It was, for the most part, a waste of Ba’kif’s time. Fortunately, extensive experience in the military had taught him how to listen to politicians with half his mind while focusing the other half on more urgent matters.
The Speakers and syndics wanted to know who had attacked the Ascendancy. They were looking in the wrong direction.
The more interesting question was not who, but why.
Because the Obbic had been right. No one attacked Csilla for the fun of it. That went double for an attack that cost three major warships without providing any obvious gain. Either the attacker had misjudged badly, or else he’d achieved a more subtle goal.
What could such a goal look like?
The majority of the Syndicure clearly assumed the attack had been a prelude to a more sustained campaign, and once they finished their posturing they would undoubtedly start urging the Defense Force to pull its ships inward for the protection of the major systems. More than that, they would probably insist the Expansionary Defense Fleet likewise withdraw from the borders to augment them.
Was that the goal? To keep the Chiss looking inward and not outward? In which case, bowing to the Syndicure’s demand for security would play directly into the enemy’s plans. On the other hand, if the syndics were right about this being the start of a full-fledged campaign, leaving the Espansionary Fleet out in the Chaos could be an equally fatal move. Either way, if they guessed wrong, it would be too late to correct the error by the time they knew the truth.
But as Ba’kif weighed the possibilities, it occurred to him that there was one other possibility. Perhaps the attack wasn’t meant to draw the Ascendancy’s attention from something that was about to happen, but to distract it from something that had already happened.
And that possibility, at least, he could look into right now. Surreptitiously, he keyed a search order into his questis.
Midway through the Cupola session, as he continued to make his soothing noises to the Aristocra, he had the answer.
Maybe.
One of Ba’kif’s aides was waiting when the general finally made it back to his office. “Were you able to locate him?” Ba’kif asked.
“Yes, sir,” the aide said. “He’s on Naporar undergoing his final round of physical therapy for the injuries sustained during the Vagaari pirate operations.”
Ba’kif scowled. Operations that, while successful in a military sense, had been a complete disaster on the political front. Months later, many of the Aristocra were still brooding over that whole mess. “When will he be free?”
“Whenever you wish, sir,” the aide said. “He said he would be at your disposal whenever you wanted him.”
“Good,” Ba’kif said, checking the time. Half an hour to bring the Whirlwind to flight status, four hours to get to Naporar, another half hour to get a shuttle down to the Chiss Expansionary Fleet medcenter. “Inform him that I want him ready in five hours.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide hesitated. “Do you want the order logged, or does this qualify as a private trip?”
“Log it,” Ba’kif said. The Aristocra might be unhappy when they found out about this—the Syndicure might even assemble a tribunal somewhere down the line to waste more of his time with useless questions—but Ba’kif was going to do things strictly by the book. “Order from Supreme General Ba’kif,” he continued, hearing his voice drop into the tone he always used for formal orders and reports. “Preparing transport for myself and Senior Captain Mitth’raw’nuruodo. Destination: Dioya. Purpose: investigation of a derelict ship found two days ago in the outer system.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide said briskly. His voice was studiously neutral, giving away nothing of his own personal feelings on the matter. Not all those who thought poorly of Captain Thrawn, after all, were members of the Aristocra.
At the moment, Ba’kif didn’t care about any of them. He’d found the first half of the why.
Now there was only one person he trusted to come up with the other half.
Of all the duties foisted on mid-ranking family members, Aristocra Mitth’urf’ianico thought sourly as he strode down the senior school hallway, recruitment was one of the worst. It was boring, involved way too much travel, and more often than not was a waste of time. Here on Rentor—physically close to Csilla yet paradoxically in the backwater of the Chiss Ascendancy—he had no doubt what the outcome of the trip would be.
Still, when a general—even a newly minted one—said he had a promising recruit, it was incumbent on the family to at least check it out.
General Ba’kif was waiting in the assembly overlook balcony when the Aristocra arrived. The expression on the general’s face was one of controlled eagerness; the face itself was far too young to be attached to a field-grade officer. But then, that was what family connections were for.
Ba’kif’s eyes lit up as he spotted his visitor. “Aristocra Mitth’urf’ianico?” he asked.
“I am he. General Ba’kif?”
“I am he.”
And with that formality over, they could move on to the far less awkward use of titles and core names. “So where is this student you thought was worth my flying halfway across the planet for?” Thurfian asked.
“Down there,” Ba’kif said, pointing at the lines of students reciting the morning vows. “Third row back on the right.”
So he was a line leader? Impressive, but only mildly so. “Name?”
“Kivu’raw’nuru.”
Kivu. Not a family Thurfian was familiar with. “And?” he prompted as he pulled out his questis and keyed in the family name.
“And his grades, aptitude, and logic matrix are off the boards,” Ba’kif said. “Makes him a prime candidate for the Taharim Academy on Naporar.”
“Mm,” Thurfian said, peering at the record. Kivu was about as obscure a family as the Chiss Ascendancy had ever spawned. No wonder he’d never heard of them. “And you contacted us why?”
“Because the Mitth still have two appointment slots left for this year,” Ba’kif said. “If you don’t bring Vurawn in, he won’t have another chance until next year.”
“Would that be such a catastrophe?”
Ba’kif’s face hardened. “Yes, I believe it would,” he said, offering his own questis. “Here’s his school record.”
Thurfian pursed his lips as he scrolled down the screen. He’d seen better, but not very often. “I don’t see any indication that his family has prepped him for military service.”