway has come back.” He gestured to the hut. “I didn’t call you over here to get your opinion on our tactical situation. I called you to see if you’d found anything in the hut or storage crates that would give us a hint as to his appearance or tech level.”

“Not really, sir,” Eli said. “From the shape of the bed and design of the eating utensils, he’s probably humanoid. But there’s really nothing more.”

“What about the power generators? He has to have some tech skill to work those, doesn’t he?”

“Not necessarily,” Eli said. “They’re mostly automated.”

Wyan scowled into the night. “So why the attack?” he muttered under his breath. “And why such a puny one? If he’s smart enough to figure out sturm dowels, he’s smart enough to pop a grenade.”

“Maybe he’s trying to scare us away without wrecking his home,” Eli offered.

Wyan gave him a sharp look, perhaps preparing to repeat his warning not to offer military advice. But he didn’t. Perhaps he was remembering that Eli had experience in this unimportant part of the galaxy. “And how did he get into the camp?”

There was a small scratching sound near Eli’s feet. He started; but it was only some small ground creature scurrying through the grass. “Maybe he lobbed the blaster packs in with a catapult or something.”

Wyan raised his eyebrows. “Through the weather canopy?”

Eli winced as he looked over at the still-­smoldering mass of burned grass. No, of course not—­a lobbed-­in explosive would have bounced off the canopy and never made it to the table. Stupid of him. “I guess not, sir.”

“You guess not, sir,” Wyan echoed sarcastically. “Thank you, Cadet. Get back to your work, and this time find us something useful.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Major?” Barris called, striding across the clearing.

“Sir?” Wyan said, turning to face him.

“Captain’s sending some V-wings for a grid search,” the colonel told him. “In the meantime, take a squad and set up some floodlights at the perimeter—­I want the forest rim lit up like the inside of a spark module. Then fine-­mesh the hemisphere sensor screen. I don’t want any more explosives getting through without us at least knowing they’re coming.”

Wyan’s reply was lost in the sudden roar as a pair of V-wings shot past at treetop level. “What?” Barris asked.

“I was reminding the colonel that there are a lot of birds flying around,” Wyan repeated. “Small ground animals, too—­I nearly twisted my ankle stepping on one a minute ago. If we fine-­mesh the screen too far, we’ll have alarms triggering all night.”

“Fine—­forget the fine-­meshing,” Barris said. “Just get those lights—­”

And suddenly, directly ahead, the nearest trees were silhouetted by a fireball erupting somewhere in the distance. “What the—­?” Wyan barked.

“V-wing crash!” Barris snapped, keying his comlink. “Rescue team to the transport. Now!”

At least this time the pilot’s body hadn’t been taken. Unfortunately, his blaster, power packs, and concussion grenades had.

And the rumors and speculations were flying.

Eli was out of most of the quiet discussions, working as he was in the castaway’s hut. But every now and then, one of the techs would come in to collect something else to analyze. They were usually eager to talk, to lay out their own thoughts and pretend they didn’t have any fears.

But they did.

So did Eli. The floodlights blazing away at the edge of the forest had succeeded in warding off further attacks, but the masses of insects and night birds the glow attracted were almost as unnerving. The V-wings flying overhead gave an illusion of safety and protection, but Eli tensed every time one went past, wondering if this would be the next one to be knocked out of the sky.

And on top of it all was the why.

Why was this happening? Was someone trying to scare the Imperials away? Or was the attacker trying to pin the...