Pellaeon brought his mind back to the business at hand. All ship defenses showed ready; the TIE fighters in their bays were manned and poised. “The Chimaera is fully at your command, Admiral,” he said, the formal question and response a ghostly remembrance of the days when proper military protocol was the order of the day throughout the galaxy.
“Excellent,” Thrawn said. He swiveled in his chair to face the figure seated near the rear of the bridge. “Master C’baoth.” He nodded. “Are my other two task forces ready?”
“They are,” C’baoth said gravely. “They await merely my command.”
Pellaeon winced and threw another glance at Thrawn. But the Grand Admiral had apparently decided to let the comment pass. “Then command them,” he told C’baoth, reaching up to stroke the ysalamir draped across the framework fastened to his chair. “Captain: begin the count.”
“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon reached to his board, touched the timer switch. Scattered around them, the other ships would be locking onto that signal, all of them counting down together …
The timer went to zero, and with a flare of starlines through the forward ports, the Chimaera jumped.
Ahead, the starlines faded into the mottling of hyperspace. “Speed, Point Three,” the helmsman in the crew pit below called out, confirming the readout on the displays.
“Acknowledged,” Pellaeon said, flexing his fingers once and settling his mind into combat mode as he watched the timer now counting up from zero. Seventy seconds; seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six—
The starlines flared again through the mottled sky, and shrank back into stars, and the Chimaera had arrived.
“All fighters: launch,” Pellaeon called, throwing a quick look at the tactical holo floating over his display bank. They had come out of hyperspace exactly as planned, within easy striking range of the double planet2 of Bpfassh and its complicated system of moons. “Response?” he called to the tactical officer.
“Defending fighters launching from the third moon,” the other reported. “Nothing larger visible as yet.”
“Get a location on that fighter base,” Thrawn ordered, “and detail the Inexorable to move in and destroy it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pellaeon could see the fighters now, coming at them like a swarm of angry insects. Off on the Chimaera’s starboard flank, the Star Destroyer Inexorable was moving toward their base, its TIE fighter wedge sweeping ahead of it to engage the defenders.3 “Change course to the farther of the twin planets,” he ordered the helmsman. “TIE fighters to set up an advance screen. The Judicator will take the other planet.” He looked at Thrawn. “Any special orders, Admiral?”
Thrawn was gazing at a mid-distance scan of the twin planets. “Stay with the program for now, Captain,” he said. “Our preliminary data appear to have been adequate; you may choose targets at will. Remind your gunners once again that the plan is to hurt and frighten, not obliterate.”
“Relay that.” Pellaeon nodded toward the communications station. “Have TIE fighters so reminded, as well.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thrawn turn. “Master C’baoth?” he said. “What’s the status of the attacks in the other two systems?”
“They proceed.”
Frowning, Pellaeon swiveled around. It had been C’baoth’s voice, but so throaty and strained as to be nearly unrecognizable.
As was, indeed, his appearance.
For a long moment Pellaeon stared at him, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. C’baoth sat with unnatural stiffness, his eyes closed but visibly and rapidly moving behind the lids. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, and his lips were pressed so tightly together that the veins and cords in his neck stood out. “Are you all right, Master C’baoth?” he asked.
“Save your concern, Captain,” Thrawn told him coldly. “He’s doing what he enjoys most: controlling people.”
C’baoth made a sound somewhere between a snort and a derisive chuckle. “I told you once, Grand Admiral Thrawn, that this is not true power.”
“So you’ve said,” Thrawn said, his tone neutral. “Can you tell what sort of resistance they’re facing?”
C’baoth’s frowning face frowned harder. “Not precisely. But neither force is in danger. That much I can feel in their minds.”
“Good. Then have the Nemesis break off from the rest of its group and report back to the rendezvous to await us.”
Pellaeon frowned at the Grand Admiral. “Sir—?”
Thrawn turned to him, a warning gleam in his glowing eyes. “Attend to your duties, Captain,” he said.
—and with a sudden flash of insight, Pellaeon realized that this multiedged attack on New Republic territory was more than simply part of the setup for the Sluis Van raid. It was, in addition, a test. A test of C’baoth’s abilities, yes; but also a test of his willingness to accept orders.4 “Yes, Admiral,” Pellaeon murmured, and turned back to his displays.
The Chimaera was in range now, and tiny sparks started to appear on the tactical holo as the ship’s huge turbolaser batteries began firing. Communications stations flared and went black; planetside industrial targets flared, went dark, then flared again as secondary fires were ignited. A pair of old Carrack-class light cruisers5 swept in from starboard, the Chimaera’s TIE fighter screen breaking formation to engage them. Off in the distance, the Stormhawk’s batteries were blazing against an orbiting defense platform; and even as Pellaeon watched, the station flared into vapor. The battle seemed to be going well. Remarkably well, in fact …
An unpleasant feeling began to stir in the pit of Pellaeon’s stomach as he checked his board’s real-time status readout. Thus far the Imperial forces had lost only three TIE fighters and sustained superficial damage to the Star Destroyers, compared to eight of the enemy’s line ships and eighteen of its fighters gone. Granted, the Imperials vastly outgunned the defenders. But still …
Slowly, reluctantly, Pellaeon reached to his board. A few weeks back he’d made up a statistical composite of the Chimaera’s battle profiles for the past year. He called it up, superimposed it over the current analysis.
There was no mistake. In every single category and sub-category of speed, coordination, efficiency, and accuracy, the Chimaera and its crew were running no less than 40 percent more effective than usual.
He turned to look at C’baoth’s strained face, an icy shiver running up his back. He’d never really bought into Thrawn’s theory as to how and why the Fleet had lost the Battle of Endor. Certainly he’d never wanted to believe it. But now, suddenly, the issue was no longer open to argument.
And with the bulk of his attention and power on the task of mentally communicating with two other task forces nearly four light-years away, C’baoth still had enough left to do all this.
Pellaeon had wondered, with a certain private contempt, just what had given the old man the right to add the word Master to his title. Now, he knew.
“Getting another set of transmissions,” the communications officer reported. “A new group of midrange planetary cruisers launching.”
“Have the Stormhawk move to intercept,” Thrawn ordered.
“Yes, sir. We’ve now also pinpointed the location of their distress transmissions, Admiral.”
Shaking away his musings, Pellaeon glanced across the holo. The newly flashing circle was on the farthest of the system’s moons. “Order Squadron Four to move in and destroy it,” he ordered.
“Belay that,” Thrawn said. “We’ll be long gone before any reinforcements can arrive. We might as well let the Rebellion waste its resources rushing useless forces to the rescue. In fact”—the Grand Admiral consulted his watch—“I believe it’s time for us to take our leave. Order fighters back to their ships; all ships to lightspeed as soon as their fighters are aboard.”