A thermite charge burned through the lock mechanism, and the half-circular doors of the emergency airlock, tightly sealed together, cracked open just enough.
But that was all Troopers of Squad Four needed. Two stormtroopers clamped onto the doors with mag-clamps and began prying them apart manually.
Stormtrooper TNH-0297, whose face was hidden behind the familiar white stormtrooper helmet with black visor lenses, watched as the path into the depths of the enemy Star Destroyer began to open. Because of this vantage point, he was the first to glimpse through the narrow gap the enemy soldiers bracing to attack: a barricade made out of a couple of cargo containers across the corridor, behind which five New Republic troops crouched. They wore light armor, hurriedly strapped on over standard Fleet jumpsuits, each armed with a blaster carbine.
Members of this crew intended to stop the troopers from breaching their corridor. They were poised to attack the instant the doors opened wide enough for a single person to squeeze through.
In vain. The stormtroopers knew full well that the crew would be alerted to unauthorized airlock use the moment they'd latched on with their boarding craft.
— Positions, — TNH-0297 ordered.
Two troopers of the Fourth Squad readied their weapons and moved closer to the opening. Their "Suppressors" gleamed with matte black paint, menacing against the white armor.
Typically, throughout the Stormtrooper Corps, only the commando squads and the incinerator troopers relied on such weaponry. They were the ones best trained for these operations. Yet in this newly formed 501st Legion, there were too few specialized troopers beyond a handful of "acid troopers," scouts, and a few others.
A conundrum developed: they had the equipment but not enough trained operators. Sergeant TNH-0297 submitted a request to battalion command, and Major Tierce—commanding the battalion to which Fourth Squad belonged—approved it. The rest was purely a matter of technique and experience. Neither of which posed a problem for Sergeant TNH-0297 and his eight troopers. Today was the perfect chance to show what they'd learned, diversifying the standard boarding tactics for large capital ships.
— Fire, — Sergeant TNH-0297 said over Fourth Squad's private comm.
They slid the nozzles of their flamethrowers through the crack, drawing the attention of the Red Gauntlet crewmen lurking behind the barricade. The troopers, as though in drill formation, simultaneously pulled their triggers.
The defenders of this docking section—which was on the same deck as the Destroyer's auxiliary command post—had only a moment to exchange panicked, despairing looks, fully aware of what was coming.
And then the corridor flooded with meters-long jets of searing flame, devouring oxygen, organic matter, and wall paint, melting the container metal and the plastic of blaster rifles.
A few minutes later, stepping over the near-cremated bodies of the crew, Fourth Squad advanced, clearing the reserve command deck.
***
— Red Gauntlet's main and secondary hangars are secure, — Captain Pellaeon reported. — Major Tierce's battalion is mopping up the bridge. Resistance is being suppressed on every deck. They're… using flamethrowers…
Gilad paused. Doubt flickered across his face.
— Some issue, Captain? — I inquired.
— Using flamethrowers to clear the corridors is highly effective, — he said, his voice wavering slightly. — No, sir, no problem.
— You believe employing "Incinerators" is excessive? — I clarified.
— We're not even giving them a chance to surrender, apparently, — his conscience seemed to be giving him grief.
— Indeed? — The question came out rhetorical. — Captain, you have a habit of reminding me of the relevant circumstances—a useful habit, which I appreciate. Would you care to apply that skill to your own perspective?
— Meaning? — Pellaeon's face clouded over.
— Lieutenant Tschel, — I said to the junior officer who'd just approached. — Since Judicator's arrival, how many times have we offered the enemy a chance to surrender?
— Twice so far, Grand Admiral, — the young man said. — First when we dropped out of hyperspace, then again just before we boarded their ships, once our assault teams docked. Also, I have a report from the Strike-class cruiser captains, Grand Admiral. They confirm both escort carriers have capitulated and been secured. The Mon Cal cruiser is putting up organized resistance. On that second cruiser, Crusader's and Death's Head's squads are still fighting. They've thwarted attempted scuttling of the vessel. Clearing living decks now.
— Thank you, Lieutenant. You may resume your duties, — I told him, all the while keeping my gaze fixed on Pellaeon. — Well, Captain? Two offers of surrender—that's hardly few, is it?
— I can understand why Solo ignored it the first time, — Pellaeon sighed. — He still had multiple capital ships and likely thought we'd stop at that. But after his fleet was all but destroyed, surrounded, with assault squads about to storm his own bridge… I don't know, sir. It feels… the flamethrowers…
— You suggest we waste time and risk more troopers just to pacify our conscience?
— No, of course not, sir, — Pellaeon snapped. — It's just… it isn't terribly humane or even pragmatic—parts of the ship get damaged further. Potentially important systems might be destroyed, dragging out repairs.
— Not more than necessary, — I corrected. — Every Star Destroyer carries critical replacement parts and modules. We have four ships of the same class, plus an Interdictor. Your concerns, Captain, are unfounded.
— Yes, sir, — he echoed faintly.
I turned my chair to face him. He stood like a statue, lips tight, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes distant:
— We don't have the resources once available to the Galactic Empire, Captain, — I explained patiently. — Time and circumstances aren't on our side, and I have no desire to repeat demands of surrender multiple times for every general or soldier from the New Republic. Just as we accepted the reality around us, so must they. If we are to be taken seriously—as equals—nobody should see us as weak. Otherwise, any treaties with the New Republic or other parties will be under constant doubt. Recall how the Remnant's alliance with them ended when warlord Zsinj was in play.
— The Empire and the Republic did unite to destroy him, — Pellaeon said dully. — Then the scramble for territory began.
— Where the Empire only got the scraps, with the New Republic simply seizing all the worlds it wanted by force, — I continued. — Yet a fair division of Zsinj's holdings might have postponed further conflict for years.
— They aren't fighting each other right now, — Chimaera's commander objected.
— Indeed, — I gave a mild smile. — The New Republic is desperately trying to revive interstellar trade and gather allied sectors to its cause, while the Empire… well, they used me, you, and every assigned officer and soldier as their "weapon." Once an agreement humiliates one side, it's a hundred percent guaranteed the humiliated side will seek revenge.
History from my previous life—two world wars, countless conflicts—makes that clear. Official reasons for war are always overshadowed by deeper truths.
— Yes, you did mention that, sir, — Pellaeon exhaled. — If one side thinks the other weak, they won't negotiate as equals.
— It's unfortunate, but endless blood must be spilled before each side realizes a flawed peace is better than a "glorious" fight.
— I understand, sir, — Pellaeon sighed heavily. — Forgive my moment of introspection.
— Emotions affect all sentient beings, — I said philosophically. — To cast them aside is to become a war-droid.
— Or a stormtrooper, — Gilad muttered.
— Or a stormtrooper, — I agreed, turning back to watch events through the main viewport. — Captain, you'd oblige me by checking on the status of our damaged Strike cruiser and sending word to Tangrene. I want to know whether the promised heavy cruisers from Grand Moff Kaine have arrived at our base.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon nodded, heading toward the comm station.
***
A blaster bolt zipped overhead, followed by a near miss that scorched away part of his helmet's top layer.
But a stormtrooper isn't an ordinary man.
TNH-0297 was unmoved by how close he'd come to dying. Instead, he simply shifted the muzzle of his E-11 slightly and fired two short bursts into the chest of a Republic comms sergeant, sending him sprawling, body smoldering. The man's blaster pistol clattered from his dead hand.
A junior technician—a Zabrak—tried crawling toward the discarded weapon. A trooper next to the sergeant shot him in the thigh, forcing him to roll on the deck and clutch his wound.
Both stormtroopers crouched behind a technical console, using it as temporary cover. The corridor echoed with the crisp impacts of returned blasterfire. For now, they weren't in danger of being shot from behind, but that could easily change. The defenders' heavy volume of fire demanded a new approach.
Over the squad's internal comm, TNH-0297 gave an order. The troopers hidden behind cover in the other half of the corridor opened suppressive fire. Shots hammered the console, silencing the defenders. Instead, shrieks of dying men echoed—a testament once again to the stormtroopers' lethal accuracy.
TNH-0297 peered around his cover, confirming the enemy no longer dared challenge five rapid-fire blaster rifles. A single human hand stuck out from around the corner, blind-firing a heavy pistol—classic smuggler's tactic with minimal chance of hitting anything.
With a comrade in tow, TNH-0297 edged down the corridor, training his sights on the corner. The instant the pistol hand turned toward them, he was just two meters away.
As the last blaster shot fizzled, the sergeant stepped forward, slamming the butt of his rifle onto the foe's arm and pinning it against the bulkhead. A muffled Corellian curse came from around the corner as the pistol clattered free.
TNH-0297 seized the man's thumb in a painful hold, twisting it brutally while handing his E-11 to the trooper behind him. Freed of his weapon, he cranked the arm upward, forcibly dragging the occupant into the corridor from that blind spot—a man in black trousers with signature Corellian stripes, wearing a white shirt and dark vest. Though he grimaced in pain, trying to resist, TNH-0297 recognized him instantly. A wound beneath his vest indicated a half-burn from a blaster shot—painful, but not lethal right now.
Holding the captive in a punishing grip, ignoring the man's quips, TNH-0297 opened a comm channel to the battalion commander. He had critical information for the mission's success…
***
They half-dragged him to the main hangar, thanks to the burn dressing that made walking so agonizing. The stormtroopers had him by both arms, nearly carrying him.
Han was only briefly letting his feet touch the deck—but that was preferable.
Let the "dolls" carry him; it saved his battered knee. The joint ached constantly, his right wrist was nearly broken, and there was also that blaster wound…
— Hey, watch it, buddy, — Han snapped at a stormtrooper whose white armor bore faint sergeant markings, when the trooper abruptly rounded a corner and yanked Solo so hard his legs almost tore off at the hips. — I'm not a cargo crate!
The trooper ignored him, marching swiftly to his destination.
Ugh, but it had started so well…
Which only made it worse, like stepping at the edge of a deep crevasse, ground crumbling underfoot, buffeted by a ruthless wind…
That knot in his gut—the knowledge of a colossal mistake—just kept twisting, especially as they passed blackened corridors and compartments scorched by flamethrowers. Judging by how deftly these white-armored Imperials packed charred remains into body bags, they had no other urgent tasks. So presumably, all Red Gauntlet's defenders were either dead or surrendered. Hard to tell which fate was "better." From Intel reports, plus personal experience, Han knew that sometimes the grave was kinder than an Imperial prison.
But to be burned alive with a flamethrower…
He shivered involuntarily.
Inhuman.
Finally, they stopped. While he was lost in thought, the troopers had reached the main hangar. By Imperial design, this broad space housed large vessels, shuttles, and VIP craft unsuited for standard launch racks.
And the hangar wasn't, as Han feared, littered with dead defenders or firing squads. Nor was it teeming with stormtroopers on high alert. Two Lambda shuttles had just lifted off, presumably carrying wounded "dolls."
All in all, it looked as though nothing had happened here, as though Red Gauntlet's defenders surrendered the hangar without a fight. This in itself unsettled him. He distinctly recalled three hundred anti-boarding troopers stationed to hold the main hangar. They wouldn't have given up so easily.
— I don't like this, — he muttered under his breath, glancing around while the squad that delivered him took positions along the far wall. He felt a sickening sense in his gut.
He'd seen a scenario like this before: Stormtroopers preparing for the arrival of some high-ranking person. No wonder everything was so tidy. Probably had an entire team of techs tidy up, all for show. Typical Imperial pageantry for top brass.
Someone important was about to come aboard. Could it be this new "grand admiral" in person?
Next moment, a pang seized his ribs.
With all the grace a heavily modified, well-worn ship could manage, a YT-1300 light freighter with unmistakable modifications rose into view, crossing the bluish field of the atmospheric shield.
Han wanted to squeeze his eyes shut until the mirage vanished, or shake his head until that sight disappeared. But no. He couldn't hide from the facts, no matter how it tore at him or how badly he wanted to break free of the troopers and run to his beloved craft on which Leia had departed to meet Talon Karrde, with Chewbacca in tow.
Deliberately slow, as if flaunting itself for certain onlookers, the Millennium Falcon hovered over the landing deck on repulsors.
Han clenched his jaw, straining to hear the calm hum of his ship's systems. A bitter realization stabbed at him that Imperial techs must have replaced stabilizers and overhauled the flow controllers for such perfect performance. He wanted to howl like a Wookiee, lashing out at whoever's meddling hands had rummaged around inside his beloved craft. But that wasn't the top priority. In the end, the ship was just hardware…
If only… as that boarding ramp lowered… Chewie or the slender figure of an Alderaanian princess stepped down, alive and well. That was what he truly wanted. The Imperials could keep the ship if they just returned Leia and Chewbacca.
"And Lando," his loyalty nagged, stirring shame.
Yes, Lando too. Or Madine, that old scoundrel. Come on, come on…
But that hope turned to dust.
Instead of those dear faces he yearned to see, down the ramp strode someone he least expected…
Scarlet-and-black uniform, a vibro-pike resting lightly on his right shoulder, a closed crimson helmet with black visor… Alongside him, on the other side of the ramp, some gray-skinned freak. Maybe a servant or a slave? Who would keep such a freak—jutting lower jaw, hateful eyes? Only an idiot. Though rumor said the Rebellion (and now the New Republic) had presumably killed all the Imperial idiots—and geniuses. Maybe one was still left?
He stared, stunned. But simultaneously, he realized it was a ruse. Some "Imperial Guard" traveling with a gray alien? That made no sense. Palpatine's Royal Guards never served side-by-side with an alien. Whoever staged this was clueless about a certain Corellian's intelligence.
He barely had time to think further as troopers seized his arms again and hustled him onto the ship. Han still clung to a hope that maybe it wasn't the real Millennium Falcon.
But as soon as he got closer, he spotted about ten distinct marks, dents, and scuffs that no one could replicate unless they'd flown through an asteroid field while fleeing a Star Destroyer commanded by a father-in-law who'd told TIE squadrons, "Crush my pesky son-in-law's rust bucket."
Han shivered, recalling how things might have gone differently after Hoth if Vader had known about his other child beyond Luke—Leia, whose planet he'd watched Tarkin destroy.
After Endor, Han often wondered whether Vader's choice to freeze him in carbonite, instead of killing him, was an unconscious nudge from the Force, as Luke liked to say. Maybe the Sith Lord had gleaned from the Force that it wasn't best to kill the wily Corellian flirting with the princess… If he truly wanted him dead, why not do it outright, rather than test-freezing him? Did he not trust the carbon-freezing rig's safety for Luke without trying it on a "guinea pig"…?
Never had Han felt so much discomfort stepping aboard his own ship. No, it didn't look like the Imperials had changed the interior at first glance. But the Imperial Guard forcibly dragging him by the scruff like a misbehaving pet was disconcerting.
He must have been too lost in thought to notice being handed off "from one set of arms to another."
— Keep your hands to yourself, — Han snapped, when the guard easily hoisted him over a small structural brace in the Falcon's corridor, carrying him like a life-size doll—without even panting. Was that a human being at all?
The guard and the gray alien who accompanied him paid no attention. They simply shoved him into the central lounge—his own lounge, aboard his own ship. He almost went sprawling but managed to keep his balance, leaning on one leg.
— I won't forget that, — he told the guard. The guard just continued on as though indifferent, moving around the Dejarik seats…
The gray alien withdrew to a shadowy corner, crouching with a glance at Han as though uninterested. Han, limping on his injured leg and wincing from the pain in his side, briefly eyed the holochess table…
— Welcome aboard the Millennium Falcon, General Solo, — a voice said, as rich and layered as fine liqueur. But its source…
Blue skin, pristine white uniform, gold-plated epaulets, and eyes that glowed crimson…
— I am Grand Admiral Thrawn, Supreme Commander of the Imperial Armed Forces, — he said in a resonant officer's voice. So… a "he," presumably. A humanoid, yet with dark-blue skin and blazing-red irises… Some bizarre near-Duros quirk? — Delighted to finally meet you in person, General Solo.
Han tried to speak but choked on his words.
— Rukh, — that same voice, soft yet commanding, addressed the gray alien. — Bring refreshments.
The ex-smuggler hardly processed what was happening when the alien vanished from his corner, reappearing beside… well, him—this "Thrawn"—presenting an elegant tray of chilled drinks on the gaming table. Blink, and he was gone again, back in his corner, face impassive.
— Please, General Solo, have a seat, — the stranger with the fiery gaze gestured at the bench next to him. Well, not directly next to him but at the other end. And behind that seat towered the guard who'd manhandled Han.
— Thanks, I'd rather stand, — Han said, still rattled.
— Your pride is harming your well-being, General, — that voice was strangely gentle, as though speaking to an old friend or a revered figure from the past. — Guard, help the General…
— Whoa, no no, — Han grimaced and limped to the bench on his own. After a couple steps, his knee howled with pain so fiercely he'd have sat next to the devil himself if it relieved the agony. Maybe that's exactly who this is…
— After our conversation, you'll receive the medical attention you need, — this "Thrawn" said politely. — My apologies for the circumstances of our meeting, but you shouldn't have come to the Noghri homeworld. Especially after you scouted it earlier, then returned with a large fleet. I don't take lightly to threats against my allies. I trust you understand.
— Sure, — Han said through gritted teeth. Was he mocking him? He'd destroyed a dozen warships in orbit, then offered a polite apology? — Ahem… Grand Admiral, how about telling me where the hidden camera is so we can end this charade?
Those glowing red eyes settled on Solo. A chill crept down Han's spine, his teeth almost chattering, sweat beading on his forehead.
— Explain, — Thrawn demanded calmly.
— Since when does the Empire employ aliens, let alone place them at top command posts? — Whose ship was this anyway?
Han leaned back as if it were his own living space, appraising the unruffled "Imperial."
— Ever since it became profitable for the Emperor, — the other's expression didn't flinch. Something about that usage of "Emperor" rankled Han. Could it be a slip referencing that old maniac? Or was it a phantom of the past? Even now, many sectors refused to believe Palpatine was really gone. — But let's not dwell on me. We're here to talk about you, General.
— Really? — Han narrowed his eyes. Fine, leave that for later. He should glean more intel. — You claim such a high rank, but I recall something else. The Imperial Navy only ever admitted humans—and even then rarely women—into the top echelons. I never heard of an alien Grand Admiral. And the entire dozen were wiped out by the New Republic.
— Come now, Captain Solo, — Thrawn unexpectedly smiled. The expression seemed sinister. — You can't believe every piece of Alliance propaganda truly depicts the actual state of the Imperial Court. Let me disappoint you: each of your arguments is incorrect.
— And you're living proof the Emperor might bestow the highest rank on a nonhuman? — Han asked cynically.
— Emperor Palpatine alone decided who was or wasn't effectively "human," — Thrawn replied without a hint of emotion, though an aura of authority surrounded him. — Allow me to allay your concerns. You see a non-human and believe the Emperor would never grant such a lofty rank to a different species. Let me correct you: you're wrong.
— In what sense? — So what was this "friendly chat?"
— Perhaps you know the name Danetta Pitta? — Thrawn inquired.
— Which Corellian doesn't know about the "Protector of Corellia"? — Han scowled. — As I recall, Pitta was one of the first Grand Admirals who claimed the Corellian sector to rule personally—and died in a fight with a colleague.
— Indeed, neither he nor Josef Grunger gained anything from their ambitions, — Thrawn nodded slightly. — You do know Pitta conquered many Outer Rim worlds for the Empire?
— And he systematically exterminated any nonhuman species, or sold them as slaves, — Han said in disgust. — That's some fanatical xenophobia.
— Indeed. One wonders what drove him to surpass even the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order in cruelty, no? — Thrawn probed Han's reaction. — He was fiercely loyal, no matter how monstrous his actions.
— Guess you have an answer in mind, right? No doubt you'll spin me some yarn hoping I'll trust you. And for what?
— I wouldn't contradict your perspective had I not discovered contradictory facts, — Thrawn said. — Returning to Pitta, he wasn't human. He had Bornek and Etti ancestry. He systematically destroyed records of that.
Han found it difficult to believe. But one could check the Imperial Palace archives, right? Did it matter?
— My own rank was granted by Palpatine, just as with the other twelve individuals who held it, — Thrawn continued. — The title of Supreme Commander was awarded me by the Imperial Ruling Council. So no cause to doubt the legitimacy of my words or any offers I might make.
— Oh, that's a relief, — sarcasm dripped from Han's voice. — Maybe you'd be so kind as to tell me what happened to the people who flew on this ship?
He tested if Thrawn could name them…
— I regret to say I don't know what your wife or Chewbacca are doing at present, — the Imperial said emotionlessly. — By the time this ship fell into my hands, there'd been no one aboard for some days, my techs say. Two or three, perhaps.
— Is that so, — Han noted how carefully the alien avoided specifics… maybe he meant he didn't know exactly what cell they were in? If they captured the Destroyer that Lando had used to ferry them, of course the ship was empty. One thing was sure: this azure-skinned guy was slippery. — So… how did you get such a top rank? Unless that's classified.
— It depends on what you consider classified, — Thrawn said philosophically. — As I mentioned, Palpatine personally appointed me after I completed a special assignment.
Han knew all about "special" assignments…
— The New Republic has intel on all twelve Grand Admirals we killed, — Han said. — You're not among them.
— Indeed not, — Thrawn said calmly. — At that time I was far from the Imperial Capital, for political and strategic reasons. The Palace courtiers had short memories and short tempers for those they disliked. As for your "complete info" claim… Please, General Solo. You're well aware that most of my colleagues didn't die at the hands of the Alliance or the New Republic. Pitta and Grunger, as we said, died by each other's hands. Ishin-Il-Raz flew his Star Destroyer into a star. Martio Batch was killed by his own flagship's crew. Demetrius Zaarin died at Palpatine's express order. Rufaan Tigellinus fell to court intrigue post-Endor. Along with Palpatine, Nial Declann perished aboard the second Death Star. Afsheen Makati died in the Corporate Sector a year later; Miltin Takel, same story. Possibly some both at the DS2 fiasco. Osvald Teshik was taken prisoner at Endor, executed by your Alliance. As for Octavian Grant, you know he joined your side and spent time in a comfortable prison—recently out, in fact, serving as a military consultant for your friend Councilor Borsk Fey'lya. So please don't brag about "Rebel glory" for deeds you hardly took part in.
Han swallowed hard. Grant? Working for a Bothan?
— You have proof he's cooperating with Fey'lya, or is that just talk? — he rasped.
— General Solo, the ambiance of the Millennium Falcon might be nostalgic, but let me remind you the Empire and the New Republic have no treaties or diplomatic agreements regarding intelligence sharing, — Thrawn said. — So, accept my words or discard them; it's your choice. I'm not pressing you, simply stating facts that challenge your empty accusations.
— So… you want me to believe that… Actually, what do you want me to believe?
— I had no agenda of persuading you, General Solo, — the alien said, sounding almost bored at repeating himself. — You're alive because I want a message delivered to Coruscant.
— Really now? — Han smirked. — Why not gather your brave fleet and just show up? Wait—I didn't mishear, right? "Coruscant" and not "Imperial Center"?
— Your hearing is fine, — Thrawn said. — Indeed, you got it right. I'm not playing with semantics because I have no fragile ego to protect. I deal in facts, and the fact is that the New Republic controls the old capital. Call it what you will. As for your invitation, I must decline for now.
— What invitation? — Han blurted, confused.
— Did you not just suggest, a moment ago, that I bring my fleet to Coruscant? — Thrawn asked, arching a brow.
— Ah, — Han fumbled. — I guess so. Right—why not drop me off in the capital…
— I predict your own people will pick you up in about two and a half days, — Thrawn said. A sense of dread seized Han. Possibly a trap. — I have other priorities.
— Mind if I ask what they are? — Han said quickly, before thinking.
— Preventing this galaxy from drowning in blood, — Thrawn responded calmly. — It's why I serve in the Imperial Fleet.
— Such noble Imperial officers, — Han sneered. — Did you feel noble burning my crew to death?
— I have no personal hatred for you or the New Republic, General, — Thrawn replied. — My job is to defend the Empire's worlds and those of its allies as Supreme Commander. That is what I do.
It sounded hollow.
— So Honoghr is an Imperial world? — Han pressed.
— Until recently, — Thrawn confirmed.
— Then you're the invader if it's no longer under Imperial control, Grand Admiral, — Han said triumphantly. — Right?
— Your reasoning has some basis, General Solo, — Thrawn said coolly. — But you violated Honoghr's borders. The Noghri asked me for help, so I provided it, thwarting an armed incursion.
— We didn't start a war, — Han said defensively. — I came to investigate…
— With a squadron of Star Cruisers? — Thrawn asked dryly. — General, it seems you've adopted those Coruscanti "double standards." I doubt an Academy graduate confuses "recon" with "military invasion." In my day, sending warships into a "neutral" star system, refusing local demands to leave, and landing armed troops with heavy equipment was by definition an invasion. If I'm wrong, please refute me.
— You guys fired first and blocked my ships, — Han retorted.
— Will you use that excuse to the Noghri matriarchs, whose sons died aboard those patrol craft you destroyed? — Thrawn said.
— I don't even know who the Noghri are, — Han growled.
— The Noghri… — Thrawn extended a white-gloved hand toward the dim corner where the gray alien waited. Han, meeting the creature's hateful stare, quickly focused back on Thrawn. "Oh, kriff," as Wedge would say. — I'm sure the last time you came in that freighter, you realized there were no active Imperial bases. So I have some questions I hope you'll answer.
Han gave a curt nod, unclasping his collar. It felt hot in here.
— Who gave you this system's coordinates? — Thrawn asked.
— He called himself "Sedriss," — Han said reluctantly. — Some of yours, apparently.
— The name's familiar, — Thrawn's tone dropped a fraction in warmth. — Where and when?
— Couple weeks back on Nar Shaddaa, — might as well. — I was looking for leads about my wife and friends. The informant never showed. Instead, Sedriss came, promising help to find Leia if I returned to service and struck Honoghr…
Han flinched at the sudden screech behind him. Glancing back, he saw the gray alien literally crushing a metal ventilation pipe with one bare hand. Not that the pipe was thick, but Han couldn't have done that himself. Chewie, maybe…
— Calm down, Rukh, — Thrawn commanded.
— You said he's a Noghri, — Han said, warily turning from the alien. — Or Rukh?
— Rukh is this particular Noghri's name, — Thrawn explained. — So what exactly did Sedriss promise?
— That if I destroyed the Imperial presence on Honoghr, I'd find Leia, — Han recalled.
— So you came to attack the planet and its facilities? — Thrawn clarified.
— I came to find out the truth, — Han snapped. — Last time I saw some old Imperial base, a working turbolaser on the surface, those orbiting patrol vessels of Imperial design, plus a transport that used to be ours from the Hast yards you guys destroyed. Plenty of proof Honoghr was Imperial.
— So you knew you were entering Imperial Space, General, — Thrawn said. Han felt ice form in his stomach. Who'd caught whom in a lie now? — Let's set that aside for the moment. You believed a single transport, some patrol craft, and a leftover base proved Honoghr's link to the Empire. That's plausible. But how does any of that prove a link to your wife's whereabouts?
— That's what I wanted to find out, — Han said. — You're a soldier too. I brought a fleet to figure out what was going on, maybe glean intel. We had no plan to burn the planet. "Base Delta Zero," as you Imperials say, wasn't on the table.
— Perhaps, — Thrawn replied. — But you never tried hailing them or negotiating.
— It… never came up, — Han murmured.
— No, — Thrawn said firmly. — You never tried, General. You simply brought your squadron "to blow some stuff up." — Han blanched, recalling that exact phrase with Wedge in the Imperial Palace. — Where were you to meet Sedriss next?
— We never discussed it, — Han said. — At the time, I… wasn't thinking straight. Thought maybe Leia was here, on this planet, so I wouldn't bombard it.
— You might simply have asked, General Solo, — Thrawn said. — The Noghri would have told you. Leia Organa Solo, or her brother, Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker, never has been or ever will be on Honoghr. Unthinkable.
— Why not? — Han asked.
— Rukh, — Thrawn beckoned. The gray alien stepped forward. — Explain.
— Your wife's father, from Clan Solo, enslaved the Noghri for almost thirty years, — the alien grunted in a low, hissing accent. They clearly weren't a meek species. A pang jabbed Han's heart… — We do not blame a child for the father's sins, but we won't welcome them here.
— My father-in-law sure was something… — Han bit his tongue. Turning to Thrawn, he asked, — Grand Admiral, what happens to my subordinates?
— As I said, you'll be sent to Coruscant, and your people remain prisoners, — Thrawn said.
— And these ships presumably stay with you? — Han asked hopefully. Even if it was a bit naive.
— Spoils go to the victor, — said Thrawn.
— Who is this Sedriss? — Han blurted.
— Enforcer for a warlord in the Deep Core—a faction of "Imperial revivalists," — Thrawn answered as if stating the obvious.
— Harrsk? Teradoc? — Han guessed.
Thrawn shook his head.
— Telling you his name won't help. On Coruscant, no one would believe you anyway, — he clarified. — You have no proof, so they'll ignore any claims. Also, you can't properly handle it.
— Suppose I want to trust you, — Han said, squinting.
— By all means, — Thrawn gave a distinctly human shrug. — In the Deep Core, on Byss, the Emperor Palpatine is either already reborn or plans to be.
Han felt sweat soak his palms, his face going slack. He wanted to shout, "No, you're lying!" Yet horrifyingly, he believed this azure-skinned being. Down to the trembling of his knees. But a part of him prayed Thrawn was messing with him.
— Tell me it's a joke, — Han begged.
— If you insist, I can say it's a joke, — Thrawn said, voice devoid of humor. — But that changes nothing. As I said, you're not ready to handle the truth. For you, everything ended at Endor, with Vader tossing the Emperor down that shaft. It didn't end there. He's returned, he's angry, and he'll strike at his foes with all his fury.
— Why tell me this? — Han rasped.
— You asked, and I indulged your curiosity, — Thrawn said.
Han forced himself to muster his trademark smirk, though it radiated no confidence. A true Corellian tries to be optimistic, right?
— So that's the plan, huh? — he rasped. — I go to Coruscant, spin this to Mon Mothma, and the New Republic shrivels in terror?
— Oh, you misunderstand, General Solo, — Thrawn corrected. — I never intended to threaten you. All I needed was to learn who engineered the attack on Honoghr. I have that knowledge. Soon you'll head home.
— Care to explain? — Han asked warily. — This "Sedriss" is clearly an Imperial, you're Supreme Commander, Palpatine is your Emperor—if he's alive. Then why is his Enforcer trying to undermine you?
— Because I refuse to be his scapegoat for saturating the galaxy in blood, — Thrawn said quietly. — I have no wish to be his personal executioner. That guard behind me personally saw the forces Palpatine has in the Deep Core. Thousands of ships, millions of elite soldiers. When the onslaught begins, no one avoids it. Such mass slaughter isn't in my plans. But if it comes down to it, I'll fight for myself, my people, and the brand of the Imperial war machine we represent.
— You're acting like the Empire's not the ultimate evil…
— It never was, — Thrawn said. — Like any state, it has positives and negatives. I and my people prefer the positives. But if attacked, if our home in the New Territories is threatened, we'll respond. The thrashing we gave you here over Honoghr will seem child's play in comparison.
Visions of burnt skeletons from his own crew flashed in Han's mind.
— A thrashing, you say? — he ground his teeth. — More like a massacre, Thrawn.
— I'll repeat it as many times as it takes for your government and generals to grasp that what's mine is not to be touched, — Thrawn said patiently, as though addressing a child. — Attack my worlds, and I'll exterminate you or any foe without mercy, no time-outs.
Han sensed that this blue-skinned man could indeed crack jokes—but wasn't aiming for "funny."
— So maybe give me a map marking your sectors and systems? — Han asked ironically.
— I already have that map. Everything the Empire holds, or the Remnant, or worlds choosing to join us, is under my protection, — Thrawn said.
— That's vague, — Han said. — You know as well as I do, no one's going to watch passively as you oppress entire species.
— You speak from ignorance, General. The Empire of old enslaved worlds, exterminated species, indulged in destructive public horrors. The forces under me have learned from that. Alien races under the Imperial Remnant accepted it of their own free will. I assure you, there's no one inside my Empire who wants to secede.
— Hard to buy that, Grand Admiral, — Han admitted.
— Then why, on Coruscant, have there been no pleas from them for help or to join the New Republic? — Thrawn asked.
Han hesitated.
— I'm not a politician…
— Exactly why I chose to talk with you, General, — Thrawn said sharply. — If I wanted to chat with Mon Mothma or Fey'lya, I'd have already done so by taking Coruscant, — Han stared to see if that was a joke. Thrawn looked deadly serious. After this slaughter, the last thing he wanted was to test that. — But I have no interest in empty prattle. You wondered why Palpatine's records never mentioned a thirteenth Grand Admiral, given the standard doctrine of exactly a dozen. Based on our conversation, I believe you'll interpret my answer correctly. If you truly wish to hear it.
Frankly, if Thrawn never once lied… Hutt, better let him talk?
— I do, — Han said. After all, when else might he glean so much from a high Imperial source? Even if it was worthless without proof.
— There are two versions, — typical. He never gave a direct statement. — The first says I was exiled to the Unknown Regions for meddling in court intrigue, that Palpatine banished me to chart territory unfit for civilized men. Everyone assumed I'd never return, so they conveniently forgot me and pretended the Emperor never favored some alien. Then, once the Emperor fell, rivals perished, I came back to conquer the galaxy, — no anger or bitterness tinted his voice, as if reciting from a script. — The second version contends that nothing in the Imperial Court ever happened behind the Emperor's back. He knew the entire court wanted that favored alien dead, so they staged a show "exile" so I could subjugate the Unknown Regions in the Emperor's name. The alien succeeded, but encountered unspeakable threats and decided to come back, warning the galaxy about what it faces unless these pointless squabbles end.
Han glanced warily at the Imperial Guard standing nearby.
— Where's the catch? — he asked.
— No catch, — Thrawn assured him. — Which version is true? You decide. And you alone bear the consequences. Maybe your Jedi friend told you how each person's choice shapes the future for everyone?
— Luke never said any such thing, — Han admitted.
— Perhaps it's never too late to broaden one's horizons, no? — Thrawn suggested. — Your assault troops under Lieutenant Page learned something new about wrecking Noghri farmland.
— Are any of them alive planetside? — Han asked reluctantly. Then, clarifying, — My troops, I mean?
— Of course, — Thrawn said. — The survivors of the combined Noghri and 501st Legion engagement are prisoners.
— I thought the 501st was disbanded, — Han grimaced. He had unpleasant memories of them.
— Military bureaucracy can be tricky, Captain, — Thrawn said. Suddenly his commlink beeped. — Forgive me, General. Duty calls. Either remain on this ship until we find you a suitable transport, or I can arrange for you to travel otherwise. I'll return to Chimaera by shuttle. Rukh, — the alien stood, — see to the General's comfortable accommodations, then bring the ship back to the hangar.
— I was hoping you'd let me go on the Falcon, — Han ventured.
Thrawn measured him with a calculating stare.
— As I said, General Solo, I don't relinquish what's mine. And this ship is my prize.
— Right… sure… — Han replied numbly. Then it clicked. — Did… did you say "Chimaera"?
— Indeed, your hearing remains excellent, — Thrawn said, pausing to meet the Corellian's gaze. — Chimaera is the name of my flagship.
— Something about that name is familiar, — Han frowned. — Not just from your recent visit to Agamar… Grand Admiral, have we met before?
— Not in person, General, — Thrawn said. — I was in the Poln system when a warlord from the Unknown Regions, Nuso Esva, attempted to incite war between the Empire and the Rebel Alliance.
— I take it you resolved that? — Han recalled an Imperial commander who gleaned a confession from Nuso Esva, exposing his master plan. Rumors circulated throughout half the Empire in those days, overshadowed by the Battle of Endor…
— Yes, that was me, — Thrawn said simply. As though preventing a massacre was no big deal.
— You've a knack for manipulating your enemies, — Han recalled that story's details. Possibly it was him behind so many New Republic fiascos. — So… you ever fail at something?
— Once, — Thrawn said. — Had the Emperor heeded my security recommendations for a certain ground site covering a major construction project, the Rebel Alliance would have ceased to exist.
A chill raced along Han's spine.
— Where was that? — he asked softly, fearing the answer.
— The forest moon of Endor, — Thrawn answered calmly.
While Han grappled with the shock, Thrawn departed the lounge.
And the Corellian prayed that the bizarre Grand Admiral wasn't going to wipe out the New Republic.
At least… not completely.