Beside him, the conciliator’s mouth dropped open in clear disbelief. “What Council Liaison Nyama means—”
“Council Liaison Nyama means exactly what he says,” Nyama interrupted. “Give the orders, Admiral Thrawn. Or I will give them for you.”
For a long moment, the room seemed to quiver with the silence of approaching death. Nyama loomed over the still-seated Thrawn like a grass-covered mountain, his black eyes hard, his mouth set at an angle that warned against argument.
Thrawn stirred. “Very well, Council Liaison,” he said. “If you don’t wish to assist in freeing your allies from bondage, your people will be ordered to your carriers.”
“What I don’t wish is for my people to die for nothing,” Nyama ground out. “And it will be for nothing. In two years Nuso Esva and the remnant of his Chosen will find themselves masters of a deserted city. If at that time you still insist on having your vengeance, we will gladly march in alongside you and sing a song to your honor as you destroy him. But I won’t waste my people in a useless and futile battle.”
He glared at the conciliator, as if daring the younger Stromma to dare try to soften his words. But the conciliator had learned his lesson, and remained silent.
“Nuso Esva can do a great deal of damage in those two years,” Parck said. It wasn’t a particularly politic thing to do, he knew, speaking words of contradiction to a Stromma council liaison. But he had no intention of letting his commander take the full brunt of Nyama’s contempt alone. “And there are manufacturing facilities below Red City that he might use to devastating effect. Are you willing to simply stand aside and watch all that happen?”
“The Queen of the Red invited Nuso Esva into her city,” Nyama said, sending an acid-edged glare at Parck. “Whatever happens now is on her head, and upon the heads of her people.”
He turned back to Thrawn. “I return to my shuttle, Admiral Thrawn. I expect all Stromma under your command to be assembled at the Admonitor’s hangar bay within the hour.”
“I’ll give the order,” Thrawn said.
Nyama held the admiral’s gaze another two seconds, then stepped away from the table and strode from the room.
The conciliator stood up, his face pained. “Admiral—”
“Go with your superior,” Thrawn said, his face impassive.
The younger Stromma looked helplessly at the others around the table, then nodded and left without another word.
“Well,” Fel said into the silence. “That went well.”
“Hardly unexpected, though,” Parck agreed heavily.
“True.” Fel cocked an eyebrow at Thrawn. “You do know, Admiral, that I wasn’t exaggerating about the size of that gap. You come in at the wrong angle and graze one of those shields, and it’ll blow off that section of wing and give you enough spin to send you spiraling straight into the ground.”
“I have full confidence that you and your pilots will make it work, Commander.” Thrawn turned to Balkin. “As I also have confidence that you and your stormtroopers will do their part.”
“We will, Admiral,” Balkin said quietly.
“So the plan’s still on?” Parck asked.
“It is,” Thrawn confirmed.
Parck felt his lip twitch. “I have spoken to some of the other Stromma who understand Quesoth Soldier Speak,” he said. “They say that even if we’re able to record enough of the Queen’s orders during the battle, it’ll be impossible to pick-and-stitch the words together to create counter-orders of our own.”
“My Stromma trainees say the same thing,” Balkin confirmed. “There’s some kind of pitch rhythm in the subharmonics that a set of randomly stitched words won’t be able to match.”
“We shall see,” Thrawn said. “Are there any other thoughts or concerns?”
Parck looked around the table. No one seemed inclined to say anything more. “Then you’re dismissed,” Thrawn said formally. “Make your final preparations, then get your forces fed and to sleep.”
His eyes glittered. “Tomorrow, at midmorning, we attack.”
It was not in the nature of Imperial stormtroopers to hide themselves from view. Their entire attitude and training, not to mention their gleaming white armor, tended in exactly the opposite direction.
Nevertheless, stormtrooper Lhagva of the Stromma contingent was trying to stay out of everyone’s sight.
For the first hour he succeeded, running a quiet path between the Admonitor’s main trooper kitchen area and the equipment storage facility, choosing a route senior officers seldom traveled unless they had a reason to be there. He kept an ear cocked as he strode silently along, listening for loud voices and stern, determined footsteps.
He was ten minutes into the second hour when his luck ran out. Rounding a stack of safety-webbed crates, he ran smack into Line Lieutenant Dramos Sanjin, perched casually on the saddle of a Mobquet reconnaissance swoop.
“Stormtrooper Lhagva,” Sanjin said with an air of clearly artificial casualness. “You seem to have missed the order that all Stromma aboard the Admonitor were to report to the Number Three hangar deck for disembarkation.”
“My apologies, Lieutenant,” Lhagva said, striving for the right mix of surprise and chagrin. “I’ve been having trouble with my hearing lately.”
“Really,” Sanjin said. “You didn’t seem to have any trouble with Commander Balkin’s order to report to the practice range earlier this afternoon.”
Lhagva grimaced. Sanjin had him, and there really was no point in carrying on the charade any longer. “I heard a rumor that all the Stromma were being taken off in advance of the attack,” he said. “I wanted to stay.”
“You feel entitled to ignore orders you don’t feel like obeying?”
“You need me, Lieutenant,” Lhagva said, painfully aware that he was walking on extremely thin stone here. “Puriv and I are the only ones in the assault force who understand Quesoth Soldier Speak. We’re the only ones who can give you any advance warning of what the Queen of the Red is ordering her forces to do.”
“Yet Puriv left the Admonitor as ordered,” Sanjin said. “Are you saying he doesn’t have the same loyalty to the unit that you do?”
“Puriv has a family, and a strong family honor that he must uphold,” Lhagva said. “Disobeying his orders would shame them all.”
“Whereas you’re an orphan who has no one to shame?”
“I’m an orphan who will dishonor no one but myself,” Lhagva corrected. “I’m willing to accept that shame.”
“Stromma discipline can be harsh,” Sanjin warned. “Imperial discipline can be even worse.”
“I understand,” Lhagva said. “Discipline or discharge me as you must, Lieutenant. But I beg you, don’t do either until after tomorrow.”
Sanjin studied Lhagva’s face. “You feel that strongly about this battle?”
“The Quesoth are Stromma allies,” Lhagva said. “More than that, I spent two years in the Stromma diplomatic enclave at the edge of the Black City. I like these people, and I don’t want to see them destroyed.”
“And you think that likely?”
“If Nuso Esva isn’t stopped, it’s the only possible outcome,” Lhagva said. “If he succeeds in holding the Red City, it’ll be only a matter of time before he also takes the White City, then the Black City, and then the entire planet.”
“And you want to see him stopped.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Even at the risk of your own life and honor?”
“I’m an Imperial stormtrooper, Lieutenant,” Lhagva said. “I live or die at the pleasure of my superiors and my commander.”