Star Wars - [Thrawn Trilogy 01] - Heir to the Empire (by Timothy Zahn)

Timothy Zahn

Heir to the Empire

Book 1 of the "Thrawn" trilogy

Chapter 1

"Captain Pellaeon?" a voice called down the portside crew pit through the hum of background

conversation. "Message from the sentry line: the scoutships have just come out of lightspeed."

Pellaeon, leaning over the shoulder of the man at theChimaera 's bridge engineering monitor, ignored the

shout. "Trace this line for me," he ordered, tapping a light pen at the schematic on the display.

The engineer threw a questioning glance up at him. "Sir...?"

"I heard him," Pellaeon said. "You have an order, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir," the other said carefully, and keyed for the trace.

"Captain Pellaeon?" the voice repeated, closer this time. Keeping his eyes on the engineering display,

Pellaeon waited until he could hear the sound of the approaching footsteps. Then, with all the regal weight

that fifty years spent in the Imperial Fleet gave to a man, he straightened up and turned.

The young duty officer's brisk walk faltered; came to an abrupt halt. "Uh, sir—" He looked into

Pellaeon's eyes and his voice faded away.

Pellaeon let the silence hang in the air for a handful of heartbeats, long enough for those nearest to notice.

"This is not a cattle market in Shaum Hii, Lieutenant Tschel," he said at last, keeping his voice calm but

icy cold. "This is the bridge of an Imperial Star Destroyer. Routine information is not—repeat,not

—simply shouted in the general direction of its intended recipient. Is that clear?"

Tschel swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Pellaeon held his eyes a few seconds longer, then lowered his head in a slight nod. "Now. Report."

"Yes, sir." Tschel swallowed again. "We've just received word from the sentry ships, sir: the scouts have

returned from their scan raid on the Obroa-skai system."

"Very good," Pellaeon nodded. "Did they have any trouble?"

"Only a little, sir—the natives apparently took exception to them pulling a dump of their central library

system. The wing commander said there was some attempt at pursuit, but that he lost them."

"I hope so," Pellaeon said grimly. Obroa-skai held a strategic position in the borderland regions, and

intelligence reports indicated that theNewRepublic was making a strong bid for its membership and

support. If they'd had armed emissary ships there at the time of the raid....

Well, he'd know soon enough. "Have the wing commander report to the bridge ready room with his

report as soon as the ships are aboard," he told Tschel. "And have the sentry line go to yellow alert.

Dismissed."

"Yes, sir." Spinning around with a reasonably good imitation of a proper military turn, the lieutenant

headed back toward the communications console.

Theyoung lieutenant... which was, Pellaeon thought with a trace of old bitterness, where the problem

really lay. In the old days—at the height of the Empire's power—it would have been inconceivable for a

man as young as Tschel to serve as a bridge officer aboard a ship like theChimaera . Now—

He looked down at the equally young man at the engineering monitor. Now, in contrast, theChimaera

had virtually no one aboard except young men and women.

Slowly, Pellaeon let his eyes sweep across the bridge, feeling the echoes of old anger and hatred twist

through his stomach. There had been many commanders in the Fleet, he knew, who had seen the

Emperor's original Death Star as a blatant attempt to bring the Empire's vast military power more tightly

under his direct control, just as he'd already done with the Empire's political power. The fact that he'd

ignored the battle station's proven vulnerability and gone ahead with a second Death Star had merely

reinforced that suspicion. There would have been few in the Fleet's upper echelons who would have

genuinely mourned its loss... if it hadn't, in its death throes, taken the Super Star DestroyerExecutor with

it.

Even after five years Pellaeon couldn't help but wince at the memory of that image: theExecutor , out of

control, colliding with the unfinished Death Star and then disintegrating completely in the battle station's

massive explosion. The loss of the ship itself had been bad enough; but the fact that it was theExecutor

had made it far worse. That particular Super Star Destroyer had been Darth Vader's personal ship, and

despite the Dark Lord's legendary—and often lethal—capriciousness, serving aboard it had long been

perceived as the quick line to promotion.

Which meant that when theExecutor died, so also did a disproportionate fraction of the best young and

midlevel officers and crewers.

The Fleet had never recovered from that fiasco. With theExecutor 's leadership gone, the battle had

quickly turned into a confused rout, with several other Star Destroyers being lost before the order to

withdraw had finally been given. Pellaeon himself, taking command when theChimera 's former captain

was killed, had done what he could to hold things together; but despite his best efforts, they had never

regained the initiative against the Rebels. Instead, they had been steadily pushed back... until they were

here.

Here, in what had once been the backwater of the Empire, with barely a quarter of its former systems

still under nominal Imperial control. Here, aboard a Star Destroyer manned almost entirely by

painstakingly trained but badly inexperienced young people, many of them conscripted from their home

worlds by force or threat of force.

Here, under the command of possibly the greatest military mind the Empire had ever seen.

Pellaeon smiled—a tight, wolfish smile—as he again looked around his bridge. No, the end of the

Empire was not yet. As the arrogantly self-proclaimedNewRepublic would soon discover. He glanced at

his watch. Two-fifteen. Grand Admiral Thrawn would be meditating in his command room now... and if

Imperial procedure frowned on shouting across the bridge, it frowned even harder on interrupting a

Grand Admiral's meditation by intercom. One spoke to him in person, or one did not speak to him at all.

"Continue tracing those lines," Pellaeon ordered the engineering lieutenant as he headed for the door. "I'll

be back shortly."

The Grand Admiral's new command room was two levels below the bridge, in a space that had once

housed the former commander's luxury entertainment suite. When Pellaeon had found Thrawn—or

rather, when the Grand Admiral had found him—one of his first acts had been to take over the suite and

convert it into what was essentially a secondary bridge.

A secondary bridge, meditation room... and perhaps more. It was no secret aboard theChimaera that

since the recent refitting had been completed the Grand Admiral had been spending a great deal of his

time here. Whatwas secret was what exactly he did during those long hours.

Stepping to the door, Pellaeon straightened his tunic and braced himself. Perhaps he was about to find

out. "Captain Pellaeon to see Grand Admiral Thrawn," he announced. "I have informa—"

The door slid open before he'd finished speaking. Mentally preparing himself, Pellaeon stepped into the

dimly lit entry room. He glanced around, saw nothing of interest, and started for the door to the main

chamber, five paces ahead.

A touch of air on the back of his neck was his only warning. "Captain Pellaeon," a deep, gravelly, catlike

voice mewed into his ear.

Pellaeon jumped and spun around, cursing both himself and the short, wiry creature standing less than

half a meter away. "Blast it, Rukh," he snarled. "What do you think you're doing?"

For a long moment Rukh just looked up at him, and Pellaeon felt a drop of sweat trickle down his back.

With his large dark eyes, protruding jaw, and glistening needle teeth, Rukh was even more of a nightmare

in the dimness than he was in normal lighting.

Especially to someone like Pellaeon, who knew what Thrawn used Rukh and his fellow Noghri for.

"I'm doing my job," Rukh said at last. He stretched his thin arm almost casually out toward the inner

door, and Pellaeon caught just a glimpse of the slender assassin's knife before it vanished somehow into

the Noghri's sleeve. His hand closed, then opened again, steel-wire muscles moving visibly beneath his

dark gray skin. "You may enter."

"Thankyou," Pellaeon growled. Straightening his tunic again, he turned back to the door. It opened at his

approach, and he stepped through—

Into a softly lit art museum.

He stopped short, just inside the room, and looked around in astonishment. The walls and domed ceiling

were covered with flat paintings and planics, a few of them vaguely human-looking but most of distinctly

alien origin. Various sculptures were scattered around, some freestanding, others on pedestals. In the

center of the room was a double circle of repeater displays, the outer ring slightly higher than the inner

ring. Both sets of displays, at least from what little Pellaeon could see, also seemed to be devoted to

pictures of artwork.

And in the center of the double circle, seated in a duplicate of the Admiral's Chair on the bridge, was

Grand Admiral Thrawn.

He sat motionlessly, his shimmery blue-black hair glinting in the dim light, his pale blue skin looking cool

and subdued and very alien on his otherwise human frame. His eyes were nearly closed as he leaned

back against the headrest, only a glint of red showing between the lids.

Pellaeon licked his lips, suddenly unsure of the wisdom of having invaded Thrawn's sanctum like this. If

the Grand Admiral decided to be annoyed....

"Come in, Captain," Thrawn said, his quietly modulated voice cutting through Pellaeon's thoughts. Eyes

still closed to slits, he waved a hand in a small and precisely measured motion. "What do you think?"

"It's... very interesting, sir," was all Pellaeon could come up with as he walked over to the outer display

circle.

"All holographic, of course," Thrawn said, and Pellaeon thought he could hear a note of regret in the

other's voice. "The sculptures and flats both. Some of them are lost; many of the others are on planets

now occupied by the Rebellion."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon nodded. "I thought you'd want to know, Admiral, that the scouts have returned from

the Obroa-skai system. The wing commander will be ready for debriefing in a few minutes."

Thrawn nodded. "Were they able to tap into the central library system?"

"They got at least a partial dump," Pellaeon told him. "I don't know yet if they were able to complete

it—apparently, there was some attempt at pursuit. The wing commander thinks he lost them, though."

For a moment Thrawn was silent. "No," he said. "No, I don't believe he has. Particularly not if the

pursuers were from the Rebellion." Taking a deep breath, he straightened in his chair and, for the first

time since Pellaeon had entered, opened his glowing red eyes.

Pellaeon returned the other's gaze without flinching, feeling a small flicker of pride at the achievement.

Many of the Emperor's top commanders and courtiers had never learned to feel comfortable with those

eyes. Or with Thrawn himself, for that matter. Which was probably why the Grand Admiral had spent so

much of his career out in the Unknown Regions, working to bring those still-barbaric sections of the

galaxy under Imperial control. His brilliant successes had won him the title of Warlord and the right to

wear the white uniform of Grand Admiral—the only nonhuman ever granted that honor by the Emperor.

Ironically, it had also made him all the more indispensable to the frontier campaigns. Pellaeon had often

wondered how the Battle of Endor would have ended if Thrawn, not Vader, had been commanding the

Executor . "Yes, sir," he said. "I've ordered the sentry line onto yellow alert. Shall we go to red?"

"Not yet," Thrawn said. "We should still have a few minutes. Tell me, Captain, do you know anything

about art?"

"Ah... not very much," Pellaeon managed, thrown a little by the sudden change of subject. "I've never

really had much time to devote to it."

"You should make the time." Thrawn gestured to a part of the inner display circle to his right. "Saffa

paintings," he identified them. "Circa 1550 to 2200, Pre-Empire Date. Note how the style changes—right

here—at the first contact with the Thennqora. Over there—" he pointed to the left-hand wall "—are

examples of Paonidd extrassa art. Note the similarities with the early Saffa work, and also the

mid-eighteenth-century Pre-Em Vaathkree flatsculp."

"Yes, I see," Pellaeon said, not entirely truthfully. "Admiral, shouldn't we be—?"

He broke off as a shrill whistle split the air. "Bridge to Grand Admiral Thrawn," Lieutenant Tschel's taut

voice called over the intercom. "Sir, we're under attack!"

Thrawn tapped the intercom switch. "This is Thrawn," he said evenly. "Go to red alert, and tell me what

we've got. Calmly, if possible."

"Yes, sir." The muted alert lights began flashing, and Pellaeon could hear the sound of the klaxons baying

faintly outside the room. "Sensors are picking up four New Republic Assault Frigates," Tschel continued,

his voice tense but under noticeably better control. "Plus at least three wings of X-wing fighters.

Symmetric cloud-vee formation, coming in on our scoutships' vector."

Pellaeon swore under his breath. A single Star Destroyer, with a largely inexperienced crew, against four

Assault Frigates and their accompanying fighters... "Run engines to full power," he called toward the

intercom. "Prepare to make the jump to lightspeed." He took a step toward the door—

"Belay that jump order, Lieutenant," Thrawn said, still glacially calm. "TIE fighter crews to their stations;

activate deflector shields."

Pellaeon spun back to him. "Admiral—"

Thrawn cut him off with an upraised hand. "Come here, Captain," the Grand Admiral ordered. "Let's

take a look, shall we?"

He touched a switch; and abruptly, the art show was gone. Instead, the room had become a miniature

bridge monitor, with helm, engine, and weapons readouts on the walls and double display circle. The

open space had become a holographic tactical display; in one corner a flashing sphere indicated the

invaders. The wall display nearest to it gave an ETA estimate of twelve minutes.

"Fortunately, the scoutships have enough of a lead not to be in danger themselves," Thrawn commented.

"So. Let's see what exactly we're dealing with. Bridge: order the three nearest sentry ships to attack."

"Yes, sir."

Across the room, three blue dots shifted out of the sentry line onto intercept vectors. From the corner of

his eye Pellaeon saw Thrawn lean forward in his seat as the Assault Frigates and accompanying X-wings

shifted in response. One of the blue dots winked out—

"Excellent," Thrawn said, leaning back in his seat. "That will do, Lieutenant. Pull the other two sentry

ships back, and order the Sector Four line to scramble out of the invaders' vector."

"Yes, sir," Tschel said, sounding more than a little confused.

A confusion Pellaeon could well understand. "Shouldn't we at least signal the rest of the Fleet?" he

suggested, hearing the tightness in his voice. "TheDeath's Head could be here in twenty minutes, most of

the others in less than an hour."

"The last thing we want to do right now is bring in more of our ships, Captain," Thrawn said. He looked

up at Pellaeon, and a faint smile touched his lips. "After all, theremay be survivors, and we wouldn't want

the Rebellion learning about us. Would we."

He turned back to his displays. "Bridge: I want a twenty-degree port yaw rotation—bring us flat to the

invaders' vector, superstructure pointing at them. As soon as they're within the outer perimeter, the

Sector Four sentry line is to re-form behind them and jam all transmissions."

"Y-yes, sir. Sir—?"

"You don't have to understand, Lieutenant," Thrawn said, his voice abruptly cold. "Just obey."

"Yes, sir."

Pellaeon took a careful breath as the displays showed theChimaera rotating as per orders. "I'm afraid I

don't understand, either, Admiral," he said. "Turning our superstructure toward them—"

Again, Thrawn stopped him with an upraised hand. "Watch and learn, Captain. That's fine, bridge: stop

rotation and hold position here. Drop docking bay deflector shields, boost power to all others. TIE

fighter squadrons: launch when ready. Head directly away from theChimaera for two kilometers, then

sweep around in open cluster formation. Backfire speed, zonal attack pattern."

He got an acknowledgment, then looked up at Pellaeon. "Do you understand now, Captain?"

Pellaeon pursed his lips. "I'm afraid not," he admitted. "I see now that the reason you turned the ship was

to give the fighters some exit cover, but the rest is nothing but a classic Marg Sabl closure maneuver.

They're not going to fall for anything that simple."

"On the contrary," Thrawn corrected coolly. "Not only will they fall for it, they'll be utterly destroyed by

it. Watch, Captain. And learn."

The TIE fighters launched, accelerating away from theChimaera and then leaning hard into etheric

rudders to sweep back around it like the spray of some exotic fountain. The invading ships spotted the

attackers and shifted vectors—

Pellaeon blinked. "What in the Empire are theydoing ?"

"They're trying the only defense they know of against a Marg Sabl," Thrawn said, and there was no

mistaking the satisfaction in his voice. "Or, to be more precise, the only defense they are psychologically

capable of attempting." He nodded toward the flashing sphere. "You see, Captain, there's an Elom

commanding that force... and Elomin simply cannot handle the unstructured attack profile of a properly

executed Marg Sabl."

Pellaeon stared at the invaders, still shifting into their utterly useless defense stance... and slowly it

dawned on him what Thrawn had just done. "That sentry ship attack a few minutes ago," he said. "You

were able to tell fromthat that those were Elomin ships?"

"Learn about art, Captain," Thrawn said, his voice almost dreamy. "When you understand a species' art,

you understand that species."

He straightened in his chair. "Bridge: bring us to flank speed. Prepare to join the attack."

An hour later, it was all over.

The ready room door slid shut behind the wing commander, and Pellaeon gazed back at the map still on

the display. "Sounds like Obroa-skai is a dead end," he said regretfully. "There's no way we'll be able to

spare the manpower that much pacification would cost."

"For now, perhaps," Thrawn agreed. "But only for now."

Pellaeon frowned across the table at him. Thrawn was fiddling with a data card, rubbing it absently

between finger and thumb, as he stared out the view port at the stars. A strange smile played about his

lips. "Admiral?" he asked carefully.

Thrawn turned his head, those glowing eyes coming to rest on Pellaeon. "It's the second piece of the

puzzle, Captain," he said softly, holding up the data card. "The piece I've been searching for now for over

a year."

Abruptly, he turned to the intercom, jabbed it on. "Bridge, this is Grand Admiral Thrawn. Signal the

Death's Head; inform Captain Harbid we'll be temporarily leaving the Fleet. He's to continue making

tactical surveys of the local systems and pulling data dumps wherever possible. Then set course for a

planet called Myrkr—the nav computer has its location."

The bridge acknowledged, and Thrawn turned back to Pellaeon. "You seem lost, Captain," he

suggested. "I take it you've never heard of Myrkr."

Pellaeon shook his head, trying without success to read the Grand Admiral's expression. "Should I

have?"

"Probably not. Most of those who have been smugglers, malcontents, and otherwise useless dregs of the

galaxy."

He paused, taking a measured sip from the mug at his elbow—a strong Forvish ale, from the smell of

it—and Pellaeon forced himself to remain silent. Whatever the Grand Admiral was going to tell him, he

was obviously going to tell it in his own way and time. "I ran across an offhand reference to it some seven

years ago," Thrawn continued, setting his mug back down. "What caught my attention was the fact that,

although the planet had been populated for at least three hundred years, both theOldRepublic and the

Jedi of that time had always left it strictly alone." He cocked one blue-black eyebrow slightly. "What

would you infer from that, Captain?"

Pellaeon shrugged. "That it's a frontier planet, somewhere too far away for anyone to care about."

"Very good, Captain. That was my first assumption, too... except that it's not. Myrkr is, in fact, no more

than a hundred fifty light-years from here—close to our border with the Rebellion and well within

theOldRepublic 's boundaries." Thrawn dropped his eyes to the data card still in his hand. "No, the actual

explanation is far more interesting. And far more useful."

Pellaeon looked at the data card, too. "And that explanation became the first piece of this puzzle of

yours?"

Thrawn smiled at him. "Again, Captain, very good. Yes. Myrkr—or more precisely, one of its

indigenous animals—was the first piece. The second is on a world called Wayland." He waved the data

card. "A world for which, thanks to the Obroans, I finally have a location."

"I congratulate you," Pellaeon said, suddenly tired of this game "May I ask just what exactly this puzzle

is?"

Thrawn smiled—a smile that sent a shiver up Pellaeon's back. "Why the only puzzle worth solving, of

course," the Grand Admiral said softly. "The complete, total, and utter destruction of the Rebellion."

Chapter 2

"Luke?"

The voice came softly but insistently. Pausing amid the familiar landscape of Tatooine—familiar, yet

oddly distorted—Luke Skywalker turned to look.

An equally familiar figure stood there watching him. "Hello, Ben," Luke said, his voice sounding sluggish

in his ears. "Been a long time."

"It has indeed," Obi-wan Kenobi said gravely. "And I'm afraid that it will be longer still until the next

time. I've come to say good-bye, Luke."

The landscape seemed to tremble; and abruptly, a small part of Luke's mind remembered that he was

asleep. Asleep in his suite in theImperialPalace , and dreaming of Ben Kenobi.

"No, I'm not a dream," Ben assured him, answering Luke's unspoken thought. "But the distances

separating us have become too great for me to appear to you in any other way. Now, even this last path

is being closed to me."

"No," Luke heard himself say. "You can't leave us, Ben. We need you."

Ben's eyebrows lifted slightly, and a hint of his old smile touched his lips. "You don't need me, Luke.

You are a Jedi, strong in the Force." The smile faded, and for a moment his eyes seemed to focus on

something Luke couldn't see. "At any rate," he added quietly, "the decision is not mine to make. I have

lingered too long already, and can no longer postpone my journey from this life to what lies beyond."

A memory stirred: Yoda on his deathbed, and Luke pleading with him not to die.Strong am I in the

Force, the Jedi Master had told him softly.But not that strong.

"It is the pattern of all life to move on," Ben reminded him. "You, too, will face this same journey one

day." Again, his attention drifted away, then returned. "You are strong in the Force, Luke, and with

perseverance and discipline you will grow stronger still." His gaze hardened. "But you must never relax

your guard. The Emperor is gone, but the dark side is still powerful. Never forget that."

"I won't," Luke promised.

Ben's face softened, and again he smiled. "You will yet face great dangers, Luke," he said. "But you will

also find new allies, at times and places where you expect them least."

"New allies?" Luke echoed. "Who are they?"

The vision seemed to waver and become fainter. "And now, farewell," Ben said, as if he hadn't heard the

question. "I loved you as a son, and as a student, and as a friend. Until we meet again, may the Force be

with you."

"Ben—!"

But Ben turned, and the image faded... and in the dream, Luke knew he was gone.Then I am alone, he

told himself.I am the last of the Jedi.

He seemed to hear Ben's voice, faint and indistinct, as if from a great distance. "Not the last of the old

Jedi, Luke. The first of the new."

The voice trailed off into silence, and was gone... and Luke woke up.

For a moment he just lay there, staring at the dim lights of theImperialCity playing across the ceiling

above his bed and struggling through the sleep-induced disorientation. The disorientation, and an

immense weight of sadness that seemed to fill the core of his being. First Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had

been murdered; then Darth Vader, his real father, had sacrificed his own life for Luke's; and now even

Ben Kenobi's spirit had been taken away.

For the third time, he'd been orphaned.

With a sigh, he slid out from under the blankets and pulled on his robe and slippers. His suite contained a

small kitchenette, and it took only a few minutes to fix himself a drink, a particularly exotic concoction

Lando had introduced him to on his last visit to Coruscant. Then, attaching his lightsaber to his robe sash,

he headed up to the roof.

He had argued strongly against moving the center of theNewRepublic here to Coruscant; had argued

even more strongly against setting up their fledgling government in the oldImperialPalace . The symbolism

was all wrong, for one thing, particularly for a group which—in his opinion—already had a tendency to

pay too much attention to symbols.

But despite all its drawbacks, he had to admit that the view from the top of the Palace was spectacular.

For a few minutes he stood at the roof's edge, leaning against the chest-high wrought stone railing and

letting the cool night breeze ruffle his hair. Even in the middle of the night theImperialCity was a bustle of

activity, with the lights of vehicles and streets intertwining to form a sort of flowing work of art.

Overhead, lit by both the city lights and those of occasional airspeeders flitting through them, the

low-lying clouds were a dim sculptured ceiling stretching in all directions, with the same apparent

endlessness as the city itself. Far to the south, he could just make out theManaraiMountains , their

snow-covered peaks illuminated, like the clouds, largely by reflected light from the city.

He was gazing at the mountains when, twenty meters behind him, the door into the Palace was quietly

opened.

Automatically, his hand moved toward his lightsaber; but the motion had barely begun before it stopped.

The sense of the creature coming through the doorway... "I'm over here, Threepio," he called.

He turned to see C-3PO shuffling his way across the roof toward him, radiating the droid's usual mixture

of relief and concern. "Hello, Master Luke," he said, tilting his head to look at the cup in Luke's hand.

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you."

"That's all right," Luke told him. "I just wanted some fresh air, that's all."

"Are you certain?" Threepio asked. "Though of course I don't mean to pry."

Star Wars - [Thrawn Trilogy 01] - Heir to the Empire (by Timothy Zahn)

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