Or had he? Could it instead be that this long, wearying war against Nuso Esva had so blunted the Grand Admiral’s tactical prudence that he was determined to defeat his enemy with the absolute minimum force possible?
Had this become personal?
The thought sent a fresh shiver up Parck’s back. Four years earlier, Emperor Palpatine had traveled to Endor burning with hatred for the Rebel Alliance. Four years before that, Grand Moff Tarkin had similarly made the attack on Yavin a matter of personal vengeance.
Both men had died at the scenes of their hoped-for triumphs, their certain victories snatched from their fingers. The Rebel Alliance had survived, and had gone on to turn much of their Empire into the so-called New Republic.
Parck had always assumed Thrawn knew better than to let emotion cloud his military judgment. Could he have been wrong?
“Patience, Captain.”
Parck jerked out of his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Admiral?” he asked carefully.
“You’re worried,” Thrawn said, his voice low enough to assure that his words would be for the senior captain’s ears only. “Worried about the operation”—He looked sideways at Parck—“and by extension, worried about me. But observe.”
He pointed to one of the tac display’s city overlays. Scattered amid the bright red spots marking Nuso Esva’s laser cannon positions and the muted yellow dots of the umbrella shield generators were a dozen glowing blue lights. “The Queen’s loudspeakers,” he said identifying them. “The sensors in the TIEs, the juggernauts, and the stormtrooper A-racks are all listening for the distinctive sound of Soldier Speak. Every order she gives her troops brings us that much closer to our final thrust.”
“Yes, sir,” Parck said, trying to filter the doubt out of his voice.
Apparently, he hadn’t filtered out all the doubt. “Patience, Captain,” Thrawn said with a faint smile. “Patience.”
“As I anticipated,” Nuso Esva said, his voice brimming again with satisfaction. “You note, O Queen, that as the smoke clears the white-armored invaders are no longer anywhere to be seen?”
The Queen made a grotesque sound Trevik had never heard from her before. “True Soldiers would not flee a battle,” she said.
“Nor have these,” Nuso Esva said. “They’ve merely taken refuge in some of the homes, most likely the two or three nearest that contain shield generators. They no doubt hope to destroy or disable the generators before they’re overwhelmed by the approaching Soldiers, thereby allowing the fighters overhead to enter your city. Hoping their deaths will not be useless.” His eyes glittered. “But of course, they will.”
Trevik gazed at the monitor, feeling an unexpected and discomfiting surge of sadness for the invading soldiers. From the earlier speech between the Queen and Nuso Esva he gathered that humans were like the Stromma, where each member had the same free choices that Quesoth Midlis and Circlings possessed. Unlike Quesoth Soldiers, the white-armored attackers were not bound irrevocably by their orders, and therefore could have retreated to safety when they saw the numbers arrayed against them.
Yet they had not. What kind of leader was this Thrawn, that his people willingly gave up their lives at his command?
“The shield generators must not be damaged,” the Queen said, lifting her mike. “I will send more Soldiers.”
“No need, O Queen,” Nuso Esva said. “I have anticipated this move, and have prepared for it. No, keep your Soldiers where they are. The real battle will take place at the line of juggernaut vehicles. You see how the rearmost has already been disabled, blocking the rest from retreat? As soon as the one in the forefront has likewise been stopped, your Soldiers can move against the true prize.”
“Yes, I see,” the Queen said again. “You didn’t say that two of the nine would be destroyed.”
“I told you sacrifices would be necessary,” Nuso Esva said. “In this case, the loss of two assures that we can capture the other seven intact.”
“And seven will be enough?”
“More than enough,” Nuso Esva said. “I’ve seen the strength of the Red City’s lower citadel. I doubt that the White City’s defenses will be any greater. Seven juggernauts will be more than sufficient to break through the barriers.”
“The White City?” Trevik asked, the words coming out before he could stop them. “What? Break the barriers? What is this madness you speak of?”
“The old ways are at an end, Trevik of the Midli of the Seventh of the Red,” the Queen said, her voice as calm as if she were asking for a drink of nectar. “Why should I accept death for myself and my city merely because the Queen of the White has arisen?”
“But—” Trevik stared at her. “But the old Queen always dies when the new Queen arises and the air changes. It’s the way of the world.”
“You’re a naïve fool,” Nuso Esva said scornfully. “A Queen—a true Queen—doesn’t simply sit back and accept the way of the world.” He held out his hand toward Trevik, his fingers closing into a fist. “A true Queen grasps the world by the throat and squeezes her own destiny from it. Understand?”
“No,” Trevik said, the sheer shock of it draining all emotion from him as if a vein had been cut. “But I do understand one thing: the Queen of the White cannot arise if the Circlings of the White are dead.” He looked at the Queen. “If they are murdered.”
“It’s a matter of survival,” Nuso Esva said. “Survival of the strongest. That’s how the universe operates, Midli. I have no doubt that the Queen of the White, if given this same choice, would take the same action.”
“It will serve all of us,” the Queen said. “Including you yourself, Trevik of the Midli of the Seventh of the Red. No more will you and the other Midlis and Circlings need to travel long distances to a new city, many of you dying along the way. You will remain here, in familiar surroundings, living out your lives in your own homes.”
“And when you die?” Trevik asked.
The Queen smiled. “I will not die,” she said, an unpleasant edge to her voice. “Without the changing of the air, I will live forever.”
All living things die. Trevik wanted to say that.
But he couldn’t. Not directly to her face.
Not to the Queen of the Red, who was supposed to be the leader of her city, and the steward of all the Quesoth.
She had betrayed them. She had betrayed them all.
But he couldn’t say that, either.
“When will this happen?” he asked instead.
“When the battle is over and Thrawn has lost, he will leave,” Nuso Esva said. “He’ll have no choice. His defeat here by primitives will severely damage the reputation that holds his fragile coalition together, and he and his star caravan will need to travel to other conflicts to take personal charge of those battles. Once he’s gone, we’ll take our newly captured vehicles to the White City. The Queen of the Red will become the Queen of Quethold”—his eyes glittered—“and I will have free access to the industrial facilities beneath the White City. There I will construct vehicles in which I and my Chosen may leave this world and once again carry the war to my enemies.”
Trevik nodded, his heart sickening within him. So that was what it came down to. Quethold was to be sacrificed, its stability and the lives of its people lost, so that the Storm-hairs could continue their thirst for conquest among the stars.
And there was nothing he could do to stop it. The Queen had revealed her own thirsts, and there was nothing a mere Midli could say that would change her mind. Nor was he a Soldier, who might fight the Storm-hairs on her behalf.
No, all Trevik could do was stand with his nectar bowl, and watch and listen.
And hope that, somehow, Grand Admiral Thrawn would be able to win.