But he was an Aristocra of the Mitth, and it wasn’t his job to approve or disapprove of his family’s decisions. His job was merely to do the tasks he was given.
Perhaps someday that would change.
“No, no trouble,” he said. “I just received word that you’ve been accepted.”
Vurawn turned widened eyes on him. “Already?”
“Yes,” Thurfian confirmed, secretly enjoying the other’s confusion. So he could be surprised. And at least he knew enough politics to recognize the unusual nature of the situation. “We’ll presumably go through the ceremony when we reach the compound.”
“As a merit adoptive, I assume?”
So the kid also knew something about the Ruling Families. “That’s where everyone starts,” Thurfian told him. “If and when you go through the Trials, you’ll move up to Trial-born.”
“And then ranking distant,” Vurawn said thoughtfully.
Thurfian huffed out a silent breath. That, at least, would never happen. Not to someone from such an insignificant family. “Perhaps. For now, just start getting used to the name Mitth’raw’nuru.”
“Yes,” the boy murmured.
Thurfian studied him out of the corner of his eye. The boy might bring glory to the Mitth, the way Ba’kif thought. He might just as easily bring shame and regret. That was how the universe operated.
But either way, it was done.
Vurawn was no more. In his place now stood Thrawn.
There were times, Ba’kif thought distantly, when it was good for a man to stare out of the relative stability of the Chiss Ascendancy into the Chaos. It was a chance to appreciate all that the Ascendancy was, and all that it meant: order and steadfastness, security and power, light and culture and glory. It was an island of calm amid the twisted hyperspace lanes and the ever-changing pathways that slowed travel and stunted trade for all those who lived out there.
The Chaos hadn’t always been that way, or so the legends went. Once, at the dawn of space travel, it had been no more difficult to move between any of the stars than it was now to travel in the Ascendancy. But then, millennia ago, a series of chained supernova explosions throughout the region had sent huge masses tumbling at high speeds between the stars, some of them demolishing asteroids or whole worlds, others sparking more supernovas with their near-lightspeed impacts. The movement of all those masses, coupled with regions of heavy electromagnetic flux, resulted in the constantly changing hyperlanes that made any voyage longer than a couple of star systems difficult and dangerous.
But that instability was a two-bladed knife. The limitations that stifled travel and thus helped protect the Chiss from invasion also slowed recon and intelligence gathering. There were dangers out there in the darkness, hidden worlds and tyrants who sought conquest and destruction.
One of those tyrants had apparently now set his sights on the Ascendancy.
“Are you certain this is the way?” he asked the young woman at the helm of their shuttle.
“Yes, General, I am,” she said. A flicker of controlled pain crossed her face. “I was part of the team that found it.”
Ba’kif nodded. “Of course.” There was another short silence, another moment of gazing out at the distant stars—
“There,” the woman said suddenly. “Ten degrees to starboard.”
“I see it,” Ba’kif said. “Take us alongside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Their ship moved forward, steadily closing the distance. Ba’kif gazed out the viewport, his stomach tight. It was one thing to see holos and recordings of a destroyed refugee ship. It was something else entirely to look personally upon the stark reality of slaughter.
Beside him, Senior Captain Thrawn stirred. “This wasn’t pirates,” he said.
“Your reasoning?” Ba’kif asked.
“The damage pattern is designed to destroy, not immobilize.”
“Perhaps the majority of the destruction was inflicted after they plundered it.”
“Unlikely,” Thrawn said. “The angle of the majority of the shots indicates an attack from the rear.”
Ba’kif nodded. That was the same analysis and logic he’d followed, and it had taken him to the same conclusion.
That logic plus one more crucial, terrible fact.
“Let’s get the obvious question out of the way,” he said. “Is this ship at all related to the ones that attacked Csilla two days ago?”
“No,” Thrawn said promptly. “I can see no artistic or architectural connection between them at all.”
Ba’kif nodded again. That, too, had been his conclusion. “So it’s possible the two incidents are unrelated.”
“If so, it would be an interesting coincidence,” Thrawn said. “I consider it more likely that the attack on Csilla was a diversion to draw our attention inward and away from this event.”
“Indeed,” Ba’kif agreed. “And given the cost of the diversion, it further suggests someone really doesn’t want us taking a good look at this ship.”
“Indeed,” Thrawn said thoughtfully. “I wonder why they left the wreckage instead of destroying it completely.”
“I can tell you that, sir,” the pilot put in. “I was on the patrol ship that spotted the attack. We were too far away to intervene or to get any real sensor data, but the attacker apparently spotted our approach and decided not to risk a confrontation. By the time we arrived and began our investigation, it had escaped back into hyperspace.”
“So we already knew about the attack,” Ba’kif added. “The diversion was then presumably an attempt to push it out of our attention.”
“At least until more time had passed,” Thrawn said. “How much time, sir, do you estimate?”
Ba’kif shook his head. “Impossible to say for certain. But given the Syndicure’s outrage at the Csilla attack, I’m guessing they’ll keep up the pressure on the fleet to find the culprits for at least the next three or four months. Assuming, of course, that we don’t identify them before then.”
“We won’t,” Thrawn said. “From the recordings I saw of the attack, the ships looked old, even marginally obsolete. Whoever their master was, he chose ships that’ll most likely bear little resemblance to what he’s using now.”
Ba’kif smiled grimly. “But then, a little resemblance may be all we need.”
“Perhaps.” Thrawn gestured toward the wrecked ship. “I assume we’ll be going aboard?”