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Lieutenant Commander Eli Vanto, Special Operations Adjutant to Commodore Thrawn, recently promoted to command of the ISD Admonitor, swung down the personnel ramp and handed his commanding officer the medikit, along with an alert and curious look appropriate to their relative positions in the chain of command. Thrawn wasn't fooled, of course; but then, Thrawn never was.
They had started out last week from Imperial Centre, where they'd been summoned for a routine strategy session, so it was only half the galaxy they'd crossed to reach this unnamed and uncharted mudball. Admittedly, it had been the wrong half of the galaxy: the Admonitor was out on the other side of the Outer Rim, on the verge of being pushed into the Unknown Regions outright.
Working with Thrawn required a certain amount of flexibility, but Eli was feeling unusually in the dark on this one. They'd been on their way back to the Admonitor when Thrawn showed up in the cockpit during the middle of Eli's night watch with an unfamiliar receiver and insisted they change course to answer some kind of distress call, although Eli hadn't been picking up anything on the shuttle's instruments.
Most officers of Thrawn's rank travelled on a cruiser, or at least with some shuttle crew; but Thrawn didn't like a lot of people cluttering up his headspace. They'd done this before, trading off watches on the long hyperspace legs out of civilised regions. Usually, it was quiet, and Eli had a chance to catch up on his reports and trashy holodramas.
No trashy holodramas this time. Thrawn was as intent as Eli had ever seen him, unusually withdrawn and terse all the way out here, to the wagyx-end of the Sluis sector.
Things still hadn't reached the point where Thrawn finally condescended to illuminate him as to what in space was actually going on. Official intelligence reports had offered only vague hints of a disturbance, nothing that had so far touched either the shipyards or communications relay; but Empire or Republic, the Outer Rim usually ended up looking after itself.
Between the swamp and the jungle, they'd had to land almost on top of the other ship, a civilian merchanter. Although it looked mostly intact, they'd found only one lone survivor and the remains of a large funereal bonfire on the scene.
The survivor appeared to be a human or near-human male of middle years, with dark hair and light brown skin but not the ubiquitous clone face. He was dressed in the remnants of civilian spacer gear; the rest of him didn't look much better.
Taking the medikit, Thrawn went over to the man—merchant? smuggler? undercover ISB agent?—where he was sitting on an upthrust tree root with his head down and said something Eli didn't catch. After a halting moment, the survivor responded. They spoke for a while in a language that was not Sy Bisti.
Properly speaking, the grunt work of patching up a random disaster victim would fall to the less senior member of the party, but Eli was smart enough to see that something more was going on here. Oh, well. More time to elaborate his array of increasingly improbable espionage scenarios; he'd worked up quite a collection of them, on their way out here. Not that you could ever be entirely certain with Thrawn. Eli wasn't sure what else it could be, really, unless this was his art dealer.
If this turned out to be all for some piece of artwork, Eli thought he might hang it all up and go live with the swamp-leapers. Surely, even Thrawn wouldn't—but what else was he so personally invested in, that he didn't wan't to requisition Imperial resources to retrieve? Resources other than Eli, naturally.
What had happened to everyone else on that ship, for that matter? No signs of civilisation meant the unnamed vessel had likely brought its trouble with it. Until some internal conflict caused them to land here? They could have been meeting somebody: an uncharted, unpopulated planet on the Outer Rim—there were worse places for a smugglers' waypoint.
Eli stood a cautious but discreet watch as Thrawn began tending to their mystery man. He looked too spooked to be responsible for whatever had happened, although that shell-shocked expression could also indicate violent psychotic attacks. Explaining why, if there had been a second ship, they'd left him marooned here.
Except Thrawn clearly didn't think he was a danger. A victim, then, but one with the spine to fight back? Or just the sense to wait until everyone else had killed each other off? Still implying two sides.
For that matter, there was nothing to say that their mystery man was the only survivor; wasn't that a wonderful thought? Eli comforted himself with the reflexion that they hadn't picked up more than the minimal energy signature from the ship on scanners. If anyone was out there, they didn't have heavy blasters or mechanical transport.
"Did he give you an idea of the situation, sir?" Eli ventured to ask when Thrawn came back over.
"There are no other survivors on the planet. I do not anticipate that anyone else will come to investigate. This system doesn't appear to be in use by the local sub-economy."
"That's good to hear, sir." Eli glanced over at the survivor. He was sitting slumped in exhaustion, with a clean bacta cast on his arm in place of the primitive stick-and-cloth splint he'd started with. Stripped to the waist for Thrawn's efficient ministrations, his chest and neck bloomed with layers of bruising. It did look more like the aftermath of beating than fighting. "What's our next move?"
"First, let us inspect his ship to see if it can be repaired. The alternatives are less ideal."
Because that was a completely logical thing for a flag officer in the Imperial Military to rush across the galaxy to do, and there was no reason at all for Eli to question it. "Aye, sir. I'll just secure the shuttle—"
"There is no need."
Eli blinked, boggling at this flagrant breach of security protocol. "Sir—"
Thrawn, by the minute regaining the composure that made him both reassuring and infuriating, gave him the Look, that damned patient do-I-really-need-to-say-it? look that had nothing to do with Eli's overstepping the proprieties of the chain of command.
Fine. So it was a message, was it? Some maddeningly vague attempt at reassuring Eli that this was all Imperial business, one way or another. Except that didn't entirely explain...
They left the survivor with some rations and a lot of unsubstantiated trust, then started their inspection. Civilian merchanter, nothing obviously remarkable except for Thrawn's chasing it halfway across the galaxy into a planetary mud pit. It hadn't quite crashed, but while the outside had some suspicious blaster scoring that Eli felt compelled to comment on, he judged the actual hull damage to be minimal.
Once they got inside—the cargo hatch had been left open—the mess was superficial but sobering. Evidence of struggle; one corner of the bay completely drenched in blood. Eli considered the number of bodies suggested by the pyres versus available berths; he would have to look at a crew roster to see if they matched, but it was possible.
The ship itself was mid-sized, new for something junketing around the Outer Rim, with enough sophisticated add-ons that whoever owned it was making a respectable profit. Eli's mature experience and analytical mind suspicioned that that might be the only respectable thing about this business.
Planetary night was coming on, and Eli didn't think Thrawn had slept since he sent them haring off on this rescue mission. They couldn't hang around here forever, but the repairs would wait until daylight as long as the planet had a reasonable rotational period.
When they got back to the shuttle, Eli grimaced to see that the survivor had evidently disappeared inside. For the most part, he'd long made his peace with the way Thrawn kept his own counsel. It was just times like these, when he decided inconvenient rules didn't apply to him, that Eli still got...nervous.
Observing him, the smile that touched Thrawn's lips was small and tinged with irony; but Eli recognised it as a real one. "Your work, as always, has been excellent. Do not think I take your service for granted."
Despite his misgivings, Eli felt himself relax a little. "If you want to thank me, sir, eat something."
There were times when Special Projects Adjutant sounded a lot like nanny.
Inside, Eli's guess was confirmed by the subliminal hum of the sonic shower going. The man had at least had the courtesy to bring the medikit back in. In drilled habit, Eli updated the inventory as he cleaned and re-packed it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Thrawn digging through the rations. Thank space for that, anyway.
Eli moved on to the diagnostic and inventory report downloaded from the other ship's maintenance system directory. If the records were up to date, no guarantee on a civilian ship, much less a smuggler, it should have most of what they needed to get it in the air again. Good; the fewer hard-to-explain holes in Eli had to fudge in the shuttle's records, the easier his life would be.
Thrawn interrupted him with a meal tray, the pack-rations eked out with some additional provisions that didn't require cooking. When he had leisure to enjoy it, edible food was one of the few privileges of rank Thrawn indulged in; when he was distracted, he gnawed on vitamin-packed nutrition bars.
Eli sucked down the steaming mug of institutional instacaf first. At his expectant look, Thrawn sat on the opposite row of seats and started in on his own dinner. Deliberately, Eli avoided making any distracting conversation.
"Thrawn."
Almost finished with his meal, Eli jerked around to stare at the survivor, who was standing in the cabin doorway, freshly scrubbed and in borrowed sleep-wear. He pronounced Thrawn's name the way Thrawn did, all in the back of his throat. Eli thought his head was about to explode from the force of repressed curiosity. Who is this guy?
The urge to dig himself into the hollow of some tree roots and curl into a foetal ball was still strong, but that thread of panicky desperation had eased at the feel of Thrawn's hands, cool and methodical in their attentions. Car'das leaned on him shamelessly, barely conscious of the officer watching from the shuttle hatch.
More of his tension relaxed when Thrawn switched the shuttle lights to night mode and his subordinate retreated to his bunk, although he clearly wasn't altogether happy about it. Car'das wasn't doing great tracking verbally, still keyed in a shocky way on body language.
The sound of Thrawn speaking to him in Cheunh had stirred some buried reflex, drawing a response from him where the gentle patter of the strange, tiny, terrifying—Car'das wasn't in any case to look a rescue in the pointed green ears, but he'd been alive and paying attention during the Clone Wars: even in a galaxy of this size, there weren't too many little green lightsaber-wielding old men still bouncing around.
Car'das was going to have to figure out what to tell Thrawn about that at some point, but he wasn't there yet. He wasn't even processing on that level. A wash and basic medical treatment had him feeling enough like a sentient being to sit upright, eat, and fold down one of the racks in the personnel compartment, but questions of loyalty and moral turpitude were beyond his current event horizon.
Thrawn finished setting whatever standby alerts he'd been fiddling with and joined Car'das. It was a tight squeeze, and the combat-rated fabric groaned a little under their combined weight, but it held.
Car'das turned his face into Thrawn's shoulder, still having a little trouble believing it. Somehow, Thrawn had managed to sneak an arm under his waist. Real and solid to his senses—not in time to save his life, but maybe for something more important.
Neither of them spoke. Thrawn hadn't really asked him much earlier. That was the nice thing about Thrawn: you didn't have to tell him anything.
Car'das didn't know how long it had been since he'd slept—he seemed to be missing several stretches of time—but here he was, safe, and, unexpectedly, with an answer to a question he'd never thought to ask. A smile didn't quite make it to his face, although it relaxed something wound tight inside him, enough that his breath evened out into sleep long before Thrawn's own.
The next morning, Eli emerged from his cramped but private bunk to find the survivor sipping instacaf and Thrawn asleep on one of the crew racks. He was so startled by this unaccountable circumstance that he accepted a mug of the vile but potent stimulant from the man without thinking. Eli checked himself just before he took an inadvertent mouthful; no, the fellow had remembered the simucream and sweetener: it was safe.
Eli had to admit, their mysterious survivor looked better this morning, that thousand-parsec stare cut down to maybe five hundred. Bacta couldn't do much for the bruises on his neck, which had already reached the most gaudily colourful stage of healing, but the bacta-cast on his arm could probably come off today. After depilating yesterday evening, his morning scruff didn't even succeed in making him look quite so much the space-raff as he had when they'd arrived.
"Good morning," Eli said in Sy Bisti, testing a theory.
"I speak Basic," the survivor replied fluently in Sy Bisti, then mustered, "Thrawn being Thrawn, I imagine he hasn't told you anything."
He was watching Eli back, or maybe watching a spot several light-years behind Eli's head. Which might be as well, because that was where Eli felt his brain was. He was going to need more caf.
The survivor nodded to himself. "I thought as much."
Which seemed to be all he felt necessary to say on the subject. Well, that was...some information. Eli hunted out flatbread to cushion his stomach against another day of probable abuse.
"How bad is my ship?" the survivor asked. He set another mug on the deck by Thrawn's head and watched with an unreadable expression as Thrawn, not quite awake, wrinkled his nose at the smell.
"Salvageable. We haven't had a chance to do a thorough check, but the hull and major systems seem to be basically intact."
They talked about ship repair while Thrawn cracked his red eyes and figured out where he was and what he was doing there, although that last was still a mystery to Eli. It wasn't like Thrawn to fall asleep out here when there was a private bunk available, or without handing off the watch.
After a couple sips of caf, Thrawn frowned down at his rumpled state in distaste. He turned to the survivor. "How is your arm?"
Eli saw a flash of alarm as Thrawn reached towards him, but like yesterday, he relaxed almost immediately into Thrawn's touch. As the survivor let Thrawn help him off with his shirt, Eli popped a last bite of breakfast into his mouth and without being asked went to fetch the medikit, repacked but not stowed, and a couple more sets of work coveralls like the ones he'd put on with the day's tasks in mind.
Thrawn probed the bruises purpling the survivor's back to check for tenderness beneath the residual pooled blood, before opening the bacta cast. The survivor wriggled his fingers experimentally. There was still a faint mark where yesterday there had been an ugly pink star like the bone had punched through.
"See? It's fine," the survivor assured Thrawn. He added something in the language Eli was pretty sure was Cheunh. Thrawn returned him a cool look.
Between the three of them, repairs went quickly. Their mysterious survivor proved to have the access codes, and the ship was well supplied. With a little improvising, they could get it flying well enough to limp to the nearest port.
Eli tried to focus on that and not the signs of violence, not everywhere, but enough to paint a disturbing picture—rooms in disarray, blaster scoring marking the bulkheads, enough electrical discharges Eli was surprised any of the systems were still operational, and the brute gouges of laser torch cuts, on top of the graphic sprays of dried blood.
Earlier seemingly revived by food, rest, and medical care, the survivor became withdrawn once more, now and then losing track of what he was doing to stare hollowly out into hyperspace. Thrawn was sticking close, nudging him back to himself with a curious gentleness.
At least the kitchen was stocked, and not with Imperial rations. Eli opened a half-empty tin of coffeine, inhaling appreciatively. It wasn't until he was pouring it into the brewer that the particular familiarity of the scent registered on his distracted mind.
After they'd gotten the essential systems back online, Thrawn lingered for an intense, low-voiced conversation with their mysterious survivor. Considering Eli had seen the man toggle through three different registries and double-check the ship's transponder was deactivated, the identities on file were also suspect. Something told Eli that neither Huff Hadir nor Shif Bastra was entirely genuine, although he filed them away for future reference.
Thrawn held them back until the other ship had successfully taken off. Planetary nightfall was closing in again. It had been a long day, but Eli would rest better in hyperspace. Maybe it was just the echo of mysterious violence lingering in the air; whatever the cause, there was something eerie about this planet.
Eli bit his tongue on a string of curses as the bog tried to swallow the shuttle whole. He'd unsubtly taken the pilot's station when they went to take off, and it wouldn't do to crash now.
Thrawn, once Eli had finished banging them around the cockpit and launched them on the first jump towards a charted hyperspace route, humoured him and retired to one of the small but private cabins that distinguished a flag officer's shuttle from the standard Lambdas.
Back to routine, or as routine as things ever got around Thrawn. Eli leaned back in his station chair and stretched his legs out, leaving both reports and recreation for the moment as he turned recent events over in his mind.
Several hours later, when a much better rested Thrawn returned to take over the watch, Eli greeted him with a spill-safe mug steaming with freshly brewed vine-grown coffeine. Eli didn't remember Thrawn being a caf snob at the academy, but he'd started drinking this blend partway through their posting on the Blood Crow. It was an uncommon variety, but it hadn't occurred to him to wonder where Thrawn had picked up the taste for it.
Thrawn went to take a sip, expecting instacaf, then stopped to look down at the mug in surprise. Eli put his best effort into keeping his face straight and not twitching under that astute gaze.
"Thank you," Thrawn said at last.
Eli sketched him a salute. "Jumps all plotted through to the Gradilis sector, sir. We can catch up with Captain Faro from there." She'd be thrilled with their new orders.
Thrawn's return salute was more a rippling of fingers, waving him away. "Take the opportunity to rest while you may; we have a long task ahead of us."
Sonic shower first, Eli thought, pleased by the tacit confirmation of his conclusions. And then he thought he might play an episode of Parsecs of Passion before going to bed.