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Moments stretched into eternities on the chronometer. The soft buzzing sound of a cretefly that had gotten into the antiquities shop created an unceasing hum, a constant droning that seemed to grow louder by the second as Luthen Rael awaited the coming headlines.
He paced, unable to contain the building tension in his muscles. Soon, either the Metalorn HoloNet News would broadcast a story about a devastating explosion in the Imperial Factory just outside their capital city: or, the Imperial Net would announce a triumphant thwarting of an attempted rebel strike, and Luthen would have new soldiers to grieve.
Many of them would be surprised to hear it. There were those who thought Luthen heartless; he’d sent enough people to their deaths already. There were many who knew him that would describe Luthen as a cold blooded mercenary, who didn’t spare a second thought for the people that died in his service.
They would be wrong.
Luthen did what needed to be done. He understood the cost of war. But every loss, every death, hung heavy on his neck: and he dreaded putting any more weight on. And the cost of the Metalorn job was a hefty toll, just waiting to be paid.
In truth, Kleya had always been better at keeping her nerves in check, and as he paced the back room of his Coruscanti establishment, he wished that she were here. But she was on Naboo, following a lead on a piece of art for the gallery; the store may be just a front for their real business, but it wouldn’t do to let it go empty.
Still, he would’ve liked her to be with him. He hadn’t been this nervous since Aldhani. And the last thing he needed right now was just what he heard, interrupting the interminable buzz of that cretefly.
The chime of a customer at the door.
Luthen took a breath. If someone was here, then they would obviously need to be greeted by Luthen Rael, charming shop owner, whose light and affable persona was evident by sight. And the charming and affable Luthen Rael had so few worldly concerns, he couldn’t be as panicked and unsettled as Luthen Rael, rebel spymaster, was right now.
So Luthen forced the carefree smile to come to his lips; let the weight of the world slip off his shoulders, and let his hand float as would those of someone who’s never had to do any physical labor in their lives. He let his mind drift far away, as though he’d scarcely even heard of the planet Metalorn. He let his feet step smoothly and gracefully, as though he were walking upon a cloud, and swayed out to the front room to greet his new customers—
And he froze.
It was only for a heartbeat, but it was an amateur mistake. The kind of thing that Luthen thought himself above. But anyone more generous than he would say that it was understandable; because of all the people who could set foot in his antiquities shop on any given day, three uniformed Imperial officers were about as bad as it could get. And these three in particular set a fire in Luthen’s stomach.
The two in front were human, and by the looks of them, had been engaging in some light drinking. Coruscant was approaching evening, and Luthen guessed that they were coming from the latest of many Ascension Week parties that had likely concluded a few hours ago. It was precisely why he’d planned the Metalorn job for today; Commodore Howitzer, who would otherwise have been on Metalorn, was expected to be in attendance on Coruscant. But it seemed that as the festivities wound down, these two had gotten the idea to browse through some artifacts.
The third of their party, though, was by far the most interesting— and concerning. Because although Luthen had never seen a holoscan of him, the deep blue skin, light forehead protrusions, and especially the glowing red eyes that swept across his gallery could only belong to one being. An alien that Luthen had heard mention of more and more frequently of late.
“Welcome, gentlemen!” Luthen said, arms open like a friend to embrace. “What can I do for you fine officers this evening?” He stepped towards them, slowly, nonthreateningly.
The two men in front smiled as warmly as Imperial doctrine ever allowed. The third—the alien—did not smile. He simply regarded Luthen, those gleaming red eyes boring through the older man.
The officer on the left, a portly man with a mustache, said, “Good evening, Master Rael. I don’t know if you remember me— I came in a few years ago, looking for a gift for my daughter’s wedding.”
The role of a spymaster required an excellent memory. An antiquities dealer, though, did not require any such thing; it was, however, something that endeared oneself to potential assets nicely. “Why of course! It was… Ghimmel, wasn’t it? You purchased those lovely Naboo necklaces!” Luthen clapped his hands, as though delighted to see an old friend again. “Did she like them?”
Vice Admiral Ghimmel smiled widely, and nodded. “She did! Wears them every time I come to visit.” He gestured to the men by his side. “This is General Ka’ab, an old friend of mine from my army days. And this interesting fellow,” he said, gesturing to the alien behind him, “is Admiral Thrawn.”
Thrawn. A name that was proving more and more concerning by the day.
Luthen had first heard of Thrawn from an insurgent he’d worked with on occasion, Nevil Cigny. Cigny claimed that he’d had more than one run-in with the seemingly prodigious alien, and spoke of him as someone to be wary of. Over time, Luthen had learned to do just that, as several operations that he’d planned—such as a job on Borleias that had been particularly hard-planned—were countered and thoroughly foiled by the then-commodore.
And now here he was, standing before Luthen.
“A pleasure to meet you, General. Admiral,” Luthen said, nodding politely at each in turn. “What brings you to my humble shop during such a lively Ascension Week?”
General Ka’ab, whose face was reddened by his indulgence in what Luthen thought smelled like Corellian Brandy, said, “I’m afraid we’re mostly here simply to peruse. You see, the Admiral here,” gesturing to Thrawn, “has quite a fascination with artwork.”
“It’s more of a talent, really,” Ghimmel cut in. “Tell him, Admiral— you read the art, do you not?”
Luthen turned his attention to Thrawn; those glowing red eyes bored into his own, and the alien shrugged. “I would not call it reading,” he said, his voice a soft and deliberate drawl. “I am a student of culture: of history. I learn what I can of the places and beings that I encounter. Artwork is the truest expression of one’s culture, and so I learn much from it.”
Luthen’s eyebrows raised, in an expression of exaggerated fascination; but beneath the act, he was fascinated in truth as well. Thrawn’s deductive ability had become something of an urban legend, and Luthen was, despite himself, interested to see it in action. “Well, then, by all means, come in! Have a look around!” Luthan smiled broadly, and waved the gentlemen inside.
The danger of this situation was not lost on Luthen Rael. He had not survived as long as he had and built what he had built by taking foolish risks, and welcoming an Admiral renowned for his perception into your den of lies and secrets was an effective way of seeing those secrets discovered.
But Luthen Rael had also stayed alive by understanding that sometimes it’s safer to be so close to your enemy, that you’re in too close a range to be stabbed by them. You must hold the blaster to your own forehead so that you can keep your finger behind the trigger.
And in truth, Luthen had his weaknesses, not the least of which was curiosity. To defeat one’s enemy is to know them, and to know them, you must learn about them— and he would never get a better opportunity than this to learn about Admiral Thrawn. So like a bold explorer, gingerly putting pressure on the planks of a rickety bridge to see if they held his weight, Luthen said, “After all, it isn’t every day that a Chiss walks in to my shop.”
The two humans were already well inside, but Thrawn stopped and met Luthen’s eyes. “You know of my people?”
Luthen smiled. “I myself am a student of history as well, Admiral. And while these days the Chiss are not a commonly seen people in this part of the galaxy, I’ve appreciated some lovely pieces depicting the Chiss’ involvement in the Great Galactic War, eons ago.”
Thrawn nodded, the barest hint of a smile on his face. “I see. My people’s own history on that subject was often… inconsistent.”
With a gentle laugh, Luthen replied, “The past is always at the mercy of those who are retelling it, is it not?”
“Indeed. Perhaps some day you could enlighten me with your own records.”
“Oh, enough chatter,” Ghimmel said, his jowls flopping as he shook his head. “I want to see the man in action! Come, Admiral— tell me what you make of this piece!”
Luthen smiled at Thrawn, a sort of if he insists gesture, and waved the Chiss on to observe a grey stone vase that Ghimmel stood before. It had rounded square edges, and a tall, wide mouth. All along its sides, deep crevices were carved in intricate patterns, and its face had no paint or other colored detailing.
The Chiss studied the artifact as he approached, leaning to the left and right to view it from all angles, before slowly saying, “This is… of Kakalan make, is it not?”
“Very impressive!” Luthen said, his eyebrows raised in all-too-real surprise. “Have you seen their work before?”
“Not in person,” Thrawn responded. “But I have read of Kakala and its people, in order to more effectively mediate a dispute between one of the Kakali and a Pau’an, on a recent assignment.” He regarded the vase again. “The Kakali craft ceremonial pottery to celebrate the turning of the year. I deduced from the squared edges that this was designed to fit alongside other, similar pieces from years past; the Kakali live entirely underground, with eyesight developed to see in pitch blackness, hence the lack of color; and the detailing along the edges is fine and precise, but with the distinct shape work of a piece patterned by hand. Therefore, this vase’s sculptor must have thin, delicate fingers that could achieve such detail.”
“And these Kakali do?” Ka’ab asked.
“Yes, they do,” Luthen replied. “That is truly remarkable, Admiral.” With that, he gestured around his shop. “Please, try another.”
Thrawn stared at Luthen for a moment, but then he let those glowing red eyes drift across the pieces in the room. Eventually, he stepped towards the center. “This shield,” he said calmly, “belonged to one of the Gungans of Naboo, did it not?”
“Ah, yes!” said Ghimmel. “I’ve seen those in some of the Palpatine exhibits, recognizing the Emperor’s service during the Naboo crisis.”
“As did I,” Thrawn replied.
“Well, that’s hardly a deduction, then, is it?” Ka’ab asked.
“I cannot guarantee that I will not be familiar with any pieces that I come across,” the Chiss said, with only a hint of condescension that Luthen could pick up. “But I can tell you that this design is not built for melee combat. While the plasma shielding can deflect melee weaponry, these tall, slender shields are best suited for withstanding long ranged attacks, likely from…” He paused, and his brow furrowed. “I apologize— my understanding of your language still has limits. My usual translator is enjoying the festivities, and I did not want to disturb him to come with me.” With that, he looked Luthen straight in the eye, and asked, “Ahzikayash?”
Luthen hadn’t told the alien that he spoke Sy Bisti. He wasn’t sure where Thrawn could have deduced that information from. But perhaps the Chiss had simply followed the same train of thought that Luthen had, as he established this cover; that in this line of work, it only made sense to speak a few outer rim trade languages, in case someone who only spoke one of them was selling something valuable.
So Luthen let a soft smile come to his face as he translated, “Conquerors.”
“I see,” the alien replied. “Conquerors.” He rolled over the word, as though trying it out in the new language. “As I was saying, the Gungans designed these shields for fending off ranged attacks from the settling conquerors that now make up the majority of the Naboo people. From this, I can reasonably assume that the Gungans are a stalwart people, but not overly militaristic. Their tactical abilities paled next to their attackers, and they were forced from the land.”
Ka’ab nodded. “The Gungans fought nobly, but they were never a match. It was inevitable that the Naboo would take what was rightly theirs.” Then, a smile broke out on his face, and he said, “Again!”
The corners of Thrawn’s eyes tensed, and Luthen suspected that he did not enjoy being treated like a dancing monkey-lizard. But nonetheless, he moved through the gallery once more. “This armor,” he said, gesturing to a set of elegant plate mail that was riddled with cuts and had become corroded by age. “I am not familiar with its origin, but its age is clear by looking at it.”
“Indeed,” Ghimmel replied. “At least a few centuries old.”
“Actually, based on the weathering, I would estimate it is in fact several millennia old.”
At that, Ka’ab laughed. “I think you’ve hit your stumping block, Thrawn: look at the riveting. The technology to create such fine pins that consistently wouldn’t have existed until post-Ruusan.”
“Perhaps not in the rest of the galaxy,” the alien replied coolly. “But there are always outliers. And besides, I believe that these were hand crafted by artisans, not mass produced.”
“What gives you that impression?” Luthen asked, rapt.
Thrawn looked right at him, and said, “The patterning on the metal. Much of its surface is battered by scars and wounds from many battles; but underneath, there are still some visible marks indicative of hammer strikes, rather than machine shaping.”
“Perhaps it was simply repaired by hand.”
“It almost certainly was,” the Chiss replied. “But I see no evidence to suggest any initial machining. By my estimate, this armor was crafted several thousand years ago by a proud warrior culture.” He gestured to some of the cuts in the armor’s surface, and said, “The rust and coloration of some wounds is different from others, as though it had already rusted and been polished away several times over its use. This indicates several substantial battles, with some time between them.”
Luthen smiled. “Go on.”
“Some of these wounds show a certain… grace from its attackers. As though they were respected opponents. Other display a savage, relentless strike, that makes me think one of its major battles was an invading force. Those ones are newer, and show less deterioration; and I believe that after that savage battle, this armor was retired, and preserved intentionally. This leads me to conclude that it was worn in an event of some great significance, and that afterwards, it was used as a memorial of sorts.”
“Is that so,” Ka’ab said, curiosity burning in his eyes as he turned to Luthen. “Well, Mister Rael? What do you think?”
Luthen’s first thought was one of terror, akin to a womp rat realizing that he was locked in a chamber with a hungry nexu. The next, though, was a combination of intense fascination and respect. “Correct on all counts,” he said.
Ghimmel blanched. “You’re joking!”
“The armor comes from the planet Kirrek,” Luthen said, scarcely looking away from Thrawn’s unyielding gaze, “in the Empress Teta system. Around five thousand years ago, they were indeed a proud warrior culture, which is why they resisted the Empress’ conquest until their defeat in the Unification Wars— that’s where it gets those first scars from.” He gestured to the fresher scars, and said, “The second scars were inflicted by a savage attack from the Sith invaders during the Great Hyperspace War, after which it was preserved.”
At that, Thrawn’s attention seemed to sharpen. “Sith?”
Luthen nodded, trying not to seem too interested. “You’re familiar?”
The Chiss hesitated, and seemed to sort through some memories before replying, “I have heard the name. I had hoped to learn more about them, but information seems… elusive.”
“Well, if I find any relevant items, I’ll have to be in touch!” Luthen replied, his jovial mask slipping back on.
“You know, I really should have recognized the armor myself,” Ka’ab said haughtily. “I’ve done quite a bit of reading on the Great Hyperspace War; it’s a truly fascinating piece of history.”
“Indeed it is,” Ghimmel added. “Remarkable that you’ve managed to get a piece like that, Rael.”
Luthen shrugged casually. “I endeavor to find remarkable pieces. And I’m very persistent,” he said with a chuckle.
“That much is clear,” Thrawn said coolly. “In fact,” he said as he slowly looked around the room, “there is something of a trend in the pieces in your gallery. Have you noticed?”
Luthen smiled, which was quite far from how he felt like reacting. He hadn’t noticed; and he didn’t like being told that he hadn’t noticed something. “Enlighten me,” he said.
“The Kirrek armor,” the Chiss began, “the Gungan shield. That Wookiee Heartlance… and those blades, I believe they come from the Korunnai of Haruun Kal, do they not?”
“They do,” Luthen said, trying to mask his growing fear.
“Not all of your exhibits,” Thrawn continued, “but quite a number of them come from indigenous peoples fighting against an oppressive outer force— some larger military, that has laid claim to their world.”
He turned to regard Luthen. “Put more simply,” the alien said, his red eyes boring into Luthen’s, “these are the artifacts of resistance.”
Luthen’s smile turned surprised, and he tried to look amused; while inside, he cursed himself. He cursed whatever egotistic subconscious urging had led him to maintaining such a trend; he cursed the ignorance that prevented him from noticing it himself. But ever the professional, he simply kept smiling at Thrawn, and said, “Well, troubled times… they have a tendency to create the most striking artwork, don’t they?”
“Indeed,” the Chiss replied.
Luthen was trying to think of some other topic that could serve as a distraction when he was saved by a chime from Vice Admiral Ghimmel’s comlink. The Admiral excused himself for a few moments, before he returned with a groan. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to return to service sooner than anticipated,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “Something about an explosion on Metalorn; they’re calling a summit with any available high command to discuss it.”
“Oh, dear!” Luthen said, mock aghast. His heart rate had picked up, and it took all of his training to keep a grin from spreading across his face. He appreciated that it made perfect sense for an average imperial citizen to ask for followup information, as he said, “An explosion? What happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ghimmel said sourly, “and I’m sure I wouldn’t be supposed to say if I did. But if you ask me, this reeks of rebels.”
“You know, Metalorn isn’t all too far from Lothal,” Ka’ab said brusquely. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s those same whelps.”
“Either way, it’s the end of our night,” Ghimmel sighed. “Thank you for your time, Master Rael, but I’m afraid we won’t be buying anything tonight.”
“Oh, of course I understand!” Luthen said, with as much faux sympathy as he could muster. “You gentlemen have important business to attend to; no need to waste time here.” He was careful not to lay it on too thick; if it were just Ghimmel and Ka’ab, Luthen could fawn and probably squeeze a little extra information out of them. But it was too risky to push things in front of Thrawn, so Luthen simply thanked them for stopping by and led them to the door. “It’s been a pleasure having you, officers; and please, come by again whenever you’re in the district!” As always, Luthen paid little mind to the irony of that sentence, and bowed as the imperials made their way to the door.
Ghimmel and Ka’ab nodded politely as they exited, but Thrawn stopped for a moment in the doorway, regarding Luthen one last time with those glowing red eyes.
The spymaster smiled. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Admiral.”
“And you,” Thrawn replied with a nod. “I have very much enjoyed this tour of your collection. The history behind these pieces is… illuminating.”
Then, with another smile, Luthen led the Chiss man out of the shop. He waved the imperials farewell as they boarded their shuttle, and jovially called, “Until we meet again!”
He then went back inside, and nearly fell to pieces.
Metalorn had been a success. He couldn’t ignore that; and the relief he felt at knowing that at least some of his agents had likely survived, or had at least succeeded in their mission, was palpable.
But he couldn’t ignore this unlikely encounter. He’d need new surveillance; and to reach out to Jung in the ISB, just in case Thrawn passed along a tip to investigate. He’d heard that the alien was close with Colonel Yularen, and the last thing he needed was the very head of Imperial Security walking in next.
He even considered closing the shop entirely— fleeing to some outer rim world where he would have, if nothing else, anonymity.
But this shop had taken years to establish, and it still had tremendous potential to grant him new opportunities and access. He wasn’t going to burn it unless absolutely necessary: he would measure that as time went.
He sighed. He’d been so stressed only a short while earlier about Metalorn, and without even a moment’s respite there was a new crisis to stress about. He almost laughed; maybe the Empire wouldn’t even need to kill him themselves. His health might beat them to it.
As the Imperial speeder moved through Coruscant’s busy skyways, Vice Admiral Ghimmel sighed brusquely. He was more than a little annoyed to have his evening interrupted just to ‘strategize’ and ‘touch base’, which as far as he was concerned translated directly into waste my time talking about nothing. These rebels certainly knew how to make themselves annoyances.
He thought he saw a similarly rueful expression on the alien’s face, and said, “It is a pity to have the evening taken like this.”
Thrawn’s unnerving red eyes met Ghimmel’s, and he said, “It’s not that. That shopkeeper… Master Rael, was it?” When Ghimmel nodded, Thrawn looked out the window and continued, “He seems quite intelligent. But I got the impression that there was something more to him… something that, perhaps, he did not want us to see.” He looked at Ghimmel again and said, “I will be back in the Outer Rim as soon as Ascension Week is over. But I would advise launching an investigation into Master Rael; nothing major, just a small inquiry. I think it possible that his collection may contain stolen or forged items.”
“You got that just from looking at them?”
“No,” Thrawn replied. “I have no reason to believe that specifically. I only know, based on the behavior of Master Rael, that he may have… secrets.”
Ghimmel nodded drunkenly. “I’ll be sure to pass it along,” he said.
If he weren’t in such a bad mood, he might have laughed. As though he would waste his precious time—as well as that of the ISB—investigating every human that this alien turned his gaze upon. Why, to Thrawn’s eyes, every human on Coruscant might behave suspiciously. Who knows what those Chass, or whatever, found normal.
Thrawn’s talents made for an amusing party trick, but Ghimmel was certainly not about to bet his career on a meaningless investigation based only on Thrawn’s feelings.
He was sure that the Empire would, in its own way, thank him for it.