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Chapter Text

There were times when Eli Vanto prided himself on his diplomatic skills. Not just in the grand scheme of things, where pompous politicians and high ranking officers were involved, but also on a more personal level. These were the skills that had helped him adapt as a total outsider in a society that wasn’t necessarily open to welcoming him.

True, Thrawn had handled being in the same situation with much more grace but most people tended to look bumbling next to Thrawn. In any respect. His former mentor had a way of staying poised even when failing and Eli couldn’t begrudge him for that. Even if he envied him for it sometimes.

At the end of the day, though, the Chiss were ultimately reasonable beings. They had a ways to go when it came to how they treated the unknown and foreign but they weren’t up there with the worst species in that regard.

That said, there were of course exceptions…

Eli winced as the Chiss captain raised his voice, swinging his arm in a cutting motion that made a nearby officer scurry away while the man standing in front of him could only brace himself and endure the onslaught. The Chiss’ face was contorted in fury and Eli doubted Ronan could even understand him at this point, what with the way the words got lost under the vitriol.

(Heck, Eli could barely understand him… Though he did catch the insults. The nasty xenophobic kind, he noted grimly.)

Ronan himself stood completely still under the assault, his lips thin and pressed together to the point of going white. He hadn’t so much as twitched or said a thing since the officer’s tirade began – a state Eli was almost creeped out to see him in; that wasn’t the Ronan he knew – and he seemed to have shut down, his stare fixed somewhere above the captain’s shoulder though the tense puckered wrinkles around his mouth said otherwise.

And all of this over a simple mispronunciation, Eli fumed privately.

Ronan no doubt saw the injustice of it all but he was smart enough to understand that talking back to the captain now wouldn’t lead to anything good down the road. Not with the Chiss this intent on humiliating him.

There was another raise in volume and Eli once again wished he didn’t have to witness this spectacle. More than anything he wished Ar’alani was here to diffuse the situation and talk some sense into the captain but alas, Ar’alani was far away and they were surrounded by unfamiliar faces on this ship – a new post Csilla had assigned them to not too long ago seemingly out of the blue.

Something about the Chiss wanting to see if Ronan and Vanto were truly cut out for the fleet or if their service only showed results under Ar’alani’s command, an admiral loyal to Thrawn and who could be covering their failings to help him save face.

Well, Eli didn’t know about covering. But Ar’alani had certainly been more patient and lenient than he’d initially realized.

After a few more agonizing minutes, they were finally dismissed and allowed to retire to their shared private quarters.

Which brought them to the present moment, with Eli fumbling with his boots and desperately trying to seem casual while Ronan laid on his own bed, as still and as silent as a corpse and with his gaze fixated on the ceiling. They hadn’t said anything on their way here and the silence was beginning to weigh on him, thick and awkward and definitely not something they were used to.

He resisted the urge to chew on his lip.

He and Ronan hadn’t come anywhere near being friends since the latter had been dropped off at Ar’alani’s doorstep but they were still the only humans in this part of space and seeing Ronan like this, so quiet and decidedly not himself, made Eli uncomfortable.

Personal diplomacy, he reminded himself and braced for what he was about to do next.

He took a moment to pick his words and cleared his throat before making his tone into something casual.

“He didn’t have to be that rude you know, that word is especially tricky.”

He risked a glance in Ronan’s direction, pretending to wrestle with his boot’s fastenings. There was no reaction from the other bed save for some unintelligible mumbling.

Eli bit back a sigh.

“I know how you feel. I struggled with the language too at first. I still do.”

This time there was silence and Eli had to close his eyes and count to ten to muster the last of his resolve to go through with this. He’s difficult on the best of days, Eli reminded himself, you can do this. Plus, his pride was just obliterated in front of half the ship’s crew, what can you possibly do that’s worse?

He steeled himself once again.

“It’s actually their vocal cords.”

This one got him a reaction as Ronan’s disheveled head rose from the bed and Eli found himself the object of a scowl.

“What?”

Eli gestured vaguely at his throat.

“Their vocal cords,” he elaborated, “They’re biologically different. Which makes some sounds really tough for us to pronounce.”

Ronan’s frown deepened for a moment, bordering on a grimace, before he rolled his eyes and flopped back onto his pillow sullenly.

“Of course it does,” he grumbled and Eli felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and be replaced with relief. This was more like the Ronan he knew.

Which wasn’t normally a ‘good thing’ – the Ronan he knew was nothing but a pain in the ass, really – but it did make the air in the room lighter and Eli worked his boots all the way off before bringing his legs up and leaning back against the wall.

“I’m not sure if they know it though,” he said casually, “They’re not very tolerant about it.”

“You don’t say.”

Eli snorted at that. He supposed it was kind of obvious.

With that, the conversation trailed off and he allowed himself to relax somewhat, letting his mind drift and the day’s tension drain away as he traced patterns on the ceiling’s surface. He had just about decided to turn in for the day when a voice drifted up from Ronan’s bed and Eli snapped his head to him, blinking the thought away.

“I’m sorry?”

Ronan frowned again, his glare firmly in place.

“I said, if you would be so gracious to hear this time,” he sniffed. “Why are you here, Vanto?”

The question took a moment to register but when it did, Eli answered it with ease.

“Because Thrawn thought I would be useful here.”

Ronan didn’t seem to like that response and it instantly showed all over his face and the way his shoulders bunched under his uniform. It was a reaction Eli was used to seeing whenever Thrawn was brought up, the Assistant Director’s disposition towards him remaining ever so hostile despite having known him so briefly.

Eli had long given up arguing about it.

But then,

“Why are you being useful to them.”

His nose wrinkled and he glared right back at Ronan as it finally hit him where this exchange was headed. So this is what Ronan was going for? Trying to bait Eli into a conversation condemning the Chiss in general?

Well, he wouldn’t be getting it, he decided as he pointedly shifted his position against the wall.

“Because one day they may be useful to us,” he said, putting more force behind his words. “And I respect them. Why are you here?”

“Why are you here?”

Ronan felt his whole face spasm at that and turned back to stare at the ceiling stubbornly. He was not going to discuss this with Vanto.

But Vanto wouldn’t be Vanto if he didn’t decide to be infinitely irritating every five minutes and Ronan’s obvious reluctance to talk didn’t seem to deter him.

“Let me guess,” he began, ever so smug, “you wanted to gather information and pass it on to Krennic. Except that’s not working out very well for you.”

The words sent a jolt of indignation through him and he sent Vanto his best warning glare while the brazen yokel merely smirked back at him.

Curse him and his transient insights.

It was true – Ronan had hoped to expose whatever underhanded deal Thrawn had going on with his people or at least a hidden group of force sensitives that could potentially be a threat to the Empire. Yet all he’d found was a group of children who didn’t even know what the Force was and only used it to guide ships.

It was not merely bad luck but bad judgement. What was worse, he hadn’t reported to Director Krennic in weeks and he was fairly sure the Empire had lobbed him in the same category as Vanto by now: a coward, deserter or traitor or possibly all three, each one more damning than the last.

His lips thinned at the thought of the news reaching Director Krennic. His closest and most loyal subordinate gone after a frolic in deep space with Thrawn. Part of him wondered if the director would refuse to believe it and think Thrawn had been the one to get rid of him after the report that had cost him his funding… but if Ronan believed that, it was only because he wanted to.

A chilling idea suddenly occurred to him and he swallowed heavily.

“They haven’t let us contact the Empire once since I came here,” he said, the ball of dread in his chest growing as his mind took that train of thought and ran with it, taking it to all sorts of horrifying conclusions.

“I’m not even sure there is a way to contact them,” he finished quietly.

“The Chiss are very secretive.” Vanto shrugged, unbothered. “I’m not surprised we don’t have much contact with the rest of the galaxy.”

But Ronan’s sudden realization had already unmasked the obvious truth and he felt the color drain from his face as he shot up in his cot.

“Maker, Vanto… we’re never getting out of here are we?” He said fearfully and watched as Vanto’s brow scrunched up.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re never letting us leave,” Ronan insisted, “The Force navigators alone, they don’t want anyone knowing about that.”

Vanto nodded along in acknowledgment. “And we already do.”

Ronan’s horror mounted at his lackluster response but even more potent was the rage he felt at the fact that he’d essentially been tricked. Thrawn’s promises be damned, the Chiss had lied to him.

Ronan had been promised the opportunity to leave whenever he wanted and even a transport back to the Empire if it came to that. But those promises no longer held any water.

The Chiss had made it clear how adamant they were about not letting any information about their Sky Walkers or battle tactics fall into enemy hands, be it on purpose or by accident, and Ar’alani was nothing if not meticulous. Thrawn knew all that, he must have known all that when he put Ronan under her command.

He’d thought Thrawn above such dishonest tactics… Apparently, he’d been wrong. And now he would never go back to the Empire, never see Stardust finished and never stand at Director Krennic’s side again.

“Maker help us…” he said in a small voice and fell back in his cot as his despair gripped him. Form the corner of his eye he saw Vanto shake his head.

“This is why I keep telling you to drop your reservations,” he sighed, sounding oddly sincere. “The Chiss value loyalty and they’re very good at telling when you’re lying. Being honest with them and serving the Ascendancy earnestly guarantees that they’ll treat you fairly. And probably let you leave one day.”

The suggestion settled uneasy in Ronan’s gut and he once again felt the phantom pull of strings on himself. Platitudes and more false promises, his mind whispered angrily. He poured all of that contempt into his voice.

“Or maybe that was Thrawn’s plan all along,” he spat. “To make sure I wouldn’t leave.”

Vanto snorted.

“Why, because you’re such a big threat to him?”

“Because I’m loyal to Director Krennic. And I would do everything in my power to make sure he succeeds.” Ronan bit out though the words sounded hollow to his own ears. Vanto didn’t seem impressed by them either.

“If you say so.” He shrugged and turned to stare vapidly at the wall.

He didn’t seem to want to press the issue further but Ronan’s mind was already running a thousand light years a minute and he couldn’t stop the doubts from worming their way into his heart.

Back on the Chimaera’s bridge, Thrawn had maintained that Ronan was a dead man if he decided to return to Stardust. A frightening prospect for sure but Ronan had assured himself time and time again that this wasn’t the reason why he chose to leave. It was for the Empire’s good, for the whole galaxy’s good.

However now his conviction was beginning to falter.

If he were so loyal to Krennic he would have fought to stay with Stardust regardless if his life was on the line or not. His usefulness here was a mere possibility while his importance to Stardust’s speedy completion was fact.

Maybe his loyalty was not all he made it out to be after all. Instead of staying by Director Krennic’s side, especially when a troublesome character like Vader threatened to take over, he’d gone on some wild goose chase for force sensitives.

Something the Emperor’s vaunted inquisitors and that rabid lapdog of his should be doing. Ronan was an Assistant Director for Maker’s sake.

No, actually, stupid is what he was. Overthinking to the point of driving himself into a corner.

Curse Thrawn for tricking him into agreeing to this!

“Anyhow,” Vanto’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Thrawn never said anything about challenging Krennic.”

Ronan felt a fresh surge of zealous rage.

“And yet that’s what he did.” He got up to jab a finger into the mattress. “Even if he doesn’t see Director Krennic as his enemy, he still pushes for more financing for his Defender program. And those funds will end up being detracted from our project. From the true deterrent the galaxy needs.”

The outburst peaked and then simmered for a moment, eating away at the reluctant respect he’d come to have for Thrawn all those months ago, before suddenly ebbing away and leaving him exhausted.

“But anyway none of that matters now,” he said as he lowered himself back to the cot. “Not while we’re stuck here.”

From across the room Vanto sneered and moved to turn his back toward him.

“Maybe you’re stuck,” he scoffed, settling into his own bed. “I’m here of my own volition.”

Chapter Text

Ronan used to think that having to endure Vanto’s insipid company was a punishment in and of itself.

Only he wasn’t so sure of it now.

Staring at the intricate golden pattern on his sheets, he contemplated whether to trace it with his finger again or just pull the sheet over his head and try and get a few more hours of sleep.

Even in a simple suite like this the Chiss still liked their luxury. They had an affinity for gold patterns and dark colors and this whole room looked like an illustration from some exotic picture book despite being nothing more than a low end unit in the low-ranking bureaucracy’s housing district.

He vaguely remembered Vanto telling him that things weren’t the same in the secondary worlds. Apparently this kind of all-encompassing splendor was reserved for Csilla and doled out more sparingly in other places. But for all its gold embroidered glory, the planet itself was utterly depressing.

For if he were to step out of his suite now, Ronan knew, the textured fabrics and crystal furnishings would quickly give way to metal and roughly hewn rock. The whole place was essentially a hole in the ground, the underbelly of a pompous façade the Chiss went to great lengths to keep under wraps.

More secrets and more things fettering him to this place, Ronan thought bitterly and closed his eyes in despair. The despondency of his circumstances warred with his boredom and he wondered how long it would be before he started throwing crystal ornaments at the walls for fun.

Four days.

It had been four days since Vanto had been whisked away on some mission with Ar’alani, one requiring a smaller ship and a correspondingly small crew, while Ronan was left to rot in Csaplar.

Four days since he’d last seen another human face.

And two weeks since he’d realized the direness of his situation.

The sheets under his fingers suddenly felt cold and he turned to lay on his back with a shuddering, almost panicked sigh. He was handling this whole thing poorly.

Despite the apparent hopelessness of it all, his mind had been hard at work, turning over all kinds of escape scenarios in his head, from commandeering a Chiss ship to collusion with the enemy and all of them had wound up at a logical dead end because he had nowhere near the necessary resources to pull them off.  And that wasn’t even considering the fact that the Chiss had him under constant surveillance.

He had pleaded, bargained with whatever entity out there was listening for some miraculous opportunity to present itself but all of it had been in vain.

In the end, following hours of frustration and scheming, his sleep had begun to suffer.

The insomnia had in turn made way for exhaustion and exhaustion meant less mental fortitude to keep the mounting claustrophobia and paranoia at bay.

Even if he did return to the Empire, he’d concluded grimly, where would he go? In the unlikely case that the military took him back, Thrawn could easily hunt him down and deliver the punishment his people couldn’t when no one was looking. He wouldn’t even have to do it himself, Ronan thought cynically as he remembered the murderous look on Faro’s face.

He’d seen the ease with which Thrawn had brought Savit to the brink of madness. How hard could it be to instigate his own subordinates? Those same subordinates who were already jumping through hoops for him without a second thought.

(What kind of crew faced off against four Star Destroyers when their commander wasn’t even on board? Madness, it was complete madness…)

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he forced himself into a half sitting position.

“Yes?”

“Supreme General Ba’kif requests your presence in his office.”

He frowned to himself. Then wondered for a moment if there hadn’t been some mistake. He had already spoken at length to Ba’kif, his de facto handler on Csilla.

He’d questioned Ronan on his past, his qualifications, his service under Thrawn and his time with the Ascendancy so far, all standard procedure so far as Ronan could tell. Ba’kif would have of course already had that information, be it from Ar’alani or Thrawn or even Vanto, but he was testing Ronan for discrepancies and trying to get a sense for his attitude and loyalties.

Ronan hadn’t bothered to try hiding where those lied. If Thrawn could flaunt his true allegiance like that, then so could he. The Chiss was siphoning off imperial resources, plain and simple, and while his pretended innocence could fool Vanto, it wouldn’t cut it for Ronan.

Shaking his head with a grumble, he made to get off the bed. He briefly considered asking whatever secretary had been saddled with delivering the message if he had the right address but then changed his mind. The least they could do was keep proper track of their guests. Especially if those guests were one of a kind.

“Very well, I will be there shortly,” he said, garbling the last few consonants and finding great satisfaction in the fact that he no longer gave a damn. Retreating footsteps were the only sign that the messenger had heard him and he sneered at the lack of etiquette as he shucked the lounge robe off his shoulders, relishing the swish of long luxurious fabric as he did.

It was with a curious sense of loss that he set it down on the bed and headed out in his uniform. The same drab set of pants and tunic the Empire punished its own rank and file with.

The trip to Ba’kif’s office was one of the few he’d memorized (seeing as most of the damned city was off limits to him) and could be made on foot. Far enough to keep him away from the capital’s more important dealings but close enough to keep an eye on him.

By the time he was stood in front of Ba’kif’s door, his mood hadn’t improved much. He swallowed the apathy down with a sigh and raised a hand to knock.

“Come in,” Ba’kif’s voice called and Ronan reached for the controls. Predictably, the hatch opened after entry had been granted from inside.

The sight of the Chiss’ snow white hair and uniform made him want to raise his chin and straighten his back on reflex. But that was just reflex and his true feelings were more on the petulant side as he dragged himself to the large burgundy desk at the far side of the room.

“General,” he greeted vapidly, not waiting for permission to lower himself into a seat. This was his third visit to this place and he’d stopped being impressed by it long ago.

Ba’kif himself was a different story.

Loathe as he was to admit it, Ronan couldn’t help a sense of respect for the Chiss sitting opposite him and watching him with intelligent eyes. He couldn’t tell if the man was on the older side or if his coloring was some biological quirk – Chiss biology was still a mystery to him – but he certainly had an air of authority about him.

“Well.” Ronan crossed his arms in front of him. “Why am I here today?”

Disrespectful. Blunt. He really didn’t care at this point.

Ba’kif raised a single silver eyebrow.

“A good day to you as well, Lieutenant,” he said with a surprising lack of bite. Ronan had expected some kind of reaction but the General seemed as relaxed as always, almost unbothered.

“I hope you’re settling in well?”

Ronan felt his lips thin. As if he had a choice.

“Well enough,” he grumbled and watched as the Chiss reached for the questis on his desk.

“Good, that’s good. You don’t lack for anything here?”

A ride home, Ronan’s mind supplied sarcastically but it must not have shown on his face or else Ba’kif didn’t care enough to notice.

“I called you here today, hoping you would indulge me.” The questis was pushed over to his side. “Please. Take a look.”

Ronan reached for the device almost tentatively, his eyes running over the blue Cheunh script as he pulled it to himself.

It was a report of sorts. Some long winded document on a recent feud between two families with different accounts and a summary of the events that had sparked the conflict along with other relevant information.

Ronan found his rhythm quickly enough, his eyes skimming over the familiar bureaucratic jargon with ease, filtering out buzzwords and turgid filler to get to the meat of the text. Some of the Cheunh words put up a fight but the general gist of it was simple enough.

Still, the text was lengthy and took a while to get through. During that time, he and Ba’kif sat in silence and Ronan almost regretted it when he got to the end and had to set the questis aside, bringing his eyes up to meet Ba’kif’s.

“Well?” He crossed and uncrossed his legs under the desk “What do you want from me?”

Ba’kif, who Ronan had the uncomfortable feeling had been observing him all this time, shrugged and waved a hand. “Let’s start with the basics. What can you tell me about it?”

Ronan threw a quick glance at the screen as he formulated his answer.

“The Thuf are trying to gain favor with the Irizi.”

“Oh?”

Ba’kif leaned forward.

“And what makes you think that.”

It was Ronan’s turn to shrug. “They’re allied with the Chadok who are in good standing with the Mitth and they like to play it that way. At least they’re obnoxiously vocal about it. But a small mine on a minor world can’t keep them happy for long and that vein is drying quickly from the looks of it.”

“Is it now?”

“They wouldn’t be so frantic about it otherwise. Meanwhile their supposed ally is seeing huge success on nearby worlds and it doesn’t sound like they want to share it with anyone. It looks like the Thuf are trying to get the Mitth to side with them but that’s ridiculous when you know that the Chadok are one of the Forty. Most likely the Thuf have some dirty laundry on the Chadok business operation and are blowing this thing out of proportion to prompt an inspection. Jumping ship and securing firm ground under their feet.”

“By humiliating the Mitth and ingratiating themselves with the Irizi.” Ba’kif nodded.

“And trying to look innocent in the process,” Ronan finished with a huff.

Same old political maneuvering, different alien packaging. Just as obnoxious as it had been in the Empire, he decided as he looked around the office, desperately wishing for a cup of caf. Not that Ba’kif would have any caf but the urge for it was there anyway.

Ba’kif himself had fallen silent, one of his hands stroking his beard as he stared at a point somewhere above Ronan’s shoulder.

“Interesting… Tell me, Lieutenant, you’re not feeling your best today, are you?”

Ronan flinched in surprise and glared at Ba’kif, feeling his defenses rise.

“I had a bad night,” he all but ground out. One of many, in fact, but Ba’kif didn’t need to know that.

“I see.” Ba’kif’s hand stopped its thoughtful stroking. “Sleep deprived and yet you still managed to untangle that whole convoluted mess from just skimming the report once. Rather impressive.”

Ronan went still at that, caught completely off guard by the compliment. His moth opened and closed a few times as he processed it before he felt the urge to lower his eyes to his lap.

“I’m good at administration.” He mumbled lamely.

“So you are.”

Silence stretched between them again, this one decidedly more awkward, and Ronan felt his nerves get the better of him as the last of his patience ran out. Ba’kif clearly wanted something from him and Ronan hated it when people were cryptic about their expectations.

Director Krennic, at least, had always been straightforward in that regard. A quality Ronan missed among so many others.

“If I may General, what is all this about?” He gave in finally, rubbing a hand over his temples. He could feel a headache forming under the skin and the desire to run and curl up under his thrice damned gold patterned sheets was growing stronger by the minute.

“I’m glad you asked,” Ba’kif answered without missing a beat and Ronan felt something shift in his demeanor. As if he’d been waiting for this from the moment Ronan stepped into his office.

“The Expansionary Defense Fleet is planning to open a new division,” Ba’kif continued. “It’s a move in response to the difficulties we’ve had with resolving political conflicts that arise in the military. As you can probably guess, those are brought up in front of the Syndicure and the resulting inquiries often take more time than we would prefer to waste on them.”

A flash of long suffering irritation crossed his face and Ronan almost caught himself sympathizing.

“As a result we want to create a department that deals specifically with mediating these issues. To ensure their speedy resolution.” 

“And you’re telling me this because?”

Ba’kif held Ronan’s stare and Ronan felt his discomfort skyrocket.

“Because I want you,” Ba’kif said slowly, “To be part of it.”

Chapter Text

Ronan could swear his eyes bulged out of his head.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“That’s –” he stumbled over the words, “Are you serious?”

“We need someone with a good grasp of politics and how administration systems work. That sounds to me like your area of expertise. It’s politics we need to fight the Syndicure with, not military tactics.”

“And you think they would listen to an alien?”

“Oh, you don’t have to speak to them directly.” Ba’kif waved him off. “Or be present at any of the meetings. We need people to do research and keep track of events behind the scenes. Someone to prepare our defense and make a convincing case whenever we need to go head to head with the Syndics.”

The logic seemed sound enough and Ronan fumbled, grasping for a good reason why this was a very bad idea. Because it was indeed a very bad idea.

“You forget I’m not very well versed in your language yet.” Was his best try but Ba’kif parried that just as quickly.

“You’re doing well enough. In any case our officers can handle the talking. The politics that need to go into backing them up however. That requires a different skill set.”

“I don’t see how a human with limited knowledge of your history and politics could do better than a Chiss.”

“These things can be learned.”

Ronan glared at him. Ba’kif returned his stare calmly.

He was putting up a strong front but the Chiss’ determination was beginning to worry him and felt the first signs of nervousness as a bead of sweat trickled down his neck. This whole business was a red flag. To be given that much responsibility while his relationship with these people was lukewarm at best, outright distrustful at worst. And to get himself involved in things that were so far outside his original plans…

He didn’t like this. Not at all, not one bit.

Who was to say this wouldn’t end badly for him? Politics were a slippery slope and for all that Ba’kif seemed to have this irrational trust in him, Ronan wasn’t quite so sure of himself. One misstep and he could sink into a hole too deep to dig himself out of.

And he couldn’t hope to be too careful in a setting he wasn’t completely familiar with. Sure, he could ask for time to prepare but the fact still stood that this wasn’t where he was supposed to be. His initial agreement with Thrawn was for him to go with Ar’alani and if he lost that position now, if he lost his military rank, he could lose all hope of returning to the navy and the one step closer it was to the Empire.

“In any case,” Ba’kif ploughed on, “you’ll be safely tucked out of sight and won’t suffer any of the Syndicure’s rage directly.”

He sounded almost too happy about it, a smile playing on his face and something mischievous swirling in those red eyes.

“Maybe we could even find you a cape to wear as part of your uniform,” he finished, the smile turning into a smirk and that was the final straw.

Ronan shot out of his chair as his face flushed with rage. He shoved the wildly spinning backrest aside and made his way to the door.

“Good day, General Ba’kif. I appreciate the time you took to speak with me.”

He didn’t know where this had come from – Ar’alani or Vanto – but he wasn’t going to take being humiliated like this anymore.

“Sit down, Lyron, we are not done here,” Ba’kif called after him, sounding apologetic? Exasperated? Ronan didn’t know and he frankly didn’t care. “I was being serious about giving you the position.”

“And why would you do that?” Ronan hissed, spinning around on his heel. In a flash he had crossed the distance to the desk again, his arms propped on the glossy surface. “Why would you trust a human to handle your affairs?”

Ba’kif met his glare head on, his movements slow and deliberate. As though handling a wild animal. His voice had dropped to a near placating pitch when he spoke next.

“Because Thrawn sent you to us for a reason,” he said slowly, “I just have to figure out what it is.”

And there it was, Ronan closed his eyes. He should have expected it, he knew, and yet the word still felt like a hand scooping bile out of his throat.

Thrawn. Thrawn again.

The man who had gotten him into this mess. The man who all these people seemed to trust to the point of lunacy and whom crossing paths with had only brought Ronan trouble. Trouble and worry and misery and a future ruined beyond any hope.

A sigh ripped itself out of his chest and he collapsed back into his chair, still warm from having been occupied just moments before.

“Of course…” He muttered to himself as he felt the familiar exhaustion overtake him and dropped his head into his hand.

“Of course.”

Distantly, he remembered something that almost made him want to laugh.

Ba’kif had called him by his Chiss core name. Another move meant to remind him how tightly he was bound to these people. To garner his cooperation and make him feel like he was one of them.

But all Ronan was, was tired.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to rest. He wanted to forget about Thrawn and the fact that he was here because of him. He wanted to pretend he was back in the Empire, working on Stardust and preparing to start a new day in a place where everything made sense.

Most of all he wanted to feel like he hadn’t squandered everything he’d ever worked for and disappointed the only person whose approval mattered to him. Alas, it was probably just wishful thinking.

The silence in the room stretched and stuffed into the cracks around them.

“I hear Lakuyoo took you out to the surface the other day.” Ba’kif’s voice broke the peace.

Ronan threw him a listless glance.

Lakuyoo. The aide they’d tasked with giving Ronan a tour of Csaplar. Just so he wouldn’t become hopelessly lost on his first day there and inconvenience someone who didn’t have the time or patience to deal with him.

Of course, he said tour but what he really meant was a brisk march through the very limited places he was allowed to be in, ending with a stroll along the planet’s surface. Because they had time to spare and his guide was bored.

Ronan nodded absentmindedly, not even bothering to pretend he knew where Ba’kif was going with this.

“I also hear you barely flinched from the cold.”

“I grew up on a planet with just about the same climate in winter.” A shrug. “Maybe slightly milder.”

“I see.”

There was a loose thread at the edge of his tunic and Ronan focused on tugging on it with his nails. The mess in his head had simmered down to a low apathetic hum and there was little of his defenses left when the words bubbled up his throat.

“Tell me, General,”

The thread snapped at the next tug.

“Is there any chance I will ever go back home. Is there any point in hoping or should I just spare myself the disappointment and give up the idea entirely.”

Ba’kif was quiet for a moment – not that Ronan had expected an answer – and Ronan wondered if there would be repercussions for asking the question.

“One should never give up hope, Lyron.” He said finally and the intensity of his tone sent a shiver down Ronan’s spine. Then the spark all but vanished and Ba’kif was back to being the impenetrable military man.

“But for the time being the answer is no,” he said matter-of-fact, “I can’t let you go back. You do not trust the Chiss and the Chiss do not trust you in return.”

Ronan’s shoulders drooped further.

“Right…”

Another moment of silence where Ronan focused on a different thread and then Ba’kif was standing up behind his desk and reaching for an access card in one of the drawers.

“Come.” He ordered. “I was hoping I could show you something.”

The command was abrupt and Ronan blinked at him for a moment. But he couldn’t muster the will to protest and rose to trail after the Chiss as he walked past him and reached for a spare outerwrap robe at the door.

Ronan took it on autopilot, doing a halfhearted job of the ties.

The path they took once out of the office was a blur. At some point the metal flooring under his feet gave way to a flight of stairs and then they were walking out into the Csillan landscape, a cool wind throwing snow in their faces while a line of jagged rocks rose silently in the distance.

It was both familiar and foreign, Ronan thought as he rewound a handful of memories from his childhood.

The cold became easier to bear as they walked and the snow covered them almost gently, coming in thin wispy sheets. He almost missed it when the ice at their feet dappled with rocks but he felt the moment they entered under the shadows of the distant rock formations, the air temperature around them dropping sharply.

“Please.” Ba’kif stepped aside to let him lead and Ronan looked past him at the small well-trodden path ahead. The end of the path, when they got there, was not something he expected.

He stood there and stared up at the sheer rock face in confusion.

“I assume Lakuyoo didn’t bother to show you the sights.” Ba’kif said from behind, standing just a little ways to the left.

Ronan tried to put his scattered thoughts in order. He had a vague memory of passing by this place but the aide had indeed neglected to mention there was anything special about it.

His eyes found Ba’kif’s in a question however the Chiss had decided to be difficult again and merely waved a hand out in invitation. Ronan bit back an irritated huff and refocused on the cliff in front of him. In a minute or so he had figured it out.

He was looking at some kind of artwork, was the best way he could describe it. A natural rock formation with added chinks and gouges, artificial no doubt, where snow piled up in accordance with the wind’s speed and direction, resulting in a myriad shifting patterns.

Those patterns, he realized, were more coherent than he’d first thought and he began to distinguish images in the accumulated snow; ridges and clumps coming together to form faces, words and charts.

Each pattern made way for the next as the wind brushed it away, a new configuration of cascading accumulating snow, some snow marks holding on longer depending on the force of the gusts blowing them in, and Ronan wondered how many of them there were in total.

It was impressive but also unsettling. Incredibly unsettling, Ronan realized as the scale of the whole thing finally registered in his mind.

“There are many interpretations as to the artist’s intention,” Ba’kif said quietly, coming up beside him.

Artist, Cheunh singular. The work of just one person, Ronan swallowed.

“The one I prefer personally is that the piece symbolizes the Chiss’ ability to change and adapt while keeping our core values. How one thing can be something but also another without losing its essence. It’s a thought worth pondering, no?”

Ronan kept his eyes on the stone in front of him.

He wasn’t so far gone so as not to realize what was happening. This, all of this – dragging him out into the severe landscape, the cold, putting him at the foot of this monstrous creation – was all meant to intimidate him.

It was a completely transparent tactic. And it was also working.

These Chiss were fanatically devoted to seeing something through once they put their mind to it. Ronan remembered the way Savit had griped his arm on the bridge of the Firedrake, tightening his hold with every angry spasm Thrawn drew out of him. He hadn’t been intimidated then. Merely uncomfortable and anxious for the whole ordeal to end.

And yet he felt a jolt of something shoot up his spine as he stared up at that grand rock face, towering over them in its grim, convoluted glory.

His thoughts took a slow turn, veering back to the reality of his situation.

His performance here would determine if the Chiss could truly trust him. And that, in turn, would determine if he would ever set foot back on imperial soil. He could either give it his all and rise to the challenge or keep resisting and dragging his feet and only one of those brought him closer to his goal.

Still, if one of their enemies came and plucked him away, or if he managed to return to the Empire, that was an awful lot of information to put in his hands… But really who would come to take him away from some Maker forsaken office, buried out of sight underground?

Ronan shivered as a chilling thought suddenly hit him.

He wasn’t more likely to leave this place if he agreed to Ba’kif’s proposition. No, that was merely an illusion he wanted to believe in. In reality, working for the Chiss, going anywhere near their politics, would only pile more valuable information into his hands, further tethering him the Ascendancy, to Csilla and whatever plans the Chiss had for him.

Ba’kif’s little speech about change and adaptation confirmed it too. He wanted Ronan’s commitment and expertise but without the loyalties they came attached with. No, he wanted them for the Chiss.

Ronan attempted to swallow again and the dryness in his mouth grated against his tongue.

He would basically be signing the last of his freedom away by accepting this job. He may rise in prestige and the blueskins may be less neurotic with him if he was in a more secure place but in the end he would still be a prisoner.

And yet, something tugged at him inside as he stared up at the cold stone.

The ridges and groves and their meticulous arrangement. The shifting design and the painstaking thought that had gone into it.

There was dedication here, he concluded grimly. Dedication and diligence. Dedication and diligence that reminded him of Director Krennic and dedication and diligence that seemed really appealing if they were going to be directed towards defeating the Grysks. And if there was one thing Ronan knew – from his little adventure with Thrawn and his subsequent experience in the Chiss fleet – was that these Grysks were a grave threat to everyone.

True, Ronan didn’t know the Chiss too well yet but he could maybe see them, see himself, working toward a goal that could benefit the entire galaxy. Just like he was sure he had been doing with Director Krennic.

The wind beat at them again as Ronan steeled his resolve like a man headed for his execution.

“General,”

Ba’kif’s head tilted in his direction.

“I accept your offer.”

A moment of silence and then Ba’kif’s mouth split into a full-toothed smile, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. Satisfied with himself. Pleased.

“I am glad to hear that, Lieutenant. You will find that we appreciate and take good care of those who work for the good of the Ascendancy.”

“All you need is here and the file you requested will be sent to you as soon as possible. The rest is on the data cylinder Supreme General Ba’kif should have given you. Will that be sufficient?”

Ronan grumbled under his breath as he scrolled down the file on his questis.

“Yes, yes, I will look into it.”

The Chiss gave him a cursory nod and swept out the room in a flurry of robes.

Ronan didn’t bother with any parting pleasantries as he brushed accumulated flimsi and cylinders to the side and sat down to peer at the file in front of him. Just when he was catching up on his reading too…

The work was grueling, he had to admit, but at least he’d been blessedly busy and it gave him something to think about. It was still up in the air if this idea of Ba’kif’s would take off but so far they’d powered through their first cases with some partial success and partial success was better than nothing.

There was a knock at the door and he lowered the questis with a sigh, shooting the newcomer on the other side a glare.

Ba’kif had mentioned he would be sending another officer his way this afternoon. Ronan had hoped there had been a rescheduling given it was nearing evening that his point.

Did he have the patience to deal with another military snob today? Probably not. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have to, he groused to himself.

“Yes, come in,” he called, jotting down a few quick lines on the file on his screen and making a few mental notes for later.

He was just about to invite the newcomer to sit when he looked up at the stiff thin-lipped face in front of him.

…Oh.

… … Oh.

Well now, this was going to be interesting, he thought with no little amount of giddiness as a smile of pure malicious glee bloomed on his face.

“Senior Captain Aguilos,” he said, waving a hand at the seat in front of him, “please, how can I help you today?”

The Chiss’ face spasmed and twitched, much like the day he had been yelling profanities in Ronan’s face. Ronan felt his heart sing with delight.

It turned out there was, in fact, some poetic justice in the galaxy yet.

“Your case for Captain Aguilos was rather flimsy the other day. Not your best work, I must say.”

“What can I say? The man wasn’t being very cooperative. And I hear he’s a rude fellow anyway, he probably deserved that slap from the Syndicure.”

“You hear? From what source if I may ask?”

“A reliable one, General. I don’t take these things lightly, rest assured.”

Chapter Text

The Steadfast, Eli had to admit, was once again living up to its name.

For a vessel that had spent a week on standby without its crew, it had bounced back into active service with admirable ease. Or maybe it wasn’t the ship itself, as much as it was its crew Eli thought as he leaned back in his seat and listened to the chatter of various officers flitting between their stations.

It was not the Chimaera, admittedly – it would be a long time before any other vessel took the title of home for him – but the routine familiarity of it was welcome. Especially after a week on an unfamiliar ship sharing quarters with five other officers.

Even Tanik and Khresh’s bickering had its charm after that. Anything did, really, compared to the stilted awkward conversation of people who weren’t quite used to living together. And speaking of which…

“Lieutenant Commander Vanto?” He turned to glance at the Chiss orderly. “The bridge will begin pre takeoff procedures shortly. Is there anything you need?”

The Chiss stood there patiently and Eli threw him a sheepish little smile. “No thank you, I’ll be off in a moment.”

He got a nod in response and the other wandered off again, leaving Eli to sigh and run a hand through his hair. If there ever was a polite way to tell someone to kriff off… At least they were being polite about it. Eli’s pride aside though, the Chiss had a point, Ar’alani didn’t take kindly to people lounging around on the bridge when they weren’t needed and it would be prudent of him to scamper away before she arrived.

With that in mind, and another long-suffering sigh, he leaned forward to turn off the terminal where he’d been pretending to read some datasheets. He made sure to give Vah’nya a little wave when she saw him get up and then he was on his way to his quarters, deep into the ship’s interior.

In all fairness, he had a good reason to avoid getting back. A very angry, very vengeful harpy of a reason that he’d managed to elude for a week.

Ronan had not been happy about being left behind on Csilla. Decidedly and understandably so given that Eli hadn’t gotten the same treatment. But that didn’t mean Eli had made the situation any better when he’d avoided Ronan and slipped away before the other could unleash his preliminary rage on him, thus ensuring that his esteemed roommate would be twice as furious with him now.

Not that Ronan didn’t usually have something to complain about – even if he didn’t he was quite good at making up reasons anyway – but Eli was sure it would be worse this time. Not least of all because Ronan had had time to stew in his anger while he kicked his heels back on cold, indifferent Csilla.

And now the one to suffer for it would be Eli.

Dragging his feet against the floor, he rounded the corner and saw the familiar hatch come into view. He half expected Ronan to be waiting for him outside but was surprised to find the hallway empty and even more surprised when he didn’t find Ronan inside even as he keyed the hatch open.

Eli took a step into the small space. Strange… maybe he’s gone to grab something from the mess? Although that was unlikely given they’d just picked their crew up from Csilla and the fact that Ronan avoided mingling with their Chiss colleagues like the plague. The light above the fresher indicated that it was unoccupied as well and Eli frowned at the sight of pristine untouched sheets.

No luggage, no rumpled sheets, no other place to hide in the room in general. Where in the Maker had Ronan gone now? Eli bit his lip, lingering at the hatchway. A certain recent conversation played on repeat in his mind and a nagging little feeling had materialized at the back of it. He was probably being paranoid, of course. But it didn’t hurt to check.

With his mind made up he spun on his heel and headed back down the hallway. The crew were already running pre takeoff diagnostics by the time he reemerged on the bridge and he gave a mental sigh of relief as he spotted Ar’alani in her command chair.

Marching up to it, he hid his wringing hands behind his back.

“Admiral. Do you have a moment?”

“Lieutenant Commander Vanto.” Ar’alani gave a miniscule nod. “What is it?”

“Has Lieutenant Ronan reported back to the ship yet?” He winced. “Lieutenant Lyron, I mean.”

A stupid mistake. Just because they accommodated him didn’t mean they extended the same courtesy to Ronan yet. Ar’alani seemed to ignore the slip up but some other dismayed emotion crossed her face.

“You haven’t heard yet?” she asked, a frown creasing her brow.

Eli’s stomach dropped and the room suddenly felt colder.

“Heard what?” he asked hoarsely.

“I suppose you haven’t…” Ar’alani stroked her chin. “Lieutenant Lyron is being reassigned.”

“Reassigned? Reassigned where? By who?”

“By General Ba’kif himself. As for where, I don’t have the details yet. All I know is that he won’t be part of the Steadfast’s crew anymore.”

“Isn’t this a bit sudden?”

Ar’alani huffed. “He’s been on Csilla for a week now. I’d hardly call that sudden.”

“It’s just –” he fumbled for the right thing to say. “Well, he was rather vocal about being unhappy here last time we spoke and I was wondering if it hadn’t gotten him in trouble.”

That seemed to catch Ar’alani’s attention and she narrowed her eyes, turning around to face him fully.

“Vocal in what way?” she asked briskly. The tone registered with Eli and he stiffened but kept his mouth shut as he weighed his reply.

Vocal in a way that could get him killed, he allowed himself to think in the privacy of his mind, because he’s an idiot. But the thought didn’t make him feel any better and he once again recalled his conversation with Ronan.

If Ronan had expressed those same grievances on Csilla of all places, and done so with his usual lack of tact, he could be rotting in a high security cell by now or worse, Eli thought fearfully.

You can’t pry secrets away from the dead, he remembered Khresh saying once, nudging a Grysk corpse with his boot. Yet another victim of their enemies’ fanatic suicidal policies upon being captured.

Were the Chiss prepared to go this far for the same reason? Absolutely, he concluded grimly. This war had cost them enough already.

He shook his head and remembered Ar’alani was still waiting for an answer.

“In a way that could be… misconstrued ma’am.” He said carefully. Maker, if he had to spin lies to save Ronan from his own stupidity.

Ar’alani, predictably, didn’t like his answer and Eli steeled himself as he saw her gaze harden.

“I will have to ask you to speak plainly, Lieutenant Commander.”

Kriff. He had stepped out of line. No matter how you looked at it, there was an accusation in his words and even if Ar’alani knew him well enough to realize it wasn’t directed at her, it was still one aimed at her people. And while Eli knew it wasn’t an implausible one, to make it without any evidence was a poor move on his side. Insolent even.

He felt his cheeks warm as he looked to the floor and clenched his hands behind his back.

“It’s nothing ma’am. I was just wondering.”

Ar’alani’s colder than usual gaze kept boring into him. For a moment he wondered if throwing himself out of the nearest airlock wouldn’t be less painful than this.

“I will tell you if I receive any additional news,” Ar’alani’s frosty tone snapped him out of his thoughts.

“For now we’re preparing for takeoff. Non-essential staff are to clear the bridge.”

Eli had in fact not been given any additional news. And neither had he been able to stop thinking about Ronan’s absence.  

And after his third time of bungling his duties because of being distracted, Ar’alani had finally lost her patience with him. The next time the Stedfast stopped on Csilla to resupply, she emerged from the duty office and all but dragged him all the way to EDF headquarters where she gave him some directions before storming off for a meeting with Ba’kif.

Eli was of course mortified for making her snap like that. One of the most accomplished commanders he’d served under and Tharwn’s friend, at that. But the predominant feeling that gnawed at him as he walked down the winding corridors of Csaplar was dread. Ar’alani hadn’t given him details and he’d felt too embarrassed to push for them but he was fairly sure he was supposed to meet Ronan where he was going. Fairly sure. Or maybe this was the place where he would simply learn of Ronan’s fate.

Eli now cursed his past self for thinking that leaving Ronan unsupervised was a good idea. If the man had decided to take things into his own hands – which he certainly had the gall to do, Eli thought as he remembered a certain shuttle bearing vital evidence rising into the sky – there was no telling how much of a liability he’d presented himself as and what the Chiss would do with him as a result.

And how the guilt of that result would affect Eli.

But that would have to wait, he decided, as he stopped in front of a numbered door and checked again with his notes before raising a hand to knock. There was a short pause and he used it to wipe his sweaty palms on his thighs.

Then the door slid aside and Eli’s mouth opened on reflex before promptly snapping shut as he stared at the person in front of him.

Chiss. Tall, bored-looking and dressed in administrator garb and unmistakably Chiss. Eli felt his stomach clench. This was supposed to be Ronan’s office, his mind supplied frantically, and again the image of Ronan’s cold corpse being disposed of somewhere flashed before his eyes.

Just as a flash of surprise crossed the Chiss’ face.

“Oh, the other one…” he murmured and Eli blinked at him dumbly.

“What?”

He tried to wipe the dumb look off his face but the Chiss was already turning away, talking to someone else further inside the room.

“Lyron, we have a guest.”

Lyron, Eli perked up, feeling a spark of hope, that was Ronan. And if that wasn’t promising enough, Ronan’s petulant grumbling answered them not long after.

“I’m busy, can’t you take them on?”

“I think they’re here to see you specifically.”

At that Ronan himself finally appeared at the door – or at least Eli had to do a double take to make sure that was Ronan, what with what he was wearing – and the moment their eyes met, Ronan’s face flushed almost comically.

“Maker Vanto, what did you do!” He hissed and yanked Eli harshly into the office.

“There’s only two of us here, why would you think stirring up trouble with the Syndicure was a good idea? As if they don’t distrust us enough already.”

Eli’s confusion only grew as he was dragged over to a cluttered desk, his relief all but snuffed out under the flurry of events unfolding around him.

“Wha–? No, I didn’t do anything!” he sputtered and almost fell back on his ass when Ronan finally let him go and spun around to glare at him. “I’m not in trouble, I’m just here because –”

Because I wanted to check up on you, his mind finished for him and the words died in his throat, his tongue seizing up in defiance.

Like hell he was going to tell Ronan that. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance on Mustafar he, Eli Vanto, was going admit he’d been worried sick about Ronan and feeling guilty on top of it. Eli would sooner eat his own boots.

He would sooner eat Ronan’s stupid cape.

He grimaced and tugged the sleeve Ronan had yanked askew back into place.

“I’m here because Admiral Ar’alani told me to check up on you.” He lied evenly and Ronan, the ingrate that he was, had the nerve to roll his eyes.

“I don’t need another handler.” Before Eli could protest though, he fixed his glare somewhere behind Eli and bit out a ‘what?’

Eli turned to see the Chiss from earlier sitting at another desk and observing them with open curiosity.

“Nothing, it’s just your language is so strange,” the man said thoughtfully, making Eli realize that he and Ronan had been throwing rapid-fire Basic at each other this whole time. Ronan met the remark with a scoff.

“And you think yours sounds any better to us?”

The Chiss blinked at him. Then gave a dainty shrug.

“Fair enough.” He got up and tossed a data cylinder Ronan’s way. “That’s the data on the Plikh case Ba’kif told us about. I’ve had enough of those blockheads for today so I’m going to the back to do some filing.”

“Fine. Don’t let your sleeves get caught in any equipment again.”

“Please, that was one time. But I’ll be careful for your peace of mind.”

“The day I find peace of mind in this job is the day this planet sprouts vegetation.”

“My, we should tell Ba’kif to find you some more leisurely cases then.”

Eli followed the whole exchange in mute wonder, flicking his gaze between one party and the other. For all that most of it was sarcastic or biting the whole thing had an almost casual air about it.

“Friend of yours?” he asked once the Chiss had disappeared in what Eli assumed was ‘the back’.

“My colleague, if that wasn’t obvious enough.” Ronan huffed and waved a hand at the seat on the other side of his desk. “Come on, you’re clearly not going away until you have a full report.”

A full report was indeed what Eli got. Mostly because of his own growing curiosity and not because he doubted Ar’alani would get all the details from Ba’kif. If she didn’t have them already, long before they’d landed on Csilla.

The more Ronan talked though, the more Eli was forced to set all his hang-ups aside and reluctantly admit that this, all of this, sounded like it was the best place for Ronan to be.

For starters, Ronan may have survived alright in the navy for the short time he’d been there but underneath all that swagger and bravado, he was still a civilian. And no matter how hard he tried to hide it, Eli could tell he didn’t have the stomach for real military work.

The image of him clutching his midriff and looking decidedly queasy after a more brutal encounter with the Grysks was one Eli was more than familiar with by now. These things took their toll in time.

But more importantly, Ronan was doing well here.

Eli’s eyebrows shot up as he learned that Ronan wasn’t just training to be one of Ba’kif’s employees, he already had a few successful cases under his belt and from the sound of it, Ba’kif was entrusting him with even more sensitive ones.

And on some level, it made sense.

Ronan may have stumbled in the navy but administration, the tangled politics of keeping Krennic’s project afloat and coordinating all the secret operations surrounding it, that was his element. Eli himself had witnessed the man read the room and adapt instantly to his makeshift plot, successfully keeping up with him on Aloxor.

At the end of the day, no matter how much they disliked each other, Eli had to admit these were things Ronan was good at. Thrawn wouldn’t have sent him here if he wasn’t.

The man himself seemed to enjoy it too, despite the typical disgruntled front he put up. Eli may not be a savant in reading people, but he knew Ronan well enough by now.

Even the exaggerated way he gesticulated in his new robes didn’t escape him, he thought wryly with a private little sense of amusement. Trust Ronan to flourish in an elaborate, flowy outfit.

One thing that did worry Eli was that Ronan seemed to be enjoying himself a bit too much. After hearing about Aguilos’ case, Eli had gone a bit pale, wondering if the loth cat that had gotten the cream wasn’t terrorizing the whole pantry and begging to get in trouble. But Ba’kif seemed to be on top of that for now… at least it sounded like it, Eli thought to himself.

Eli didn’t know the general too well personally but from what he could glean from Ar’alani he was a staunch ally of Thrawn’s and that support could have inclined him to watch over Thrawn’s envoy. Eli genuinely hoped that was the case.

Speaking of Thrawn though… Eli furrowed his brow as he only partially listened to what Ronan was saying.

No matter how much he tried to chase the thought away, he couldn’t help but feel like there was a familiar touch to how neatly things had slotted together. Ronan’s fortunate new position. Ba’kif’s support. It all seemed a bit too convenient.

Was it possible that…? No, Ar’alani had told him from the start that they didn’t know what to do with Ronan. They’d struggled to find a place for him on the Steadfast and if Thrawn had had a plan for him, he would have said so. Or rather Eli liked to think that despite the fact that not informing people of his intentions and still getting the intended results was exactly Thrawn’s style, down to a t.

The only reason Eli wasn’t entirely sure this was all some multi-dimensional game of Dejarik on Thrawn’s part was that he couldn’t imagine his mentor knowing what to do with a political player.

An analyst like Eli, sure, but someone like Ronan? Thrawn could recognize his talents perhaps but Eli couldn’t imagine him foreseeing this development of events.

In fact, the only thing Eli could think about as he left Ronan’s office, lost in his own somber melancholic thoughts, was that Thrawn himself could have benefitted greatly from an institution like this if it’d been around when he was. And that’s to put it lightly.

Ar’alani was characteristically close-lipped when it came to telling Eli stories of Thrawn’s past but she’d told him enough (not to mention Eli had been there for every step of Thrawn’s journey in the Empire) and he had no doubt his former mentor must have faced the same political struggles in the Ascendancy.

Constantly and relentlessly until they had eventually led to his exile.

An event that was instrumental in leading Eli to where he was now but that he felt deeply regretful of nonetheless. There was so much here, Eli thought, that Thrawn could be experiencing for himself. Things that Eli may never get used to himself but that must have been dear to him.

Of course, there were things Eli missed viscerally himself – things he may never experience again depending on how this war developed – but the fact still stood that Eli had made a conscious decision about leaving his home.

Thrawn hadn’t. And neither had Ronan, he supposed.

And he had to wonder how much of what Ronan expressed so boldly and unequivocally, Thrawn kept to himself. Eli shook his head slowly, feeling a sudden sense of sadness.

If there was anything that sounded like Thrawn, it was suffering alone, in silence. That unwavering stoicism that made Thrawn so many enemies and even more admirers. Eli could only hope that wherever Thrawn was now, he had the strength and support to power through whatever the Empire and the rebellion threw at him…

And that one day he would be here, personally, to show Eli all the things he had missed about his home.

Chapter Text

“Your drink, General.”

Ba’kif looked up, smiled and accepted the steaming cup from the server. “Thank you.”

Throwing another quick glance at the door, he settled back into his seat and let the smell of honey and herbs wash over him.

It was a nice place, he had to admit. Close enough to EDF headquarters for his uniform to be recognized while not drawing too much attention and the staff were pleasant.

He had refrained from visiting before Thrawn’s exile, reluctant to intrude on another’s memory, but he could see the appeal and why Thrawn had been so fond of it as to recommend it.

And funnily enough, the man who had recommended the place was also the reason Ba’kif was there today, albeit in a bizarrely roundabout way.

The thought drew his attention back to his questis and Ba’kif frowned privately into his cup.

The hardships that came with being Thrawn’s superior officer had of course not tarnished his opinion of the man. He still respected Thrawn on many accounts. He respected him as a tactician. As a warrior. Respected him for his courage and stoicism and even simply for the man he was, quietly dedicated and honorable in his own way.

But that said, he recognized that Thrawn had his flaws. It was his job to keep an eye on those flaws. And Thrawn could sometimes be blind to the ways he affected people, be it infecting them with reckless zeal, civilians and even children running headlong into danger for his sake, or simply… breaking them.

For all the respect he felt for Thrawn, Ba’kif decided as he skimmed over his notes, he felt an equal responsibility to put patches where the power he’d placed in his hands had punched holes.

In this case Thrawn had trusted Ba’kif to guide Brierly’ro’nan into a position where he would be most useful to the Ascendancy. And so far his predictions for how it would play out had been frighteningly accurate:

Assistant Director Ronan is a man who thrives on purpose and action. Once he is cut off from them you will find him more open to suggestion and that is where his energy and ambition will be liable for us to employ in the right direction.

Ba’kif closed his eyes and sighed to himself. From an outside perspective it was a cruel and calculating thing to do. He wasn’t sure if the fact that Thrawn didn’t mean it as such helped the case.

It certainly didn’t make a difference for Lyron, he thought as he remembered the play of helplessness and desperation on the human’s face. Lyron was trying to cope with his circumstances as best he could and Ba’kif hoped he wouldn’t come out too damaged from it. Not because it would affect his usefulness to the Ascendancy but simply for the sour taste it would leave in Ba’kif’s mouth.

Indeed, it was not in Ba’kif’s nature to take any responsibility given to him lightly. Nor was he the only one displeased by Thrawn’s actions.

“He never told me that,” Ar’alani growled lowly, crossing her arms over her chest. There was a small crease on her brow that Ba’kif had come to associate with stress, though they saw each other so rarely these days.

He sympathized with her, he really did. Indeed, the news that the instructions Thrawn had left for Ba’kif differed from the ones he’d given her personally must have stung. Especially for her, the person Thrawn had always gone to first when he needed an ally or coconspirator. Or at least so they thought.

“I suspect he knew you would be angry about it and refuse to take Lyron on board.” Ba’kif shrugged, placing his cup back in its saucer.

“Typical…” Ar’alani shifted angrily in her seat. “You know, I hate it when he plays his little mind games on us.”

“He doesn’t mean anything malicious by it. But Thrawn is Thrawn and you know he won’t start changing now.”

“Do you think he’ll stop confiding in us completely one day?”

“I doubt it. He loves explaining himself too much for that.”

Ar’alani’s gaze stopped to linger on him and he watched the worry lines on her face deepen.

“I hope you’re right, Ba’kif.” She shook her head.

“You think things will end badly if he does?” ‘Do you really think we’re making a difference in the outcome of his plans?’ was the real question lurking beneath.

Ar’alani considered it and by the end, her lips had pressed into a thin line.

“I fear we may not see a catastrophe nearing if it comes to that.”

Ba’kif ignored the small twinge of disappointment in his gut. For all that it was an adequate answer, it still didn’t answer his question. Of whether they would even be able to stop Thrawn’s plans if they wanted to.

There was a small chime as the door to the establishment opened and Ba’kif let the memory dissipate as he straightened in his seat and watched the head secretary of his new bureau sashay into the bistro.

Not a minute too early, he noted with amusement. Some would be appalled by the breach of etiquette knowing who Lyron was meeting with.

“General,” Lyron greeted curtly as he took the seat opposite Ba’kif’s, rearranging the skirts of his robes in the process.

“Secretary Lyron.” Ba’kif smiled politely. “I trust this meeting finds you well?”

As usual, his entrance turned quite a few heads but Lyron took it all in stride, chin raised high and his questis held imperiously in front of him. All things considered, the human bounced back surprisingly quickly but Ba’kif didn’t let that lure him into a false sense of security.

There was always a chance for these meetings to go awry. So far they had been productive but troubling results and reactions were not out of the question. Lyron’s adjustment and overall assessment were still far from over and until they were, Ba’kif would tread with caution.

And bias if need be.

“Well enough,” the human huffed. “Any news from the front?” Lyron asked as he settled in in the chair opposite him and Ba’kif took the opportunity to run a furtive glance over him, noting any signs of improved health he could recognize. The difference in species made the task tricky but some things were thankfully universal.

“Only good ones,” he said at length. “We’ve managed to push the enemy to the very edge of our territories.”

Lyron gave him a doubtful look, raising one sharp eyebrow. “But they’re bound to return?”

Ba’kif’s smile turned wry.

Briefly, he considered lying but decided against it in the end. Lyron had been aboard the Steadfast long enough to know how this war worked. Trying to mislead him now would only make them seem insecure about their position.

“Sure as the sun rises. But I wouldn’t worry, secretary. Sooner or later our enemy will discover that the longer they tangle with us, the closer they come to their undoing.”

“You sound sure of it.”

“I am. And so was Senior Captain Thrawn.”

Lyron’s reaction caught him off guard as instead of showing relief, the human’s face contorted in a grimace.

“Does anyone here ever express an opinion that’s not Thrawn’s?” he groaned and Ba’kif found himself amused again, despite everything.

“Oh, quite a few, believe me.” He grinned. “In fact, I’m quite sure there’s a great many who would let him speak only to contradict him.” It was only Lyron's poor luck that he never ran into them.

“Sounds more up my alley.”

“Does it? You’ve worked with him before. Would you really say he’s wrong more often than he is right?”

“Maybe not. But spite and pettiness have their own appeal. Or are the Chiss above such things?”

Ba’kif suppressed a wince. “Not at all, unfortunately.”

“Tell me secretary,” he said after a while, keeping his tone casual, “do you find your work for the Mediation Bureau satisfying so far?”

“You could say so, I suppose.”

Ba’kif shifted ever so subtly, moving closer to Lyron.

“And would you agree that the Bureau’s goals ultimately coincide with yours?”

Lyron’s eyes narrowed and Ba’kif watched closely as his alertness shot up. They had danced this dance before. They both knew the steps.

“So far our interests align, yes.”

“Then would you say you are willing in the work you provide for us?”

That earned him a sigh and an eye roll.

“As willing as someone who had little choice in the matter.” Lyron’s shoulders stiffened into a defensive line. “I agree on our common goals but I would much rather serve the Empire directly.”

“So your primary loyalty lies with the Empire.”

“Of course.”

“Yet your Empire does not seem to think very highly of us.”

Hesitation. A flash of panic. Lyron could see the trap but couldn’t hide from it. Not when there was no doubt Ba’kif had read Ar’alani’s report from her joint mission with the Chimaera.

“They don’t know the Chiss as well as I do,” he tried tentatively. Then switched to a more offensive tactic. “Your beloved Thrawn serves the Acsendancy first and foremost. Am I to be begrudged for doing the same?”

“Not at all.” Ba’kif assured him. “But it does raise some questions.”

“Ah,” Lyron smiled wryly. “Now we get to the point.”

Indeed we do, Ba’kif thought to himself and shifted in his seat once again, rearranging his position. Not too close to intrude on Lyron’s personal space but close enough as to make the cramped surface of the table feel even more cramped.

His hands rested comfortably next to his drink, fingers intertwined and pointed in Lyron’s direction, and he took note of the way Lyron’s crossed arms pressed closer to his chest in response.

“Say that you return to your Empire one day,” he said evenly, light and hypothetical. “Be it with our blessing or by chance. And say that by that time your Empire has decided to take a hostile stance towards the Ascendancy. Would you assist them in their effort to use your association with us?”

Lyron blinked at him.

“You mean would I cooperate if they interrogated me?”

Ba’kif smiled indulgently.

“That’s a good place to start.”

Ronan’s mind swerved and skidded as Ba’kif stared at him, waiting for a response.

Kriff. He’d been letting his guard down at these meetings lately. Getting comfortable. As though Ba’kif didn’t drag him out to them specifically to ask uncomfortable questions.

“Stalling with silence is not very polite in our society,” Ba’kif chided and Ronan scoffed to himself.

“My apologies, I didn’t realize thinking before speaking was specific to my kind.”

Ba’kif shrugged and gestured cordially.

“We prefer to stall by talking. It’s less telling.”

“I’m sure I’ve said this before but my language skills are not quite up to par yet.”

“See? You’re already learning.”

His irritation spiked and he glared at the general, the man’s composure and cheer about as immovable as a block of stone. Ba’kif may seem well-meaning at first glance but Ronan knew they wouldn’t be going anywhere until he got his answer.

And this was the worst time for him to latch on to this line of questioning.

Things had been going well for Ronan lately. He’d been getting better at his job, heck he’d been getting good at it. He even found himself tolerating his new colleague, Rhiuh’vek, a long forgotten merit adoptive of the Boadil who wasn’t satisfied with his standing in life and had decided to drop that allegiance in favor of a post in the bureau.

He was the epitome of the perpetually harried low ranking administrator and he and Ronan had found a camaraderie in bemoaning the pettiness and hypocrisy of the officers they dealt with on a daily basis.

Now though Ba’kif was opening a whole new can of hypothetical worms.

‘With our blessing or by chance’ Ba’kif had said. Conveniently omitting the possibility of Ronan returning without their blessing and by design. Essentially Ronan was still as stuck here as he was before.

Which merited the question of what would happen to him if he were still around and such hostilities happened to break out… but of course, he wasn’t the one asking the questions here.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he sighed finally, running a hand through his hair. “You know your own people and how devoted they are to the Ascendancy. Our Emperor -” Ronan’s mouth scrunched as if he’d just tasted something rotten, “- expects the same loyalty from his subjects. You of all people, should understand what that means.”

“And that is why I’m asking you these things. Others’ loyalties do not preclude mine.”

“So what, you expect me to stay silent? You think they will not poke and prod until they get what they want? I’m not ISB General,” Ronan scoffed although Ba’kif was unlikely to know what he meant by that. Or maybe he did. Who knew how much information Thrawn was feeding his people. Never mind that Ronan was expected to hold on to Chiss secrets while Thrawn was free to share imperial ones.

“I do not have torture and interrogation training…” he finished crossly.

“Maybe you won’t need it,” Ba’kif suggested. “Maybe you could lie and convince them they don’t need to resort to such methods.”

“You don’t understand,” Ronan said, getting desperate. “Lord Vader – any Force user – can detect lies. With Thrawn sending his people in secret, we would already be under suspicion to begin with.”

He leaned back in his seat and shook his head. The fact that he’d just called himself one of ‘Thrawn’s people’ didn’t make him feel any better.

“I’d be killed on the spot,” he said with quiet resignation. “The Empire doesn’t tolerate treason. Not with rebel activity poisoning its peace every hour of every day.”

Ba’kif went quiet then and Ronan was thankful for the small interlude while he got his thoughts in order.

“These rebels of yours,” Ba’kif hummed thoughtfully when he finally spoke again. “What are they fighting for?”

It was like a jolt of electricity had been sent up Ronan’s spine and he straightened in his seat, feeling a new surge of zeal.

“They’re after power,” he spat. “Those worlds have been in the Republic for decades but now they wish to disrupt the carefully built system of trade and cooperation and hoard resources for themselves.”

He jabbed at the table as he spoke and noted the way Ba’kif followed his every move.

“They claim they can do better for themselves without the Empire yet they don’t realize it was the Empire that made the strength and stability necessary for their rebellion possible in the first place. It’s madness honestly. A terrorist movement, plain and simple.”

He took a moment to wind down as he waited for Ba’kif’s reaction. Then Ba’kif’s lips twitched, as though suppressing a smile.

“And here I thought you said your Cheunh wasn’t up to par. That was quite eloquent if I do say so myself,” the general said and Ronan drew back as though he’d been slapped.

But despite his initial shock… Ba’kif was right. He hadn’t stumbled over his words once during that rant, even the more difficult sounds rolling off his tongue with ease. The compliment curdled however, when Ronan considered just what Ba’kif was after here.

Of course it would benefit Ba’kif to point out how quickly he was assimilating into their society. It was yet another tactic in a long line of attempts to influence Ronan’s thinking and make him more amenable to the idea of changing his loyalties altogether.

It wouldn’t be the first time Ba’kif elicited a strong reaction from him only to turn the conversation on its head and make it about his motivations and abilities. Ronan rolled his eyes in his mind. Ba’kif wasn’t actually interested in the Empire’s problems. He was merely looking for a way to harness Ronan’s drive for his precious Ascendancy. Just as he’d been doing from the very beginning.

And he was about to say so when something suddenly changed in the Chiss’ face and Ronan found himself pinned down by that same intensity he remembered from their conversation in Ba’kif’s office.

“I strongly believe that when the time comes for us to face the Grysks’ full might,” Ba’kif began in a quiet voice, “your Empire and its rebels will set their differences aside and work together. As will my people and yours. Adversity has a way of doing that.”

His gaze held Ronan’s, steady and unyielding.

“If we are to survive that assault however we need to be strong enough. Both our worlds. Thrawn is seeing to that in the Empire and you and Vanto, and whoever else he sends our way, will need to see to that here.” Ba’kif finished and Ronan swallowed through a dry throat, still pinned to his seat as though transfixed.

Because this was another thing Ba’kif was good at. Chipping away at your defenses, speaking with such conviction that you felt your doubts washing away along with a slow surging desire to trust him.

He swallowed again, this time more tentatively.

“Do you really think a few humans can make a difference?” he asked before he could stop himself. Ba’kif nodded.

“If Thrawn thinks so,” he said gravely, “then yes.”

And just like that, the whole thing came crashing down.

Ronan groaned, feeling the sudden need to roll his eyes again and maybe rip them out of their sockets. “And here we are, back where we started…” he despaired.

Ba’kif did something that surprised him then – he leaned back in his seat and gave a full throaty laugh. It caught Ronan so off guard that he all but jumped out of his chair and could only stare at the man opposite him.

He had never heard the Chiss general laugh before… He found that he didn’t mind the sight at all.

Later that evening found him in his office again, still mulling over the events of their meeting.

He’d spent the last two hours of his shift dealing with the case of a Dasklo upstart who’d stepped on the toes of some senior officer. Ronan had listened to the young Junior Captain bemoan the case extensively, elaborating on the two families’ history and all the circumstances surrounding the accident.

A stark contrast to the distrustful looks and standoffish attitude he’d gotten in his first months here. But then again, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the Chiss were more receptive to him when he was there to solve their problems.

Same stuff, different packaging, he reminded himself as he put a data cylinder away for safe keeping.

He had just transferred some files to his questis, planning to take them to his modest accommodations for perusal, when he heard the office hatch open and close in the quiet of the filing room.

It gave him some pause – it was nearly the end of their shift and Rhiuh’vek had already left a while ago – and he peered around the door with a frown.

Only to find an important looking Chiss at his desk, his long chiseled face turned in Ronan’s direction and glaring at him.

In the end, after wracking his brains for a while, he managed to pinpoint the man’s identity though he’d gleaned it more from the sun shaped ornaments in his hair than from anything else.

“Patriarch Mitth'urf'ianico,” he said in a bored tone. “My apologies, Your Venerante, we weren’t prepared to receive you.” He gestured to the obvious lack of refreshments.

The words sent another frown skittering across that severe face and Ronan steeled himself as he took a seat behind his desk.

This should be pleasant…

If there was any way Ba’kif had expected his evening to end, it certainly wasn’t this one. But he supposed finding a disgruntled Patriach in his office was a far better outcome than some of the scenarios he’d run into in the past, especially since the start of the war.

“I just had a talk with your new secretary,” Thurfian said without much preamble as Ba’kif took a seat in his chair.

“You’ve noticed something that concerns you?” Ba’kif raised an eyebrow, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

“What I noticed,” Thurfian bit back, “was his utter lack of reverence.”

“Really? Did he act disrespectfully?”

“No. But he certainly didn’t show any notable respect either.”

Ba’kif shrugged innocently. “Now I’m just confused, Your Venerante.”

That, of course, didn’t go down well with the other man but Ba’kif reasoned it wouldn’t do to get carried away with dancing around each other. Best nudge Thurfian to say what he was there for outright and annoying him was a surefire way to do that.

And lo and behold, after stewing in his irritation a while longer, Thurfian seemed to switch back to business.

“There are many who object to his presence here,” he said lowly, holding Ba’kif’s gaze. “Even more so to his position.”

“His assessment so far hasn’t yielded anything troubling.” Ba’kif unlaced his fingers to gesture casually. “And he’s proved himself capable for his position. He’s the one that sniffed out your instigators, in fact.” He added for good measure but the words had an opposite effect as Thurfian’s face paled.

“The Thuf case?” he asked hoarsely.

“Indeed.”

“You allow him such insight into our affairs?” The Patriarch’s voice took on an angry note.

“I was testing him,” Ba’kif countered. “Besides, you’d long figured it out and were already taking action when you asked my opinion.”

“That’s hardly relevant,” Thurfian snapped. “Feeding our secrets to foreigners…We are in no position to take such risks.”

“Neither can we afford to waste time on petty family squabbles.”

“That we agree on,” Thurfian nodded, conciliatory. “But surely there are thousands of our own people you can choose from.”

“None of them as neutral in the matter of family politics as he is,” Ba’kif said. “But the point is that he’s showing results and that’s all that matters.”

At that, Thurfian’s gaze turned icy and Ba’kif leaned back in his chair, feeling triumphant.

Now that, they both knew to be a lie.

Thrawn had shown results too, he had put results above everything in fact, and he’d still been removed. But that’s because Thrawn had broken tangible rules in the process, Ba’kif thought to himself.

Here, there was nothing the Syndicure could latch on to. Lyron’s presence and work for the Ascendancy didn’t break any rules because they were unprecedented – there simply were no rules in place to break.

Thurfian’s arms were tied.

Check mate, Ba’kif thought smugly to himself and watched the calculated play of emotions on Thurfian’s face shift until they settled into grudging defeat.

“We will discuss this again at length, General.” Thurfian said in a tone that promised retribution before rising from his chair.

“Of course, Your Venerante.” Ba’kif stood to accompany his guest to the door but Thurfian waved him away irritably.

“I know my way out.”

As the hatch hissed shut behind him with finality, plunging the office into silence, Ba’kif remained seated at his desk, soaking it up and rocking back and forth as he contemplated the implications of what had just happened.

Thurfian was an old foe for lack of a better word. Ba’kif was well aware that much of the machinations that had led to Thrawn’s exile had been orchestrated by his hand and had to suppress the bitterness he felt at the fact.

Now, the man had shown his hand once again and though Ba’kif couldn’t say he was surprised, there was no use getting tangled up in personal sentiments.

At the end of the day, Thurfian was a good politician. Maybe even a good Patriarch. Unfortunately, he could not see that the ideas he advocated for were harmful, though of course, only time would tell which one of them was right. All Ba’kif could do now was what the military had taught him all these years: pick a side and dig in.

As for Lyron, he thought uneasily and felt the sudden need to get up and stretch his legs, Lyron’s future remained as much of a question mark as ever.

“A sour taste indeed...” he muttered to himself in the dark, looking out the window spanning the wall of his office. The artificial lights outside flickered and fluctuated as he tucked a few darker scenarios back to the recesses of his mind where they’d sprung from.

He could only hope that this time, like many others before, Thrawn’s calculations would prove to be right…

Chapter Text

Ba’kif shifted and refocused his attention on the blank wall opposite him.

How had it come to this?

There was a dull ache in his jaw that betrayed the stormy state of his thoughts and he flexed his neck before giving up on the effort altogether.

He should have seen this coming, he really should have.

Letting his eyes roam again, he glanced at the human occupying the seat parallel to his. Lyron’s complexion remained pale and his hands twitched nervously where he’d folded them in his lap. One of the more extreme signs of alarm Ba’kif had observed in him and he filed it to the back of his mind on impulse.

If he’d thought the tension of their uncertain circumstances was taxing, then he was unprepared for the frustration their current situation incited in him. Perhaps he was losing his touch?

… He really should have seen this coming.

The café was nearing its evening lull by the time they were halfway through their drinks. Those who had opted to spend their afternoon there had thinned, making space for the patrons that would begin filing in at the end of their workday, and the servers had taken to lounging at the bar in preparation for the coming flux.

It was just the right amount of ears Ba’kif felt comfortable discussing more sensitive topics around.

He set his cup back down in its saucer and repressed a grin at another blunt remark from his companion.

Despite having most of their work-related talks in his office back in EDF headquarters, Ba’kif would still invite the human out here occasionally, under the pretext of a by now established tradition.

He would be lying if he said Lyron’s file was complete by now. No, unbeknownst or perhaps very much known to Lyron – Ba’kif had learned not to underestimate him by now – his evaluation was still very much in progress. And Ba’kif had taken note of the fact that the human felt much more comfortable in a less professional environment.

“It’s stupidly brash, is what it is,” Lyron fumed, picking his finished cup up for the umpteenth time before setting it back down, disgruntled. The dense network of veins stood out starkly against alien skin and Ba’kif found his gaze drawn to it in childlike curiosity. “How are we supposed to defend someone whose actions are indefensible?”

Ba’kif shrugged, prompting a grumbling response from him.

“We don’t. Our job isn’t to conjure blamelessness where there is none. So by all means, let the Syndicure rip into them.”

“That reflects on our own reputation you know,” Lyron tacked on, sending Ba’kif on the search for a plausible defense.

The question of how genuine it should be stood at the forefront. Ba’kif elected to take a calculated risk.

“I admit,” he said at length, carefully, “there is a certain tendency among the younger generations to blunder in their approach.”

Lyron’s gaze beckoned him to elaborate. Ba’kif sighed and repositioned himself in his chair.

“There are a lot of young officers who seem to have misunderstood some of our more successful strategies. Many saw Thrawn’s success in the early days of the war and thought uncompromising hardheadedness was the way to go.”

Essentially missing the true nature behind Trawn’s genius. And only taking away the unfortunate side effects, Ba’kif finished in his head.

“You mean we work for reckless upstarts who live in a post Thrawn era and think they don’t need an ounce of political acumen.”

Ba’kif chose to forgo his answer. Lyron winced sympathetically.

“Just how deep of a scar has this man left on your society?”

“Crises come and go, Lyron,” Ba’kif waved him away. “Our society is used to weathering them without any lasting effects. We, as the Ascendancy’s servants, simply need to make sure it survives its current predicament.”

Lyron shrugged his shoulders cheerfully.

“Well, I’ll be cheering for you from the sidelines.”

The remark prompted a wry smile from Ba’kif that he opted to hide behind his cup.

From the sidelines, Lyron said. Little did he know how hard that was to believe, just looking at him. Lyron might have been loath to admit it but he was integrating into their people quicker than anyone had anticipated.

As for his opinions on Thrawn, Ba’kif had to cut Lyron some slack and admit that it was all a bit more convoluted than he could conceive of.

There was, for one, the possibility that the Syndicure’s desire to avoid another Thrawn scenario at all costs exacerbated the whole situation. This was why the Mediation Bureau had come to be to begin with. But that strategy also had its pitfalls.

On the one hand separating politics from military matters presupposed some degree of detachment and independence of one from the other. But on the other it made a larger mess when the two were forced to interact.

This effect may be less Thrawn’s doing and more a natural progression of things that they had to adapt to for the greater good.

This was a point of contention between Lyron and Ba’kif; one they’d discovered during the many times they’d discussed the topic since it was first brought up.

Lyron argued the need for earlier family separation in the navy, as early as Junior Captain, and a simultaneous obligatory education in political and state affairs, while Ba’kif preferred to let things happen more naturally. Regardless of whether Thrawn’s influence had been the inciting push that had set things in motion, the lines between the two institutions were showing signs of becoming less blurred and the Mediation Bureau had so far proven successful in being both buffer and wedge.

Ba’kif could envision it growing and expanding slowly as the new status quo settled, a subtle development that responded more to demand rather than any artificial meddling.

The Arostocra were still jumpy, even with Thrawn so far away, and a rapid reform like this could incite fear among them of losing some of their influence. Some of them were already noticing the shift Thrawn’s heroics and departure had caused in the navy and were not happy about it at all.

Ba’kif had tried to explain it to Lyron multiple times but the human merely shook his head, insisting that a strong legal framework was necessary for any experimental project’s survival and that establishing that framework while the Aristocra weren’t yet up in arms about it was crucial.

And Ba’kif, though he wouldn’t say it out loud, was secretly pleased by the opposition. Much like Thrawn, he recognized the value of different viewpoints working together and he had a good feeling that the solution to their problem would eventually be found in the middle, so long as they both worked diligently toward it.

Thrawn had warned Ba’kif that Lyron could be particularly stubborn about his opinions but could be swayed given a solid enough explanation. ‘A deference to hard facts and logic, if you will’ Thrawn had called it.

But Ba’kif suspected it had less to do with stubbornness and more with dislike, though he’d prudently chosen not to voice that opinion. Thrawn’s methods and Vanto’s apparent disloyalty (a hypocritical label on Lyron’s part, all things considered) seemed to be the source behind Lyron’s staunch antagonism and while that was a flaw that didn’t do him any favors, Ba’kif could tolerate it as long as it didn’t get in the way of his work.

So far that work had been satisfactory and promising for Lyron’s future in the Ascendancy. Despite some initial token resistance, the human didn’t seem as opposed to cooperating with him which confirmed to Ba’kif that taking him out of the navy and out of Vanto and Thrawn’s immediate proximity, had indeed been the right choice.

So, it seems, was Ba’kif’s instinct on where to direct the human’s talents. It was perhaps destiny, more than Thrawn’s machinations, that had delivered secretary Lyron to them.

The man was a valuable asset. In more ways than he probably suspected, Ba’kif mused. The place he came from, his vaunted Empire, was a form of government where the military held much more sway than it did in the Ascendancy. Lyron had been a cog in that machine and a relatively important one at that, if Thrawn was to be believed.

As such he could provide insight into how such a system operated. What loopholes were used to give the military its influence, what laws were in place to empower it. Thrawn had given them a detailed rundown of how the Empire operated but he was always more in tune with the military side of things, as was Vanto.

How and where politics came into play was still a gray area which if charted, could provide guidelines of sorts, Ba’kif thought darkly.

Lyron seemed to straddle that line between military and politics. His own commanding officer, from what Ba’kif could glean, had been a civilian.

It was a dangerous thought… a slippery slope perhaps. But if they were to survive this war, they had to loosen the Syndicure’s hold on the military. An army fettered by a slow cumbersome political administration could not hope to weather the pressure the Grysks were exerting on them forever, if much longer.

And Ba’kif was well aware of that.

“Well, I believe this is all for today.”

Lyron sighed at length, getting up and tucking his questis under his arm. “No appointments for this afternoon?”

“None, Secretary.” Ba’kif nodded.

“Good, I can peruse these at home then.”

Home.

Another smirk hidden behind Ba’kif’s cup.

“Ah, and secretary,” Ba’kif stopped him before he could walk away.

“I had one of my aides order the garments you spoke of when we last met. They should be delivered from the seamstress’s in the coming week.”

The words sent a flash of surprise over Lyron’s face, bordering on shock.

“Thank you that’s...” he stopped and fumbled for words for a moment, “Very considerate of you.”

Ba’kif smiled indulgently.

“I know your situation makes it difficult for you move about freely. That shouldn’t bar you from simple comforts.”

“Yes, thank you. General.”

In a rare show of awkwardness, Lyron excused himself and hurried out of the café, leaving Ba’kif to finish his drink.

He did so with a touch of amusement.

It seemed that the human’s combativeness left him floundering when faced with simple courtesy. The Empire apparently didn’t employ such methods to ensure the loyalty of its subjects, though admittedly neither did the Ascendancy, not normally at least.

Turning back to his tea, he eyed the dregs at the bottom of the cup and contemplated dragging his stay out a bit longer. There were few opportunities for rest these days. The Syndicure and the Grysks made sure of it.

Something wouldn’t leave his mind, though, no matter how hard he swatted at it.

It was something Lyron had said. Something about a gift…

Now, the gift itself wasn’t unusual. Lyron had received various gifts and trinkets from Aristocra who were happy with how their family members’ cases were handled. Ingratiation was the oldest trick in the book and it spoke volumes of how ingrained it was if his people were ready to set aside their xenophobia for an inch of political leverage.

No, that part wasn’t unusual.

What was unusual though was that the gift was apparently anonymous.

No politician would make a moot move like that, Ba’kif reasoned, frowning at his cup, there was no point in an anonymous gift if your only purpose was to curry favor. His staff, of course, kept tabs on who gave his employees gifts, it was always prudent to keep track of whose good side they were on, no matter how distastefully close the whole thing came to politicking, but he wondered what the anonymous part meant.

Had it been noted? Had it gone undetected? Had it reached Lyron via alternative channels? Normally these things would be reported to him, eventually, and he trusted his men to handle the situation… But what if it had slipped his men’s radar and gone uninvestigated?

He tried to set the thought aside as neurotic but it persisted and the itch only seemed to grow the longer he let it ferment. In the end it bothered him enough to cause him to drop the idea of rest and make his way out of the café, setting a brisk pace in the direction of the EDF’s housing blocks.

Paranoid, part of him chided but he reasoned that a paranoid thought was only such until it proved to be intuition.

Making a sharp turn at the corner of the square, he ignored the stares of passersby and found the nearest entrance to the sprawling building complex carved into the stone. The apartment was easy enough to find – he’d never been there himself but the number had been committed to memory. Few of the people they monitored were accommodated in their own branch’s housing district after all.

He rapped his knuckles on the hatch once then twice and was dismayed to receive only silence in response.

It pushed him into taking measures he really wasn’t looking forward to and he dug into his jacket reluctantly, pulling out an access card and swiping it against the hatch’s controls.

A breach of trust that would set them back weeks, maybe months.

But they would cross that bridge when they got to it, he told himself and took a step into the moderately sized suite.

The place was sparsely furnished, a far cry from the gaudy administrative flats, and there was little that spoke of Lyron’s presence beside the scarf draped next to the hatch. A dresser took up most of the adjacent room’s wall, a few embroidered sleeves peeking out with a glimpse of neatly-pressed white fabric in between.

Ba’kif’s attention immediately went to the bottle sitting innocuously on the living room coffee table, however.

Closer inspection revealed that it indeed bore no inscription just as a voice sounded behind him.

“General?”

He turned to see Lyron at the threshold to what seemed like the apartment’s fresher.

“Where did this come from?” Ba’kif asked brusquely, forgoing all formalities.

He watched as Lyron’s confusion spilled out on his face, his eyes making a few meaningful trips between the open hatch and Ba’kif’s presence.

“Like I said, it was dropped off at the office this morning,” he tried hesitantly.

“Do you have any idea as to who might be the sender?”

“We had a busy month. Many cases.”

The words pressed Ba’kif’s lips into a thin line.

In hindsight, he would be grateful for giving in to his paranoia, he reflected later as they sat in tense silence, awaiting the results of the secondary analysis.

As if on cue, the questis on the table in front of them let out a soft ping and Ba’kif’s hand shot out to grab it. One good thing about being a general was that your priority requests were actually prioritized though that thought would quickly sour as he perused the message grimly and turned towards Lyron with a single word.

“Lethal,” he all but growled and watched the last of the color drain from Lyron’s face.

It was official then, Ba’kif concluded wryly as he set the device back down with a sigh, shooting a glance at the nauseous-looking human at his side.

He was once again fighting a war on two fronts.

Chapter Text

The Mitth gardens were a sight to behold this time of year. The warmer months, barely warm but ushering enough refracted sunlight, had summoned different blooms and new foliage and a few native species flittered from branch to branch. One would think the place would be teeming with visitors when in fact, it was empty.

The truth was that the gardens were merely decorative – a place to take important dignitaries on a stroll when they were bored but otherwise ignored by the various administrators and syndics that went about their business. It would almost seem haunted if it weren’t for how pristine it was.

Neatly clipped hedges and carefully curated displays betrayed an army of gardeners that toiled away elusively to keep the place in peak condition. Order required constant maintenance. And the same was true of politics.

‘Never trust your affairs to behave while you’re away’ a fellow syndic had once said and Thurfian could only smile wryly in agreement as he gave the scenery one last glance before going back to pacing the dark interior of his office.

The trip had taken a fortnight. An annual journey to visit the Mitth patriels of adjacent worlds, a brief and mostly ceremonial affair and yet all had managed to go to hell in his absence. Thurfian had to hand it to Thrawn – the echoes of his actions were just as skilled at making his life more difficult as the man himself had been.

Now a single botched assassination attempt threatened to collapse his reputation altogether, Thurfian fumed, his nerves whittled by the stress he’d had to endure since landing back on Csilla. He remembered first learning of it as his ship descended towards the surface. The haste with which he’d sought out Ba’kif, only for that conversation to backfire spectacularly.

“I’ll cut to the chase, I know what you’re thinking.” Thurfian saved them both the preamble as they cut through the crowd.

“Truly? And what is that, Your Venerante?” Ba’kif feigned a smile and Thurfian bristled at the light sarcastic tone. He was slightly breathless, having come here directly from his ship and he hardly had the patience for the other’s glibness.

“Don’t play daft,” he hissed, “You think I’m here to act overly concerned to make a show of innocence. Someone is trying to frame me.”

“If you’re talking about the attempt on my secretary, no accusations have been made.”

“You sought me out twice while I was away.”

“I never said why.”

“We both know why!”

“I’m sorry, your Venerante, but I’m afraid I can’t help you if you aren’t more specific.”

“You know this was set up to make me look guilty.”

“That’s awfully speculative.”

“Would you say it’s unreasonable?”

“It’s not for me to say what’s reasonable. But I assure you, I’m working to discover what is true.”

Thurfian grit his teeth at the memory.

Needless to say, that meeting hadn’t been productive. Part of Thurfian had anticipated it. The imprint of Thrawn’s exile wouldn’t allow itself to be wiped so easily and so long as it remained in living memory, there would be resentment. Yet another part of him reeled at being so readily condemned.

But those were thoughts that only served to trip him up further. Right now, his priority laid in proving his innocence and facts were what he needed to focus on.

The bottle had been left in the janitorial room. The instructions were anonymous but the staff had delivered it to the bureau’s office none the wiser, after which it had found its intended recipient. There was no surveillance in the corridor leading to the cleaning staff’s wing, which was their first mistake. The belief that no one would infiltrate this deeply into Csaplar so there was no need to monitor every hallway, nook and cranny. They had grown complacent, so sure that they only needed to watch for an enemy from without and not from within.

Now the culprit could be anyone and Thurfian realized how this looked for him. People already knew or would know of his disapproval of the human and could use that to implicate him. A patriarch’s affairs were never private. And neither were their affinities and inclinations. To make matters worse, the culprit had made sure to make it look like the wine had come from someone of high standing, someone as high as a patriarch. An obvious machination but one that would still weigh heavy in a potential trial.

And if someone wanted to use that against him… Like Zistalmu who knew about his visits and complaints to Ba’kif. Who was still angry about that whole thwarted fiasco with the Thuf and whose involvement as an Irizi advisor and instigator had been brought out into the open in the process. It was the whole reason why Thurfian had gone to Ba’kif with that case in the first place, to steer blame away from himself and make it seem like the case had been solved by a neutral party.

If his suspicions were misplaced, bringing up an accusation would only further sour the relationship.

“You know what we stand to gain from this alliance,” Thurfian had tried to remind his friend recently, only to get a scoff in return.

“If you insist on reminding me so often, your Venerante, then maybe you’re the one who’s not comfortable with this arrangement,” Zistalmu had bit back and Thurfian could do nothing but concede.

It was getting harder and harder to maintain his alliance with Zistalmu when their family interests constantly pitted them against each other, he reflected grimly.

Indeed, as much as it chafed to admit it, the nature of the case had left him in a state of even bigger uncertainty than he normally found himself in. Questioning his position and alliances and pointing fingers that could potentially burn bridges.

Which might be, Thurfian thought darkly, exactly what their enemies wanted... And if someone was trying to shake the foundations of his alliances, then maybe this was bigger than any of them suspected.

With that ominous possibility in mind, he moved back to his desk, pressing the comm button integrated into the wood and waiting for his aide to receive the call.

 “Yes, your Venerante?” Thivik’s voice sounded from the other side.

“I want you to arrange a meeting,” Thurfian said, feeling his resolve harden as he charted his next move.

“A meeting, your Venerante? Would that be official or private?”

“Official. And do it as soon as possible.”

Three days later found him in his office again, awaiting a very special guest. Thivik had informed him of the transport’s arrival and he watched as it deposited its cargo in the plaza at the foot of the building where an aide waited to intercept it.

The figure’s strides were quick and purposeful as it crossed the square, clearly restless, and Thurfian felt a flash of satisfaction.

Bold and reckless. Just as he’d expected.

As he positioned himself in his chair to wait, he reflected on the desperation with which Ba’kif had tried to prevent this meeting, only to be blocked at every turn. If Ba’kif thought he was the only one who could play this game, he was sorely mistaken. Before long the sound of footsteps echoed on the marble floor outside and Thurfian turned to watch his guest stride through the door imperiously.

“Your Venerante.”

“Secretary Lyron.” Thurfian offered a smile. “Please take a seat.”

The usual pleasantries made their rounds but the human was reliably direct which Thurfian appreciated. Neither of them were here to waste time.

“So what, I’m here because you think I orchestrated this whole thing to implicate you?”

Thurfian paused in answering the question, taking the other in and focusing on the green and gold administrator robe. The sight of an alien wearing their traditional dress was still off-putting. He supposed he might have been more open to it in another context but this was Thrawn’s envoy, a being of extraordinary gall and unearned privileges.

He was once again reminded of Ba’kif’s efforts to thwart this visit and took solace in that.

“No, I don’t suspect you,” he answered at length, almost breaking into a smile. Someone of your meager standing doesn’t have the access to such resources. And neither are you wily enough to evade the scrutiny Ba’kif has you under.

As though sensing the condescension, the human grew visibly annoyed.

“I don’t suspect you,” Thurfian repeated thoughtfully. “But you seem to suspect me, correct?”

“What gave you the idea?”

This time Thurfian allowed the smile. At the very least, he wouldn’t need to catch the other up. He shifted his posture, turning it into something more pointed as he maintained eye contact.

 “Why did you come here if you are so sure I’m your potential murderer.”

The tactic seemed to work and the human drew back into himself, that skittish mind working behind dull brown eyes to consider the question.

“You wouldn’t be so bold as to try and kill me here,” he tried eventually. “Especially now that you’re under suspicion.”

“Good. And?”

“And it would tarnish your reputation.”

Correct, Thurfian thought approvingly. As much as he wanted to think that a dubious alien agent wouldn’t be missed, there were those who had still thrown in with him. Those to whom pure usefulness outweighed their xenophobia and this Ronan had gathered allies as a result.

This wasn’t to say that killing the man had been an option. His presence was a nuisance but nothing that warranted such drastic action.

Yet considering the optics of it had still been informative. No, killing Brierly’ro’nan in his homestead in broad daylight wasn’t an option. More than that, Thurfian had taken pains to arrange the meeting through official channels to further take suspicion off himself. He suspected the human knew that as well and that was why he was there in the first place.

Even so it was a bold move to accept the invitation, Thurfian had to admit.

“I have good reason not to want to be associated with this case.” Thurfian agreed. “Even as a mere suspect. The fact of the matter is, Secretary, that I am being framed, plain and simple. And I want my reputation cleared.”

“You want me to help you investigate the case.”

“Precisely.”

A shadow of distrust flashed over the human’s face.

“And why shouldn’t I trust General Ba’kif to resolve this instead?”

“Oh, I’m hoping that you will.” Thurfian said amicably. “With myself and the general working parallel, all of this might be resolved much sooner. There are means available to the Syndicure not available to the military, as you can probably guess. If you leave Ba’kif to crack this case alone, you will be limiting the amount of resources put towards discovering your assassin.”

“Forgive me, Your Venerante, but I fail to see how that would benefit you.”

“Your meaning?”

“You’ve been lobbying to get me removed from my position. Reputation aside, I can’t see why my death would inconvenience you.”

The accusation was as veiled as could be but that wasn’t what got Thurfian’s blood boiling. Again this creature made the wrong assumptions and Thurfian had no intention of letting it stand.

“Let me make myself clear, Secretary. You have no idea how far I would go for my people.” I would readily give my life. I would break my principles for them. And I would even tolerate you, if I have to.

“Make no mistake, I could have you removed at any moment. But as things stand, that would be counterproductive for the Ascendancy as a whole.”

Despite the ice in his voice, the human stood his ground, looking almost distracted as he seemed to ponder something.

“You could tolerate me, yet you couldn’t tolerate Thrawn,” he said finally and the words took Thurfian by surprise.

The momentary shock destabilized him and for a brief window, thoughts that he’d been trying to ignore rushed back to the surface from the deepest corners of his mind. Doubts of whether these efforts to break him weren’t a campaign to bring Thrawn back. But the attempts of someone trying to keep him out.

Someone afraid that what he was doing in the Empire was actually working.

Or, Thurfian shook his head, he was merely overthinking this and this was yet another attempt at jostling the political landscape. He needed to get a grip on himself, he thought angrily.

“Thrawn was a different matter,” he waved it off. A danger to his people. Even if they refused to see it as such. The human went to protest but Thurfian cut him off before he had the chance.

“Let me put it this way. Ba’kif has taken it upon himself to vouch for you here and the Mediation Bureau is his initiative. This means that if something happens to you, he will take that failing personally. This, however, makes him blind to the grand scheme of things. To what our common enemy might be doing.

I believe this is the work of someone who might have a personal grudge against you. Someone to whom cooperation with the Grysks would come with the added bonus of getting you killed.”

At that, Thurfian finally got the response he desired as the human’s eyes widened and he lost his composure for the first time since coming there.

“You actually think the Grysks were involved in this?” he stumbled over his words, mauling some of their pronunciation in the process.

Thurfian smiled wryly. “It wouldn’t be the first time. And it won’t be the last.”

“But – ”

“To implicate one of the Syndics. To sow discord and suspicion in the Aristocra. To exacerbate family conflicts. Drive the wedge between Syndicure and military further. Spoil our chances for a future alliance with your Empire.” He waved a hand “Take your pick.”

The human winced visibly, probably realizing the stupidity of his own question. Of course the Grysks had a vested interest in this. It was plain to see if one was only willing to dig far enough. To extend the scope of an internal affair to the real, overall scheme it played into.

And the human seemed to realize that as well judging by the way he’d begun to fidget in his seat. Sensing his opening, Thurfian dove in to drive his point further.

“It’s not about your death. Your death by itself would be inconsequential to the Ascendancy. It’s the chaos caused by the way you die that matters. Already it’s driving a wedge between me and general Ba’kif. Another wrinkle in the relationship between Syndicure and navy.”

Ba’kif, however, was unfortunately blind to it. He had so much faith in Thrawn’s judgment that he believed this man was somehow an invaluable asset. He was looking at this whole thing backwards; rather than seeing the bigger picture, he was staring at the grassroots, just because Thrawn had planted the seeds.

This is bigger than you, Thurfian thought as he glared at the human opposite him, bigger than Thrawn.

And the sooner they all realized that, the better.

Chapter Text

Ronan grit his teeth but refrained from lashing out.

Coming here, he had anticipated being belittled, and letting himself get riled up now would amount to nothing. He had been walked over and insulted by snide aristocrats and lofty politicians many times before and he knew how to play the game.

Taking a deep breath, he recentered himself and focused back on the situation at hand.

The notion of Ba’kif taking personal responsibility for him was… something of a shock. Part of him knew it was because of Thrawn, it all came down to Thrawn, but even so, the way Ba’kif had reacted to the whole situation raised a few questions.

That the general had some kind of personal stake in this couldn’t be entirely dismissed. Whether it was solely because of Thrawn or the fact that his reputation was directly tied to the Bureau’s success was ultimately irrelevant.

The notion of Ba’kif being wrong however was a bit more difficult to swallow. Ronan had come to rely, albeit reluctantly at first, on Ba’kif’s competence. He didn’t know when or how that reliance had come about but it felt natural and grounding in an otherwise shifting landscape of politicking and wartime uncertainty and Ronan partially cursed himself for becoming so comfortable.

Of course he hadn’t been so much of a fool as to forget that that same competence was working to pick him apart and subtly change the course of his loyalties but that was almost a mutual agreement at this point. Ba’kif worked to further his people’s agenda and Ronan worked to further the agenda of… whom exactly? The Empire? The Chiss? The greater good?

It was becoming harder and harder to tell these days.

No, of course you’re doing this for your people, a voice inside him chided, the Grysks are a threat to everyone. The justification of Ronan’s work here hinged on that. As long as that didn’t change, Ba’kif could weave his webs and do right by his people’s expectations.

Maybe that’s why Ronan had been adamant on coming here despite Ba’kif’s protests. He needed to prove that he was still independent, that he still had his own agency even if he acknowledged the Chiss’ grander plans and the way he slotted into them. And there was merit to playing Thurfian’s game, regardless of whether Ba’kif thought it was the best way to go about it.

Dangerous initiative, Director Krennic would say. Ba’kif might call it clever.

If he lets you hear the end of this.

 “Secretary?” Thurfian’s voice snapped him out of his reverie and he nearly jumped out of his seat.

“Yes, yes, I’m here,” he growled irritably and bit his lip as he marshalled his thoughts.

Whatever the case, he needed to accept that Ba’kif might be going about this the wrong way. To ignore it meant inviting the danger of overlooking potential Grysk meddling.

Ba’kif prioritized protecting Ronan from an internal threat and Ronan couldn’t really blame him. He was Tharwn’s envoy at the end of the day and he’d come to learn that Thrawn had as many enemies in the Ascendancy as he had allies and those enemies were just as determined. If not more.

“Alright,” he said tentatively, turning back to Thurfian. “Say you’re telling the truth. What do you want from me?”

The Chiss relaxed minutely, as though glad that Ronan’s little lapse hadn’t convinced him to backtrack.

“To enable me to look further into this. You know best which weak link the Grysks could have used to put this scheme in motion. All I need is a name.”

A name, Ronan thought and pursed his lips.

He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. Naturally, anyone who was unhappy with the work they did at the bureau couldn’t be dismissed here. It was a daunting lineup, they had been quite productive as of late, and in a sense he had a plethora of options to choose from.

That wasn’t what Thurfian wanted from him though. And truth be told one name did stand out in Ronan’s mind…

Secretary Rhiuh’vek.

Ronan wasn’t happy to admit it but a few weeks back he and his colleague had run into something of a conflict of interest.

The man had been skewing cases in the Boadil’s favor. It had only been a hunch at first, a vague pattern that Ronan had tried to tell himself was imagined but two minutes of letting Vanto peruse the documents had made it definitive. Ronan hadn’t even told Vanto what he was looking for and the other had still sniffed it out.

Vanto’s freakish abilities aside – seriously, was he a droid or something? – Ronan had found himself conflicted on how to proceed. The most obvious course had been to report it directly to Ba’kif. That, however, would have almost certainly led to Rhiuh’vek’s discharge.

To claim that the man was a friend was nothing short of ridiculous, they weren’t nearly that close, if being close with a Chiss was even possible, but Ronan had gotten used to working with him. In the end he hadn’t taken the case to Ba’kif. He had opted, instead, to confront Rhiuh’vek directly. He had been stubborn at first, his kind all were, but he’d eventually admitted to it and the consequences it might have for his career.

Ronan liked to think that that had been the end of that but who could really say… That Rhiuh’vek still saw him as a threat or bore a grudge was not impossible.

But no, Ronan shook his head. It was too unlikely. Not only because the motive was weak but because the whole thing just didn’t add up. Rhiuh’vek had as much disdain for the Grysks as those most vehemently disgusted with them and unless the man was a master manipulator, he wouldn’t have been able to throw Ronan’s judgement off that far.

So that left out his only prominent suspect.

Then again, Ronan thought, his mind going a parsec a minute all of a sudden, there was another. Another name that he had only vaguely considered but checked all the boxes of what they were looking for. What Thurfian was looking for.

And yet… No, he could still spin this to his advantage. It was a risky move but if he played his cards right, he could still come out on top while making use of the resources Thurfian was putting at their feet.

Ba’kif would just have to trust him on this. Ronan needed him to trust him if this plan was to succeed. He could only hope the man wasn’t too angry with him for his little stunt.

Steeling his resolve, he plastered a thoughtful expression on his face and turned back to face the patriarch.

“There may be someone who might have a good motive…”

By the time he reached EDF headquarters, his thoughts were still racing with adrenaline. The Mitth aide had dropped him off at the entrance of the EDF building complex and though Ronan could have taken a transport to Ba’kif’s office, he had preferred to make the journey on foot.

On the way, he ran into his fair share of administrators and officers, some hardly paying him any mind and others still gawking like it was their first time seeing an alien. He ignored them all.

Stepping inside Bakif’s office revealed the general seated behind his desk, focused on a holomap. Ronan winced as the man laid eyes on him and immediately scowled.

“Oh good.” He raised his hands sarcastically. “You’re alive.”

Ronan grimaced.

“Very funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Recalling everything that had happened was a tense affair, not least of all because of the way Ba’kif’s glare bore daggers in him all the while, and as expected the man wasn’t happy when he admitted to accepting Thurfian’s request of offering him a suspect.

“You agreed?” Ba’kif’s voice rose a notch and Ronan flinched away like a scolded child. He didn’t know when Ba’kif’s displeasure had begun affecting him so much but he filed that question away for another time and hurried to reassure the other.

“Before you get angry – !”

Thankfully, as he laid out his plan, Ba’kif’s ire slowly receded and he listened to Ronan until he was leaned back in his chair, one gloved hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“I understand the need to use a diversion,” he said at length. “But why choose Secretary Rhiuh’vek?”

Ronan shook his head. “Because Rhiuh’vek is as innocent as it gets. If Thurfian fabricates evidence and uses my testimony as further proof to implicate him, we’ll know he’s looking for ways to direct blame away from himself. But if he’s truly concerned about the Grysks he won’t make a move on Rhiuh’vek without decisive proof and will keep digging until he finds the real agent.” 

Ba’kif remained silent for a moment.

“You have an awful lot of trust in Secretary Rhiuh’vek.”

Ronan shrugged. “You handpicked him for this project, didn’t you?”

Then his confidence flagged as he remembered his own doubts regarding the man and the boldness with which he’d strolled onto Savit’s ship once, only to end up as a hostage on the man’s bridge…

“That said,” he cleared his throat lamely, “it wouldn’t hurt if you could look into him as well…”

Ba’kif merely frowned as he considered the idea.

“Let us hope that if you’re right about him, Patriarch Thurfian doesn’t prove too good at fabricating evidence.”

At that, Ronan straightened in his seat and felt a familiar professionalism take over him.

“I’m used to taking responsibility for other’s lives. I’m aware of the risk and I believe it’s worth taking.”

“Even if it’s Secretary Rhiuh’vek’s life on the line?” The gravity in Ba’kif’s voice made him pause and he vacillated before he realized that the general was deliberately testing his resolve and groaned as he put a hand to his temple.

“Look, I don’t like this anymore than you do.” He rubbed the skin irritably. “But I trust that if it comes to it, you will protect him to the best of your abilities.”

Ba’kif nodded at that and the sobriety with which he spoke next caught Ronan off guard.

“The Mediation Bureau is my initiative. And you and Secretary Rhiuh’vek are in my employ. I may not have been able to protect my people from the Syndicure in the past but I won’t fail in that task again.”

The words sent a now familiar chill down Ronan’s spine and for a moment he was reminded of Thurfian’s words about Ba’kif’s personal investment in this case. Before he could think about it further, however, Ba’kif abruptly sprung back into action and moved to reach for the questis poised on the edge of his desk.

“I will brief Secretary Rhiuh’vek on the details of our plan,” he said, typing something into the device. “We might want him to avoid any potentially incriminating behavior in the coming days, just so we don’t make Thurfian’s job easier for him. I’ll present it as a choice to him at first, make it seem like we haven’t told Thurfian anything yet, as I would prefer he be willing in this whole scheme. Do you believe he’ll accept?”

Rhiuh’vek? Ronan thought to himself. A chance to mess with the Mitth Patriarch? Of course he would.

And yet for all that he knew the man would accept willingly, somewhere deep down Ronan felt that his conscience had only grown heavier.

Chapter Text

The plan had been a gamble, that much Ronan was willing to admit. But a gamble supposed a hefty payoff and that’s what differentiated it from a mere risk.

And the payoff from their plan had certainly been worth it.

Ronan watched as the man bucked and strained against his cuffs, the two warriors flanking him tightening their grip on his arms. He responded with a roar that echoed around the room just as a cheer rose from the hall adjacent to it and rendered his protests mute.

All in all, it was a rather perfectly timed affair.

The ceremony inside proceeded without a hitch and its occupants were more than likely utterly nonethewiser to the arrest going on outside. Two more armed chiss flanked the locked doors, a final barrier to prevent onlookers, and the ceremony inside seemed to be a sufficient distraction to everyone present.

Ronan was curious to see the ceremony for himself but he decided that the spectacle before him was much more worth it. Especially considering he was the only one with a personal invitation.

“I wonder if being assigned to him was really a coincidence,” he mused just as a pair of wild red eyes found his and proceeded to try and bore a hole through him.

Ronan winced.

If looks could kill…

Next to him Ba’kif scoffed. He’d presided over the proceedings with a distinct air of contentment about him, his gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back. Vaguely, Ronan wondered if the urbane old general was a gambler himself. Then just as vaguely he supposed all men of his rank were, in a way.

“Not at all. Apparently he protested the most when the initial suggestion was pitched to various captains and someone in the Syndicure thought that would be ideal for their little experiment.”

Ronan cocked an eyebrow.

“Right. Because forcing people with bad blood to work together is sure to produce good results.”

“Good results? Maybe not. The results they wanted though,” Ba’kif trailed off darkly. “That’s a different story.”

A shiver ran down Ronan’s spine. Of course there was another layer of Syndicure scheming to all of this. He would do well to remember there always was. Turning back to the atrium floor, he allowed himself one last look at the man who had tried and almost succeeded in killing him.

Senior Captain Svag’uil’osnym’s face had gone almost purple with rage, his curses coming up in garbled cheunh as he was steered away from the ceremony hall and out of the atrium.

The man had strutted in, head held high, only to stumble directly into his own arrest. The whole thing had been planned so as to avoid giving him an opportunity to run for it – space was vast and rife with opportunities for a guilty man to flee or hide but the moment they’d presented him with the offer of a medal, he’d been more than willing to run back to Csilla, doubly lured by the rumor of Ronan’s supposed murderer having already been caught. In the end his own arrogance had done him in though of course, they wouldn’t have let him walk free either way.

The arrest had instead been choreographed to avoid any scenes and disruptions in the EDF. Clean cut and simple. Ronan made a note of complimenting Ba’kif on it later.

“So,” he cleared his throat. “Where are they taking him?”

“To a place where he won’t be seeing the sun anytime soon. Or ever.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “Like my office then. And our reluctant coconspirator?”

“Proud of his contributions to our case, I’m sure.”

That almost got a snort from Ronan. Their unwitting ally had indeed performed admirably. Though of course whether he’d be thrilled by the nature of his own involvement was a different matter, Ronan thought sardonically.

More than likely the man was currently seething somewhere, having already learned of the arrest, his role in it and the fact that he’d been thoroughly duped. Which meant that he would be even more of a pleasure to deal with going forward.

If nothing else, Ronan thought, at least he’d come out of this incident with his honor intact. Not only had his thorough investigation cleared any remaining doubts from Rhiuh’vek – for which Ronan was especially glad, he had to admit – but he hadn’t made any move to implicate him or fabricate evidence and had doggedly pursued legitimate proof till the very end.

Which meant that Patriarch Thurfian was, if nothing else, genuine in his concerns about the Grysks.

“Maybe we should send him a card,” Ronan tried to joke but the tone stumbled somewhere along the way and fell flat.

He hoped Ba’kif wouldn’t notice it but this was Ba’kif they were talking about.

“You’re still thinking about the access card,” the General said softly after a careful pause and Ronan swallowed, keeping his eyes on the atrium floor. He could feel Ba’kif’s eyes boring a hole through him, somehow feeling heavier than Aguilos’ stare.

One day he would confront Ba’kif about this mind-reading wizardry he performed on a regular basis. But for now his mind was in too much turmoil to try and guess how the other had become so good at reading him.

“I only used it because the situation was dire. Are you suggesting I would otherwise?” Ba’kif said gravely and Ronan stared ahead, reluctant to meet his gaze. The knot in his stomach twisted and turned, tying itself tighter under the scrutiny.

They had never had the chance to address it. Working on the plan to expose Aguilos had been a priority and now that it was done, other concerns were beginning to float to the surface, buoyed by unspoken questions.

Still avoiding the chiss’ stare, he turned his eyes on Aguilos’ back, watching as his guards dragged him away from the atrium. According to the agent they’d planted, the one they’d sent to earn Aguilos’ trust, the man had been convinced by the Grysks that Ronan was an undercover agent of the Empire, working against the chiss from the inside to sabotage and weaken them in preparation for an assault.

All lies of course.

But easy to impress on a man that was already brimming with suspicion and distrust.

Ronan swallowed at the thought. He knew a man like that himself. That’s because that man had been him not more than a few months ago, when he’d first set foot on the Steadfast at Ar’alani’s side.

Coiled in anticipation, loaded with suspicion and no surer that he was around allies than that he was among enemies.

If the Grysks had gotten to you first, a small voice nagged in his mind, how easily would you have believed them? How easily would they have convinced you that the chiss were working against the Empire?

Ronan shifted in place, feeling that knot grow.

Had Ba’kif ever considered that possibility? Ronan wondered. Did he consider it even now? The thought made him distinctly uncomfortable.

Throwing a glance at the chiss next to him, he found that he’d given up on pushing the question and seemed to be observing him quietly instead.

A memory flashed through his mind then, a military function from not too long ago that he and Rhiuh’vek had attended as part of the bureau. He’d been walking around, a slightly sweet, slightly sour fizzy drink in his hand as Ba’kif pointed out and listed the various military officers present.

At one point he’d stopped, turning his attention to a tall, stately chiss woman in a red sash. Decorated for a battle preventing the Grysks from entering Imperial space, Ba’kif had said.

“Should you be telling me this?”

“Strictly speaking no.”

“I’m sure patriarch Thurfian would be delighted.”

The General’s grin had been gratifying but then Ronan had turned to find the woman staring at him, something thoughtful crossing her face. Caught off guard, he’d found himself reverting to old habits and nodding on reflex and to his shock she’d returned her nod, the thoughtfulness on her face solidifying into determination before she’d turned around and resumed her conversation with another officer.

The whole affair had left him at a loss. Not least of all because he’d realized, upon looking back, how radically his attitude towards these people had changed since he’d first come here. Along with the fact that some of them might be changing their attitude towards him as well.

You might not be ready to accept them as allies but you can’t deny you’re fighting the same fight.

“Perhaps you would like some liquor that’s not poisoned for once.” Ba’kif’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts and Ronan turned to blink at him.

“A drink,” the General elaborated smoothly at his questioning look. “To celebrate a victory.”

A mutual victory, Ronan shifted where he stood.

“I won’t drop dead from it anyway, right? Because of some biological quirk?” he asked, trying to stall for some time.

“Not if we can help it.”

He chewed on his lip. Despite himself, the invitation was tempting. Unexpectedly so. Glancing up at the glass ceiling above and the layer of quickly dimming sky beyond it, he made a quick calculation in his mind and steeled himself.

“…Another day perhaps?” he tried, hoping it wouldn’t be seen as too much of an offence. Thankfully, it wasn’t and Ba’kif merely gave a nod.

“Another day.”

With that, Ronan excused himself and hurried towards the nearest turbolift. He desperately tried to tell himself he wasn’t fleeing and that he wouldn’t get another chance to do this again soon.

Ba’kif watched the human go, taking note of the lingering tension in his frame.

There was still doubt there worth keeping an eye on. But nothing they couldn’t work to dismantle, he reasoned. Turning his attention back to the atrium floor, he gave the arrest party one final glance – the last of their agents were already filing out with Aguilos long gone – then swept his gaze over the rest of the space. It came to a stop on the silhouette tucked between the shadows of two pillars, and he made his way discreetly across the floor, nodding at a few of his men in passing, before coming up to the figure hovering at the edge of room.

“An artful arrest, General,” Lamiov greeted.

“Thank you, Your Venerante.”

He observed the scene for a while longer before, to Ba’kif’s surprise, lifting his chin in the direction Lyron had gone.

“Not as cool headed as one would expect from his position.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, I’m starting to think that’s true of all humans,” Ba’kif said, his mind going to the recent reports of Vanto’s own exploits and the familiar boldness and flair they were beginning to exhibit.

“And that’s the race Thrawn has decided to ally us with?” Lamiov raised an eyebrow.

“I never said Thrawn’s plans made sense at first glance.”

“I don’t think anyone ever did.” The Patriarch sighed and readjusted his robes. “That said I do hope he returns to us one day. He’s left us very few pieces to work with.”

“The fewer, the more valuable,” Ba’kif confirmed. “Is there any way your people could keep a closer eye on the Syndicure’s attitudes towards our two envoys?”

“You want to make sure another attempt doesn’t happen?”

“I want to at least make sure I know what Lyron is doing here before I have to worry about the Syndicure or our enemies thwarting it.”

This prompted a helpless gesture from the other.

“Heavens, and I thought we at least had that figured out!”

“He does seem to have a special respect for you though,” he added at length. “Gratitude for helping him acclimate to his new environment perhaps?”

“Most likely that. And I believe he’s trying to replace someone.”

“Hmm. Quite convenient for us.”

“It is indeed.”

There was a murmur of applause from the adjacent hall and one of Ba’kif’s men used the opportunity to release the portable locks on the doors. With that, the final traces of the arrest had been wiped.

“On a different note,” Ba’kif said, watching the agent stash his tools away and shuffle out of the atrium. “How goes progress with your project?”

“Ah, Starflash. We’re making good headway. Our techs believe they’ve successfully reverse-engineered one of the main components and the atomic scale tests are promising. With a bit more luck we’ll be well on our way to producing a more efficient version.”

“One that doesn’t rely on a nearby star to function?”

“Not completely. Not yet at least. But in the future…” Lamiov shrugged.

“It’s interesting that you bring this up now,” he continued. “Our friend here. He’s reportedly worked on a weapon of similar scale?”

Ba’kif felt himself stiffen.

“Reportedly, yes. Those reports are mere speculation, however. Thrawn hasn’t managed to pin down the exact nature of that project so far as we know.”

“But he didn’t make those speculations without good ground.”

“I don’t see why he would,” Ba’kif confirmed. The direction of the conversation had him uneasy. Lamiov must have caught on to it too.

“You’re oddly reluctant to discuss this,” he observed and Ba’kif allowed himself a small sigh of frustration.

“I would like to avoid the risk of his necessary termination if the only thing we have to go off is guesswork. Lyron was a bureaucrat, not an engineer. The chances of him being able to help or being willing to are slim. Even slimmer still are those of the weapon working on the same principle.”

Lamiov considered him carefully and Ba’kif wondered why he was so reluctant to entertain the idea. The answers he came away with were unsatisfactory.

“If I may, Your Venerante,” he tried one last time, “I would hate the thought of us squandering a useful resource on a gamble.”

“You think the possibility of fully developing Starflash is not worth that gamble? It’s an indisputable advantage. Some potential payoffs are worth the risk.”

“Indeed yet risks still need to be calculated.”

The two of them came to a standstill.

In truth, though he didn’t voice it, Ba’kif knew that this whole thing would blow up in their faces. Lyron’s trust was already stretched to its limits and Ba’kif was familiar enough with the human’s temper and loyalties to know that asking for such information, even indirectly, would set him off instantly. If they pressed too hard, their envoy would snap. Which would put him one negligible step away from becoming a liability.

A liability that Ba’kif would be responsible for terminating.

That, in itself, was where the sour taste in Ba’kif’s mouth stemmed from. Brierly’ro’nan was a man capable of great admiration and loyalty and whether by design or by accident, that admiration had gradually begun shifting to Ba’kif.

Taking responsibility for it wasn’t an issue. Ba’kif had taken responsibility for entire armies, sometimes it felt like he was taking responsibility for the entire Ascendancy’s future. But while those commitments required risks and sacrifices he was well equipped to handle, the responsibility for one man meant that the cost if something went wrong would be that very same man.

Lyron would either soar or he would fall. With a man of such extremes there was no room for a third option. And Ba’kif would have to take a gamble he rarely needed to take, a fifty fifty chance of his charge pulling through.

“I can direct our spies towards gathering more information on the project the Secretary was involved in,” he offered. “Perhaps shedding more light on that can tell us whether this course of action is reasonable.”

Lamiov was silent for a good while before, thankfully, conceding.

“Very well. I’ll leave that to you. Incidentally, is he still disturbed over the discovery of the access card?”

“I’ve explained to him why I did it. I don’t think it will do any lasting damage.”

The Patriarch’s eyes narrowed in that subtle way Ba’kif knew since youth. The old man may be mild and agreeable but he was still as keen as ever, maybe even keener.

“You seem intent on getting him to trust us.” And not fear us, was what went unsaid, Ba’kif guessed.

“Trust is a powerful weapon.”

“In drawing someone to your side, yes. But placed in the wrong hands, General, it backfires.”

Ronan weaved through the building’s service corridors, passing the occasional waiter and other service personnel. The sounds of the ceremony beyond had dulled to a murmur, filtering through the walls in a low steady hum.

Going back to his apartment had taken a while but a glimpse through a side entrance had revealed the event to be in full swing, with various guests and officers milling about the hall and talking in small groups.

It didn’t take him long to find a vaguely familiar face in the crowd and he was reliably informed that the person he was looking for had been seen exiting the hall to one of its terraces. Something which was hard to miss knowing who he was looking for.

He took care to skirt around most of the hall – unfortunately for him, he was just as hard to miss – and managed to avoid any unwelcome conversation by the time he arrived at the specified terrace. The tall glass doors opened easily and he nudged them closed behind him as he slipped out, muting the permanent hum of the music and chatter inside.

Part of him felt awkward for being here. But he was right in that he might not get another chance to do this anytime soon. Despite the steady trickle of chiss victories, the war was ramping up and Ronan didn’t need a special rank or clearance to know that. Even events like these, meant to prop up the ever mercurial structure of morale, were becoming less and less frequent and that was telling enough by itself.

Shaking the grim thought off, he focused back on the task at hand and took a few steps forward.

Then grimaced as he spotted the shadow sat at the base of the stairway.

“What in the blazes are you doing out here?” He huffed, causing the silent figure to stir and turn around to look at him. Even in the dark, Vanto’s warm skin and hair stood out as decidedly non-chiss.

“Ronan?” Vanto blinked at him. “I just wanted to get some air. What are you doing here?”

The question jostled the dust over an old memory, a conversation, and Ronan couldn’t help the wry smile.

“The Mediation Bureau is still part of the military. This,” He waved a hand as though explaining it to a small child. “Is a military event.”

Vanto never rolled his eyes but he may as well have.

“Right,” he scowled, trying to hide his sarcasm. “How is the bureau doing? Speaking of, is everything alright with your colleague? I never managed to ask.”

Ronan nodded, taking a few steps away from the door.

“Yes, we resolved it. That’s why I’m here actually.”

“And here I thought you’d come to congratulate me.”

The words prompted Ronan to stop and take a moment to look at Vanto. The red sash of a recently promoted officer stood out smartly against the black uniform, complimented by the line of chains and medals stretching from pauldron to pauldron.

Briefly, Ronan wondered which one had just been added to the lineup.

“I thought climbing ranks was what the military did for a living,” he said instead of asking. “No, I’m here for a different reason.”

“Which is?”

“An old adage I’m sure you’re familiar with.” Taking a few more steps, he pulled out the object he’d been hiding behind his back.

“You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

Vanto’s eyes went wide.

“Is that –”

“Alderaanian, yes.” Ronan confirmed, holding the bottle out gingerly. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him.

“How–?”

“The Clarr Syndic was very happy with the way our bureau handled her niece’s case.”

Vanto moved forward as though pulled by a phantom string.

“This is the Jurano war commemoration vintage,” he said before he’d even touched the bottle. “One of just a few hundred bottles.”

Ronan blinked.

“You know it?”

“My parents used to get gifts like this from clients all the time. This is the best wine out there.”

“Huh. So you do have some sophisticated taste.”

“No one can hold a candle to my taste. Not even the Coruscanti snobs.”

“Please, the so called elite can’t tell a good wine if you threw it in their face,” Ronan scoffed. “Although I suppose any wine is good wine if you can throw it in a politician’s face.”

The ensuing silence prompted him to look up only to find Vanto’s lips curled into a smile.

“Look at us, actually being civil to each other.” Vanto shook his head. Ronan hesitated.

“Dreadful, isn’t it.”

“Absolutely horrible.”

To his surprise, Vanto hadn’t simply set the bottle aside and wished him a good evening. Instead, he’d gone inside and returned shortly after with two flutes and the chiss equivalent of a corkscrew.

The stone stairway was cold as they sat down but the air was pleasantly mild in contrast – somewhere far above there was an artificial ceiling, mirroring the image of a summer starscape – and Ronan found himself relaxing as Vanto recounted a watered down version of the Steadfast’s exploits.

It was hard to imagine him standing there, on the bridge of that ship, commanding the chiss at Ar’alani’s side but Ronan supposed he’d seen stranger things.

Like imperial officers answering to a chiss admiral.

As the night went on and the stars above them blurred with the warmth of the wine, the conversation took to meandering between pockets of silence and at that point he found himself blurting something he hadn’t intended to ask.

“When I came to you about Rhiuh’vek’s case,” he caught himself saying, “did you report it to anyone?”

It’s the wine that’s making you so honest. Though admittedly, it’s damn good wine.

Vanto seemed to ponder the question for a moment before shrugging.

“No,” he answered truthfully.

Ronan scowled.

“Why?”

“Would you have?”

“Probably.”

“Believe it or not, I trusted you had your reasons for it.”

This time, his skepticism was all over his face.

“You trust me?”

“Shockingly, yes.”

“Why?” A wary beat. “If you say this is about Thrawn, I swear…”

Vanto threw him a smile, a smug conspiring smile, and Ronan gave him a glare in warning.

“Thrawn said –”

“Maker, Vanto –”

“ – that you care about people.”

The silence was loud as Ronan processed the words, genuinely caught off guard.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He said you tried to argue for the crew’s lives with Savit.”

“The crew?”

“The crew of the Chimaera.”

Again, Ronan’s cogs turned slowly, labored by the wine, but the indignation was quick to spark as he grasped what Vanto meant.

“They were innocent people,” he bit out angrily. “Loyal people. Or do you think I’d forget that over a competition for funding?”

“You’d be surprised what people are willing to forget.”

The cold tone was another surprise and Ronan found himself momentarily stumped as he watched the uncharacteristic seriousness on Vanto’s face.

‘Reputation aside, I can’t see why my death would inconvenience you’ came the phantom words and Ronan hurried to assure himself that yes he did know that. Despite Vanto’s patronizing tone, he was more than aware of the people out there for whom convenience was easily measured against death; tangling with the Empire’s topmost echelons had taught him as much.

Ronan knew that. He expected it. And yet he’d pushed on daily, he thought uncomfortably, surrounded by people he knew would pull a trigger over less. Tarkin, Vader, the Emperor. Director Krennic was not like them of course. But cross him out of the equation and what was left? Did he dare consider Thrawn one of the better ones?

Or was it the people, the honest hard-working ones that were the true face of the Empire? Strangely, he felt like he’d run into fewer and fewer of them as time had gone on.

Ronan shook his head, pushing that thought down along with the accompanying chill. As for Thrawn’s assessment he really didn’t know what to think of it.

To say that he cared about people meant nothing. Everyone cared about someone. Mostly people cared about things and for as long as Ronan cared to remember, that thing for him was the Empire. He may have faltered for a moment there, in Thurfian’s office, but that was the truth. By extension that meant that he cared for the people that lived in it, whose lives it strived to improve and who strived to improve it in return.

There was nobody here who shared that sentiment. The chiss cared about defeating the Grysks but that’s not because they cared about the danger they posed to his people, even Ba’kif admitted as much. This was and would always be the true nature of their arrangement, something he shouldn’t forget no matter how closely entangled he became with this fight.

It wouldn’t do to lose himself now. Not when there was so little else to hold on to and that was the problem at the core of it all, wasn’t it?

The truth was, he finally admitted to himself, more and more of his inhibitions falling away under the touch of the wine, that he hadn’t covered up Rhiuh’vek’s actions because he cared for the man.

No. He’d done it because he pitied him. Perhaps even sympathized. They were both cut off from their support systems, for Rhiuh’vek it was his former family and for Ronan, it was the Empire. And both of them had had a hand in ending up that way, a wry little voice jeered in his mind. To lose their position in the bureau would mean to end up unmoored and Ronan didn’t want to inflict that on Rhiuh’vek, either because it was too cruel or because it hit too close to home.

Because home wasn’t close at all.

Because home probably wouldn’t be the same when he went back to it, Ronan thought with a jolt and something empty and terrifying stared back at him from inside.

Was he already lost for thinking that?

“Why are we here Vanto?” he heard himself ask in the quiet, the echo of that past conversation bouncing around in his mind. Above them, the image of a fake empty starscape was more unnerving than ever before. A box of his own making.

“I thought you already asked me that.”

No, no he hadn’t. He’d never referred to them as we.

“Because we care about people, I suppose. Our people.”

The words made Ronan swallow thickly, still unable to look away from that fake sky. They cared about their people yet they had both abandoned them in a time of distress. Abandoned the Empire sworn to protect them.

Could that actually be the correct answer?

That the people were more important than the thing that they made up… it was a daunting concept. Too daunting in its simplicity.

You’d be surprised what people are willing to forget.

Simple things. It was the simple things that people forgot first.

“And you think this is the best you can do for them?” he asked, hoarsely.

The question seemed to give Vanto some pause.

“I can’t know that for sure,” he said at length, “But I can believe that it is. Believing that is on you, however.”

Ronan looked at him and chose to say nothing.

He didn’t think he wanted to answer that.

He didn’t know if he could.

Chapter Text

If one were to ask what defined the landscape of Csilla, the first word that would come to mind would be ‘ice’.

That hadn’t always been the case, Ba’kif mused, but the last memories of a world that was different were by now forty generations removed and the planet had adapted to the change much like its inhabitants. Through sheer will and tenacity of spirit.

Many of those who visited described the place as unsettling – the stretching white-blue seas and jutting black rock left enough of an impression in the short time it took to move underground that even the warm, luxurious underbelly of the capital couldn’t chase the unease away. More of a discomfort of the mind than any physical one.

Those that had lived long enough or were born planetside knew none of it. To them the planet’s most striking characteristic was no more than background noise, or else a quaint curiosity if they ever thought about it. Pilots learned to navigate in snow storms and adjust to the high albedo but they were about the only ones affected by the planet’s climate.

Some born on Csaplar even developed an intolerance to standing under an open sky – the lack of ceiling made them feel paranoid and exposed, some describing feeling like they were going to ‘float away’.

They weren’t the only ones that felt that way, Ba’kif decided wryly as he gazed out the window of his darkened office.

Everything around him was firmly nailed down by gravity and yet his thoughts felt like they had mixed with the atmosphere’s molecules by now.

The light on his desk’s inbuilt comm blinked another low priority call and he let it pass over to his aide.

In the middle of the desk, where he’d left it a few minutes ago, was his questis and the report that had been delivered with frantic urgency that morning.

He scratched his gloved fingers over his beard. The frigid air from the nearby open window kept him grounded and he listened to the sounds of distant ice cracking over enormous lakes – strange bird-like warbling sounds that resembled charric shots and pulsed in time with his headache.

Thrawn missing. A planet destroyed by a superweapon. That same superweapon going up in flames shortly after, at the hands of a seemingly negligible enemy force.

Floating away, he thought again with dry amusement. When everything around them reached such levels of absurdity, the notion didn’t seem as ridiculous as it did at first.

With a sigh, he turned back to his desk and keyed the code for Csaplar air control into the inbuilt comm. He thanked the operator and cut the call when he had what he needed, turning back to the sprawling viewport.

The Steadfast had just touched down and was going through its final landing procedures. By now Ar’alani was probably on her way to his office, the same grim, hopeless cloud hanging over her as it did over Ba’kif.

They needed to talk. And they needed to grieve.

But first and foremost they needed to plan.

Grief would be the background noise filtered out under the necessity of carrying on during a war. They would allow space for it later, in the small pockets of time set aside for rest, which meant that rest itself wouldn’t be coming anytime soon, though that they were all used to by now.

The entry hatch announced Ar’alani’s arrival with a buzz and he reached for the small panel next to the questis to admit her. She’d arrived quicker than he expected but he supposed urgency was the only thing on her mind right now. Only it wasn’t Ar’alani standing there when the hatch slid open and Ba’kif turned instead to stare into the weary, dark-rimmed eyes of Mid-Commander Eli Vanto.

“My apologies, I know this is a bad time,” the human tried, looking uncharacteristically lost and distraught at the threshold of the office. “The Admiral said I could talk to you while she took care of the docking arrangements for the Steadfast… Is that alright?”

Ba’kif stared at him a moment longer.

Out of all of them, Vanto must have been hit the hardest by Thrawn’s loss. Not by virtue of knowing him the longest but just for the sheer impact he’d had on his life.

This was a courtesy they very well owed him, Ba’kif supposed.

He sighed and pointed a stiff hand at the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

“Come in, Mid-Commander,” he said, putting some strength back into his voice. “There is a lot to discuss.”

“I know where my duty lies. I’m still just as determined to carry it out. Our world – my world is probably more vulnerable than ever. Doing everything we can to stop the Grysks is the best I can do for them now.”

From across the desk, Ba’kif nodded.

Part of him had expected that. Another part wondered what Thrawn had done to engender such loyalty in the man and why those same powers of persuasion hadn’t been there when he’d needed to campaign with the Aristocra. Perhaps if he had used them then, they wouldn’t have ended up losing him, Ba’kif thought bitterly but suppressed the thought by force.

It wouldn’t do to give in to that bitterness now.

It was true that Thrawn could have expended more efforts to find common ground with his people. But it was just as true that they could have done more to accept what he was. Maybe then they wouldn’t have to sift through puzzle pieces to try and figure out what was – had been – going on in his mind.

Or maybe they were never going to fully understand, regardless of the circumstances.

Somehow, Ba’kif reflected, that thought smarted most of all.

“I am glad to hear you feel this way.” He twined his fingers over his desk, finding his balance again. “There are difficult times ahead and we all agree it’s more imperative than ever that we stop our enemy’s advance. I hope you know what that will entail?” Ba’kif raised an eyebrow and stared hard into Vanto’s face.

Without Thrawn, the fickle hope of allying with Vanto’s Empire had become all but a pipe dream. Ba’kif was more than aware of it but whether or not Vanto realized it was a different matter.

“I understand.” Vanto nodded solemnly. “And it doesn’t change my decision.”

The words hung heavy and determined in the air between them.

“Very well,” Ba’kif said. “In that case all we ask of you is that you continue to do what you’ve been doing so far. This news carries great implications for your Empire’s future but our position here has hardly changed.”

He looked for any signs of a reaction on Vanto’s face but the man had gone eerily silent, staring down at his lap.

“Something on your mind, Mid-Commander?”

Vanto wet his lip and hesitated for a moment.

“Thrawn suspected something like this. He suspected the Emperor was up to something but… we were never really able to pinpoint what.”

“Would it have made a difference if you had?”

At that, Vanto looked up and a complicated emotion flickered across his face.

“I suppose not.”

“Then there’s no use brooding over melted ice.”

There was plenty of use in hypothesizing what Thrawn’s position in relation to that project had been and just how much he knew about it. But that was a question for another time. Perhaps one they could someday ask directly if the universe had decided to take mercy on Thrawn and he was still alive out there.

The report was vague about it. But if his agents were vague that could only mean that they were stumped themselves and that didn’t bode well for Thrawn’s future. For now, all they had were speculations and the few crumbs of information their two envoys could provide them with.

A more cynical mind would come to the conclusion that Thrawn had set up a fail-safe for this exact occasion. But that was yet another one in a line of guesses that Ba’kif had tired of contemplating.

Most of Thrawn’s plans only made sense upon coming to fruition. And with the man gone, there was no telling if that would even happen at all.

“Speaking of the report,” Vanto said, as though reading his mind. “Has anyone informed Secretary Lyron about it? I know this isn’t our primary consideration right now but there are parts that concern him directly and I worry about how he might react.”

Ba’kif let the question stew for a moment, the various implications of it twisting and weaving around his mind. The truth was, he was giving himself some time to adjust before he had to deal with that problem.

“No, he’s not aware of it yet. I intend to let him know but not immediately.”

“If I may, perhaps I should be the one to tell him,” Vanto hurried to offer. “He may take it better coming from me.”

Ba’kif pretended to think about it with polite neutrality. He didn’t bother telling Vanto that that was the exact opposite of what he’d been thinking.

Lyron and Vanto’s relationship seemed to be a brittle thing.

Thrawn had warned them of the simmering differences of opinion, and early reports of their forced cooperation aboard the Steadfast had been littered with accounts of petty quarreling and apparent friction. Most of them were attributed to Lyron – Vanto was by far the more diplomatic of the two – but that was all the more reason why making Vanto the messenger would not be in their best interest.

“Your concern is noted.” Ba’kif picked his words carefully. “But I feel like the Secretary may appreciate some privacy to process it all. I will give it a few days for things to settle on our end. Then I’ll send him the report to read for himself.”

“I see.” Vanto seemed to agree, albeit reluctantly. “Do you think that perhaps omitting some parts may be prudent when doing so?”

“I don’t think any form of dishonesty is worth the risk that would come with it.”

Just then, the questis on the desk gave a soft ping and Ba’kif shifted his attention to the glowing device.

“It seems that Admiral Ar’alani has wrapped up with the Steadfast’s docking arrangements.” He flicked through the message on the screen. “She’s on her way here.”

Vanto pushed himself out of his chair, rising ponderously to his feet.

“I understand. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“To my knowledge, the Steadfast will spend some time on Csaplar. You will be staying here, in the officers’ accommodations?”

“Yes, sir. I was just on my way there.”

“Very well. Get some rest, Commander. You will need it for the days to come.”

Vanto gave him a tired smile.

“Of course, sir.”

Ba’kif watched him walk to the door, his footsteps slow and dragging. There was a tense, weary tilt to his shoulders and Ba’kif could see the invisible weight hanging off them, the whisper of repressed soul-wrenching turmoil barely hidden beneath the wrinkles of his uniform.

He heaved a slow quiet breath. Sometimes his duty lied in oiling the wheels of the ever more complex and ever more treacherous machinery of their war. And sometimes it lied in doing things far more simple.

“And Mid-Commander?”

Vanto paused a step away from the hatch.

“Sir?”

Putting some gravitas behind his voice, Ba’kif turned to face him fully.

“The chiss thank you for your continued commitment. Your dedication to our people and our common cause hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

The words took a while to sink in but when they did, it was as if some of that weight had been lifted from Vanto’s shoulders and he straightened where he stood, making himself taller.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, his voice filled with brittle hope.

“I hope to one day make my presence here worth it.”

Chapter Text

The first time he’d read it, it’d sounded like a badly written children’s fairytale. The second time left the aftertaste of a poorly disguised joke. The third time had ignited a spark of genuine rage in him as he wondered whose idea of a prank this was.

By the fourth time, Ronan’s brain had finally started absorbing the meanings of the words for what they were and a slim tributary carrying fear had snuck into the rage.

Surely not.

Surely this was impossible.

The fifth time it was the script of a dystopian horror holodrama and for the sixth, Ronan had had to take a seat on the couch, his hand automatically closing over his mouth to stop him from muttering the horrible words out loud. Then he had circled back to rage all over again.

That cycle continued as he paced the length of his living room, his eyes scouring the sparse document as though under a spell.

The part about Thrawn hadn’t really affected him.

The strongest word he could find for it was ‘unfortunate’ and that had taken setting aside all the distrust and lingering dislike he had for the man. The fact that someone had managed to achieve it however was more worrying. ‘Supernatural circumstances’ and ‘unexplained phenomena’ were the words the report used and Ronan didn’t have to be a genius to translate that into ‘jedi involvement’.

The only unexplained thing left in the Galaxy was the science behind how Vader could kill a man without touching him and how children could guide ships through hyperspace while in a mystical trance and it stood to reason that all other unexplained events were somehow connected to that devil-spawned power.

The rest of it was almost too much for him to try and muster the logic to explain.

Normally he would dismiss it all as fiction – chiss intelligence was good but that didn’t mean there was no one out there that was better and couldn’t trip them up spectacularly enough to produce this drivel.

But it was the details that turned Ronan’s blood to ice.

Little bits and pieces that should have never made any official record, let alone an alien intelligence report compiled by a race they still didn’t know where they stood with. The Death Star being mentioned by name was the biggest such alarm bell and Ronan couldn’t deny the plunging, pitiless feeling of horror he’d felt when he’d first seen the words. It only got worse from there.

Alderaan being destroyed was ludicrous enough to make him laugh. A planet teeming with people whose civilian population hadn’t even begun to evacuate before it was purportedly destroyed. Ridiculous. Time and time again it had been asserted that the Death Star’s purpose was to be used as a deterrent or at worst a method of demonstrating the Empire’s firepower to discourage any dissent and further disruption of the order of the Galaxy.

Isolated rebel bases and strongholds were of course always viable targets and collateral damage was inevitable when working with a weapon of such scale but that was about the furthest extent of it. What the report claimed had happened to Alderaan didn’t even begin to fit into those parameters. Director Krennic would have never stood for it.

Unless he hadn’t been there to stop them…

No, Ronan, dismissed the thought firmly, the Director would never let his beloved creation fall into the hands of another. They had poured their lifeblood into the making of the station; persistent as Tarkin and his cronies had been in sabotaging them, the Director’s contribution and achievements were too great for anyone to just boot him out of it.

Anyone, perhaps, but the Emperor himself. Of course Tarkin had always had the Emperor’s ear – cut from the same venal, self-serving bureaucratic cloth, the both of them, Ronan sneered privately – but Palpatine was if nothing else smart enough to know which assets were most valuable to his Empire.

No one could replace Director Krennic. Galen Erso may have fancied himself the chief architect of their project and the thought alone made Ronan fume but he would still be peering at finger-sized cave crystals, the kind they sold as souvenirs at vendor booths, if it weren’t for the Director. It was he who had plucked the Galaxy’s scatter-brained daydreaming geniuses from their dusty labs and put them to work in service of the greatest achievement of their lifetime.

And the only thing that had ever held him back was Tarkin’s military. Men with more Tibanna gas in their heads than brains, without a single lick of vision. Men whose only merit laid in the triggers they could pull…

Ronan swallowed heavily against the sudden onslaught of dread.

Could it be that Tarkin had finally done the unthinkable and decided to dispose of Director Krennic for good?

Ronan could see it happening. As much as it terrified him to even consider the possibility, he couldn’t just dismiss it out of hand.

If the station had reached a stage of completion that made it functional, Tarkin might have finally thrown off his cloak of civility and reached for the dagger that was always his true face. Perhaps he was even mad enough to kill a planet.

But all of that paled in the face of what the report claimed next.

Destroyed, Ronan thought hysterically. Their Death Star destroyed by a measly swarm of rebels.

It made his blood boil just thinking about it. To imply that the rebels had wrestled such a victory was to imply that the Empire itself was on the brink of collapse. The sheer scale of resources, time and skill that had been poured into the project approached the incomprehensible and there was no doubt that all stops would be pulled in order to preserve it.

For the rebels to achieve such a feat, there would have to be a conspiracy at play so sinister and far-reaching that Ronan shivered to imagine it. A distant, nagging part of him called up the image of Galen Erso – quiet, discontent and untrustworthy. A man who would leap at the opportunity to sabotage them, Ronan knew, despite Krennic’s every assurance to the contrary.

Ronan had always hated the man. But even then, he had been under such close scrutiny – much of it conducted by the Director himself – that any form of sabotage would be unthinkable.

But what then, if not internal meddling, could bring about the demise of their battle station?

Not the rebels on their own. Not in a thousand years, Ronan thought vehemently. To even suggest it was an insult and by the time he heard the quiet hiss of the hatch to his apartment, he was itching to sink his teeth into someone.

To let the pent up indignation and rage find an outlet.

Taking a deep breath, he turned around to address his visitor.

“What the hell is this?” he hissed ominously, holding his questis up for the other to see.

From across the room, Ba’kif stared at him placidly, his tall stately white-clad figure looking out of place in the gaudy interior. His casual composure ignited a new burst of fury in Ronan’s chest and his glare flashed, daring the old chiss to rise to the challenge.

“Sit down, Secretary. We are going to talk.” Ba’kif’s voice was as cool and as smooth as glass. And just as transparent, Ronan sneered to himself.

He had been expecting this. Ever since the man had become his unofficial handler, he’d been there to smooth down Ronan’s hackles every time he so much as thought of straying from his designated path. Since that first day when he had shown a speck of defiance and had been herded back in line with a few carefully spoken words.

That was Ba’kif’s role here, Ronan thought contemptuously. And he had come to play it again.

Only this time Ronan wouldn’t be mollified with a few courteous gestures and Ba’kif’s practiced platitudes.

“Is this your people’s idea of a joke? If it is, I daresay it’s not very convincing.”

Ba’kif ignored him in favor of moving to the nearby couch.

“Take a seat,” he repeated and Ronan felt himself bristle.

“Who came up with this?”

“I’m afraid it’s all true. There have been secondary reports since. They all confirm it.”

‘Since?’ Ronan gaped at him. How long had he been kept in the dark about this?

“That’s absurd and you know it,” he growled.

Ba’kif raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you think we would make light of Thrawn’s disappearance?”

“I don’t care what happens to Thrawn.”

Something strained, almost like repressed anger flashed across the old chiss’ face but he stomped it out before Ronan could make anything of it and simply shifted where he sat. Ronan could feel him thinking, switching tactics, and he braced for the oncoming attack.

“If your Death Star had met with success,” Ba’kif tried again. “Would your people try to cover it up?”

Ronan’s anger sputtered momentarily.

No. No they wouldn’t. The Death Star’s existence was never meant to be hidden once it was past its development stage. The battle station was meant to be a beacon – a symbol of peace and order that kept the Galaxy in line through its sheer presence alone.

Naturally that was meant to be advertised, to both allies and foes.

“And similarly, if anyone claimed to have destroyed that weapon,” Ba’kif continued. “Would they not try to disprove it as soon as possible?”

Again, Ronan stumbled from the blow.

Yes, they would hurry to disprove it. A pathetic last ditch provocation like that would warrant an instant demonstration of the weapon’s continued threat. And if they had done that, Ronan reasoned, the chiss would be scrambling like ants to report the subsequent destruction. It wouldn’t be just Alderaan in that report. It would also be whatever moon or planet had been chosen to reassure their enemies that they hadn’t been rendered helpless.

Ronan felt the fine layer of sweat on his skin collect into drops.

The thick shield of confidence he’d built around himself was beginning to crack and the report that he’d so easily dismissed as fiction loomed eerie and ominous in his mind’s eye.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

“There is one more thing I feel you should know about.”

He stared at Ba’kif, feeling that same sense of dread from before raise its head and stir fearfully. Something about his tone set alarm bells off in Ronan’s head and his brain summoned the sudden, inexplicable image of a firing squad raising its weapons.

“Our secondary reports talk of a prior skirmish on a planet called Scarif. Orson Krennic is reported to have died during that skirmish.”

Time in the room seemed to come to a standstill.

For a moment, the only thing Ronan could hear was the strained silence of his own lungs refusing to function.

“No.” He said automatically. “That’s impossible.”

Ba’kif held his stare. “Do you really believe that?”

The words spread through him like poison and he scrambled for a foothold on the rapidly crumbling ledge below him.

They knew about Scarif, he thought, his throat going dry. Scarif, where the Death Star’s project data was stored. The first place Director Krennic would rush to if there was a security leak threatening the station’s existence.

Slowly, as if coming out of a fog, Ronan’s own thoughts about Tarkin’s treachery echoed back at him, jeering and mocking him.

Tarkin making sure Director Krennic died on Scarif. Tarkin taking control of the Death Star. The rebels getting their hands on compromising leaks. The station firing on Alderaan…

Ronan’s stomach turned and cramped.

The horrors of what he was being forced to comprehend were almost too much to process and his mind sputtered helplessly as it tried to wrap itself around them.

Tarkin had fired on Alderaan. On loyal, innocent people. Were all of them loyal?

You can’t know that, a voice in his mind argued at the same time another said there’s no way all of them weren’t. Children, for one, couldn’t be blamed for rebel activity.

“You had eyes on it,” he heard himself say. “The only way everything you’re saying could be true is if you were there listening for it.”

The conclusion seemed to come on its own and Ronan’s eyes narrowed when he realized that it actually made sense.

“Why were you spying on Stardust?”

Ba’kif took the accusation in stride, his face betraying nothing.

“Our agents pass on any information they believe might be pertinent to the security of our people. I would say the destruction of a planet falls under that category.”

The answering recrimination didn’t escape Ronan and he bristled, turning all his fury on Ba’kif.

“Who’s to say you wouldn’t do the same to the Grysks if you had the chance?”

“We would do what’s necessary to protect our people.”

And so would we Ronan wanted to say but the words died in his mouth. Protect themselves from who? he thought desperately, petty terrorists who threatened supply chains? Political activists who couldn’t even get their bills off the ground?

Yes, the Death Star was meant to quell all those voices. To stifle useless dissent that only brought chaos and scuffle where a peaceful society could thrive. One demonstration of power was all it would have taken.

But that was never supposed to be a massacre. This, more than anything, convinced Ronan that his assumption of Tarkin taking over was true.

Ronan wavered where he stood, struggling to find the air to breathe.

What if Krennic truly was dead? What if it was Ronan’s fault because he hadn’t been there?

A new wave of rage hit him then and he clung to it like a lifeline. Even if he hadn’t been there, why hadn’t they been able to protect the Director? Who, in the entirety of the Empire, deserved more credit for the successful completion of the project?

Unless they had meant to discard him from the very beginning, the moment he outlived his usefulness, Ronan thought as he began to pace wildly. The Emperor had never liked sharing his power or his glory. And the same went for the menagerie of ruthless, scruple-less men he had accumulated around himself over the years.

Amedda, Vader, Tarkin… They would all leap at the chance of removing a man like Krennic from the picture.

And that above everything made him want to tear his hair out.

Even now, they were all fighting the same enemy. Be it out here in Wild Space or back in the Empire and yet all they were concerned with was tearing each other apart. The thought made him want to scream and he actually raised his hands to brown-grey hair, pulling at the roots.

The same infighting that had toppled the Republic – backstabbing officers out for each other’s blood, deranged terrorists tearing up the fabric of peaceful society – it was happening all over again and it may have cost Director Krennic his life.

All while Ronan hadn’t even been there.

Ba’kif opened his mouth to say something and he whirled on him, slamming his hands on the coffee table between them.

“Damn you all,” he spat in basic, watching the General’s mask slip for just a moment, making his face twitch.

It was laughable to think that he could have prevented it all from happening. Ronan knew his own limits despite what others might think of him. But he would have been able to do something.

As small and as pathetic as it was, maybe he could have thrown his own life away to save Director Krennic’s and surely, that would have made a difference.

For one, they might have tried to rebuild.

“Which officers died in the attack?”

Ba’kif went to answer again and Ronan cut him off brusquely. “I know you know this. You said there were secondary reports. Don’t try to lie to me.”

This time, a thread of the old chiss’ patience seemed to snap and Ba’kif gave him a warning glare. He had tolerated Ronan’s impudence so far but he seemed to draw the line at being given orders.

“Careful, Secretary,” he growled and something in the tone made Ronan’s hair stand on end. Despite this, his ire seemed to subside after a moment and he began listing them off, the names sounding alien and warped in his accent.

“Tarkin.”

Good.

“Motti.”

Conniving bastard.

“Bast.”

Ronan had never known the man.

“Yullaren.”

A blow to their security…

“And Vader?” Ronan tried hopefully.

“No.”

He hung his head in defeat.

And the Emperor was safely back on Coruscant, he thought wryly. He would have traded him for any single man of the million on the station.

A million, he thought suddenly, as though struck by the number. He wanted to scream about it in Ba’kif’s face but could only chuckle hysterically when he realized he didn’t even know the number in cheunh.

A million. There was supposed to be a million people there.

Ronan prayed to whatever god would listen that it had been less than that, that the station hadn’t been fully staffed yet at the time it had been destroyed. Much of that personnel was non-essential, it was likely that their transfer had been scheduled for last.

A few thousand people or so spared. That was the best Ronan could hope for, the best he could tell himself.

The thought brought a sudden influx of weariness and Ronan felt his rage decompress, like the atmosphere of a ship sucked through an open airlock, leaving him sprawled over one of the couches.

The room was quiet for a moment, making space for the expanding shadows to crawl forward.

“I want to go back,” he said hoarsely after a while. “I’ve done my time, I’ve done what I could. Now I need to go back to my people.”

Ba’kif’s sigh was loud in the small space.

“And do what, Secretary?”

“Rebuild. Start over. Build another station.”

“You don’t know if they’ll be building another.”

And you don’t want me helping them if they are, Ronan thought acidly.

“My duty lies with my people. Not yours.” He glared at the chiss across from him.

“What can you offer them that they don’t already have? Schematics? Resources?”

Experience, organization, Ronan thought readily. The people who had oiled the machine of construction for years were now stardust.

“Director Krennic’s legacy,” he said instead, feeling it more appropriate.

“Then carry out his legacy here. Your director has taught you valuable skills. Managing staff, navigating politics. Skills that can be put to use here to keep the Grysks at bay.”

Ronan grit his teeth.

They were dancing around the unspoken truth again. The truth that Ronan really wasn’t that valuable of an asset for the Ascendancy. He had been, under Krennic’s leadership, while contributing to the Death Star’s completion, but not here. Ba’kif simply wouldn’t let him go because of all the secrets he’d accumulated.

Trapped, you were always trapped…

Part of Ronan wanted to force Ba’kif to admit it. To make the old man cough out the words that he was holding behind his teeth and dressing up in pretty arguments.

But that was stupid. Better to try and convince Ba’kif he was not aware of their primary motives.

If they’re aware you know you’re trapped, they’ll know you’re desperate. And if they know you’re desperate, they’ll be more careful.

“Tell me Secretary, how aware were your leaders of the Grysk threat when you left the Empire?”

“All the more reason to make them aware of it now.”

“And they will listen?”

Ronan’s mouth contracted. Ba’kif continued without waiting for a response.

“And what will happen if the Grysks get their hands on your station?” he asked and Ronan blinked at him.

They would use it, he thought with dawning horror. They would use it in the same indiscriminate way they had shredded through those people on the mobile way station and plowed through every single battlefield Ronan had seen since.

As tough sensing his horror, Ba’kif gave a cynical sympathizing smile.

“Believe me, we’re as reluctant to let that happen as you are. The way things stand, we are the barrier that stands between the Grysks and your Empire. And your Empire is more vulnerable than ever.”

Ronan gave him a wary stare. The man was dancing around the truth again. The pinnacle of this conversation was as clear and simple as the first time they’d had it and Ronan was tired of pretending it wasn’t. Caution and mind games be damned.

“You won’t let me leave,” he translated quietly, the taste of the words ashen and familiar on his tongue. Ba’kif’s placid admission was just as dry.

“No, we will not.” He nodded solemnly. “The question is, will you rail against it or make something useful of it.”

“How gracious of you.”

“You wanted honesty, Secretary.” Ba’kif shrugged. “I’m offering you it. And a choice.”

With that, he got up from the couch and moved to the hatch at the far end of the room, already swallowed in darkness. Just before he left Ronan watched him pause at the threshold, a silhouette of white against the hatch.

“For all that it’s worth,” he said quietly, the words soft in the budding onslaught of night. “It would be regretful to see you put in a cell.”

Chapter Text

Sleep didn’t come to Ronan that night. It was foolish to think it would. Perhaps for the best as he had no wish to see what convoluted nightmares his mind would come up with in the wake of his conversation with Ba’kif.

Though they could hardly be worse than the reality he was being forced to endure, he thought wryly.

By the time the knock came on his hatch, his body had grown stiff and the room had begun to fill out with the first rays of dawn without him noticing. He sat up and blinked at the light coming from the window. All of his muscles felt like he’d been pummeled with a shock baton.

“Who is it?” he called out hoarsely, trying to clear the grit from his voice.

Maybe this is what Director Krennic had felt in his last moments, as the radiated dust kicked up from the beam had entered his lungs. If they had even given him the honor of dying by his own creation’s hand. Or maybe that hadn’t been the case at all and he’d bled out somewhere from a blaster shot, fired by some dirty rebel or one of Tarkin’s agents.

Ronan shook his head and focused back on the present. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Eli,” Vanto’s voice called back. “Can I come in?”

The request made Ronan frown and he forced himself to contemplate it.

Vanto had never come to visit him at his apartment. More than likely he was here to discuss the report with him.

Ronan wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet.

Unless, he thought, narrowing his eyes at the hatch.

Baring his teeth at Ba’kif hadn’t gotten him anywhere earlier. He could thrash and spit fire all he wanted but there were limits to how much he could push with the old general. Lines he couldn’t cross. Vanto, on the other hand, Ronan thought with vicious clarity, was fair game…

“Yes, you can come in,” Ronan said slowly, heaving his stiff, weary body from the couch.

The hatch opened and Vanto stepped into the room a moment later, pausing to eye Ronan’s wrinkled lounge robe and the bags under his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” he asked and it took Ronan’s all not to sneer.

“Peachy. What brings you here commander?”

Vanto hesitated but took another step into the room.

“I’m assuming Ba’kif already told you everything.”

“Yes, he was very thorough.”

His annoyance spiked as the words brought some kind of pathetic, commiserating look to Vanto’s face.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“Indeed. A tragedy on all counts.”

Vanto shook his head, his usual unfiltered honesty making him the picture of sympathy. “I’m still struggling to process it myself.”

Ronan saw his chance and leapt at it.

“Is that so?” He smiled cynically. “And what exactly has changed for you, commander?”

Vanto’s head snapped up at that, the skin around his mouth going taut. The question seemed to have caught him off guard.

“What do you mean?”

Ronan shrugged. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? That you were here of your own volition. In that case nothing should have changed for you.”

He began to pace the room slowly as Vanto sputtered in search of words.

“You can’t be serious. You know… you saw what that report said about Thrawn.”

“Of course I did,” Ronan said. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was telling him that he was going too far but Ronan had become an expert at ignoring that voice. “The man who was only after furthering his people’s agenda, failing to protect the Empire. Am I supposed to be surprised?”

By now, all traces of sympathy had vanished from Vanto’s face and his glare had turned stony, shooting daggers at Ronan.

“Where are you going with this?” Vanto said icily. “Both of us are in the same boat here. That report concerns everyone and you’re standing here, questioning Thrawn’s integrity.”

“Thrawn’s integrity?” Ronan asked in disbelief, feeling his anger spike. “I’ll tell you why I’m questioning Thrawn’s integrity. It’s because he’s the reason both of us were here when we could have been with our people in their time of need.”

“And you think Thrawn intended that? He was gone by the time all of that happened. The Death Star. Alderaan. He disappeared fighting for the Empire.”

“Oh did he now?” Ronan sneered. “Next thing, you’ll tell me how much he cared about us all. Unless that’s just what he wanted you to think so he could convince you to come running here.”

The fire in Vanto’s eyes flashed.

“How is any of this relevant here? What are you trying to say?”

“So you admit it’s true?”

“Of course it’s not. And you have no right implying it. You didn’t know him.”

“No,” Ronan admitted. “I didn’t. But I know his type.”

“And what exactly is his type?”

Ronan barked out a laugh.

“Open your eyes, Vanto. You’re surrounded by them.”

The words sent understanding skittering across Vanto’s face and Ronan watched him shake his head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His tone implied that he was holding back and Ronan cursed him mentally for it. He didn’t want Vanto to hold back, he wanted him to snap.

“And what about you then?”

Ronan blinked, caught unawares by the question, and felt a wave of defensiveness wash over him. “What about me?” he bit back a bit too quickly.

“Why haven’t you run off yet?” Vanto sneered. “If you’re so worried about people’s integrity. Why haven’t you run off to help them build their next Death Star?”

Ronan bristled.

“I was forced to be here,” he reminded Vanto viciously and only got a chuckle in response.

“You love to think of it that way, don’t you? Except that’s not really true anymore. You have a job here, connections, friends in the Aristocra, prestige, luxury,” Vanto listed them off before pausing and narrowing his eyes. “You’re alive. All because of Thrawn.”

Because of Thrawn?! Ronan thought, incredulous. Did Vanto actually believe what he was saying?

It was true that Ronan had found success here. He had worked himself delirious in the hopes of making a difference and Vanto wanted to use that against him?

His anger surged again, kindled by a fresh pouring of fuel.

“I was in danger because of him to begin with! Or are we just to ignore that he sicced the most murderous psychopath in the Empire on me and the Director?”

“If Vader hadn’t killed you, you would have died on the Death Star. What’s your point?”

“So I’m supposed to be grateful? You’re insane if you think that’s the case.”

“I’m saying you shouldn’t be ungrateful.”

“And how exactly have I been ungrateful? By solving these people’s petty spats? Or by helping them root out their traitors?”

“You can start by respecting those that give their lives to protect our people.”

“Which they do out of their own self-interest.”

“Which is more than you or Krennic have ever done.”

Ronan’s jaw clenched.

“Director Krennic dedicated his life to the Empire,” he said slowly as Vanto held his glare. “Something a traitor like you wouldn’t understand. You weren’t there when millions of our people died –”

“And who killed them?”

Ronan smirked at that, seeing another opportunity.

“The man your beloved Thrawn counted on for his political support. That ever cross your mind, Vanto?”

With that, the ball was in Vanto’s court again and Ronan watched him bristle visibly.

“You will not link those people’s deaths to Thrawn. He knew your weapon spelled trouble and he was right.”

“The weapon? It’s the weapon’s fault?” Ronan huffed. “Do you think blasters fire on their own too? Tarkin was in charge of that weapon.”

Because he tore it out of the Director’s cold dead hands, his mind added angrily and he tried not to let that thought derail him.

“And do you think the people of Alderaan care who gave the order?”

The mention of Alderaan was unexpected and Ronan felt his anger twist and warp into something more uncomfortable.

“The people of Alderaan are dead,” he said stiffly. “And so are those responsible for it.”

“Are they?” Vanto replied vehemently but Ronan waved him off.

“Mourning their ghosts will do nothing for them.”

“Holding those that killed them responsible for it will. And preventing it from happening again.”

“How? By letting an entire system be dismantled? By causing more war?” Ronan laughed wryly. “Your solutions are childish,” he finished and watched as Vanto went quiet, something unreadable simmering in his eyes as his gaze lingered on Ronan.

“Thrawn was wrong about you,” he said finally, prompting a final sneer from Ronan.

“How fortunate then, that I never cared for his opinions.”

That seemed to be the final latch of the coffin and Vanto’s lips twitched before he tucked the gloves he’d been clutching under his arm and gave Ronan one last frosty look.

“Good day, Secretary.”

The sound of his footsteps was harsh as he stormed out of the room and Ronan winced at the way he punched the pad to shut the hatch behind him. Well, Ronan thought, suddenly exhausted, so much for that tepid alliance.

He and Vanto were never meant to be anything but two people who barely tolerated each other anyway, he decided. The fact that they didn’t see remotely eye to eye in this situation proved it.

With a great deal of effort, he dragged himself to the window, fixing a sharp, baleful glare on the landscape outside.

It didn’t matter what Vanto thought. It didn’t matter what anyone thought, really. Heck it didn’t even matter how Ronan felt – Director Krennic was dead and so was Stardust (Ronan couldn’t bring himself to call it the Death Star anymore. Not so much because of the unwarranted deaths it had brought about but simply because it wasn’t theirs. The Death Star was the project that had suffered a fiery ignominious death at Tarkin's hands. Stardust was the project he and Director Krennic had dedicated their lives to.) and anyone who could be directly blamed for it was just as dead as them.

All Ronan could do was decide how to proceed going forward. And for once, he decided wryly, Vanto was right. There was nothing holding Ronan here anymore. The Empire was vulnerable and the chiss had no more need for him than they’d had for Thrawn while he was busy foiling the Emperor’s plans.

Yes, Vanto would get what he wanted. He would have Ronan out of his hair soon. And so would Ba’kif. Whether they realized it or not.

The office was oddly hollow and small looking without the general there, Ronan mused as he stood a few feet from the luxurious desk, his hands twined behind him. His robes were neatly ironed, still smelling faintly of chemicals and steam and the collar of his underrobe tickled his neck.

This was the first time he was here so early as to arrive before Ba’kif himself. The feeling was odd and the unfamiliar arrangement of the office’s shadows made the place look even more eerie and Ronan examined the picture with a sense of detached nonchalance.

“Secretary,” Ba’kif’s voice sounded behind him at some point, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I was told you were here to see me.”

Ronan barely twitched.

“Yes, your aide let me in. He said you were expecting me.”

“I was.” He watched Ba’kif’s silhouette move past him, the memory of the chiss’ stern, unfeeling expression the night before rising unbidden in Ronan’s mind.

“Though to be honest, I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” Ba’kif finished as she settled himself behind his desk.

A small smile.

“Yes, well, I’m full of surprises.”

“I can’t argue there.”

Ba’kif moved his questis and a few data sticks to the side before cocking a single eyebrow at him. “Well?”

Taking a deep breath, Ronan smoothed a hand over his nerves.

“I’ve come to a decision. I’ve thought about everything that’s happened and our conversation and in view of how things stand,” he paused to wave a hand vaguely. “I’ve decided it’s not worth chewing a limb off to escape.”

Ba’kif observed him for a moment before inclining his head as if to say ‘go on’.

“With that said,” Ronan obliged him. “I’ve come to ask for permission to take leave.”

That prompted a slight reaction of surprise from the chiss.

“You’re asking to go on leave?” Ba’kif asked, sounding perplexed but not displeased yet.

“I need time General. To rethink my new priorities. And decide how to move forward.” Ronan explained before pausing briefly. “And with all due respect, this place is oppressive.”

His bluntness earned him an amused huff.

“Very well, I understand. I suppose we do owe you as much. Any preferences for where you would like to take that leave? I’m hoping you don’t expect us to ferry you to the Empire.”

“No, of course not.”

Ronan bit his lip, pretending to think. “I was thinking maybe… a trade world?”

“A trade world?” This time both of Ba’kif’s eyebrows shot up. “Whatever for?”

Ronan feigned some irritation as he shifted in place. “I know it may not have occurred to you but it gets tiring being ogled like some zoo animal all the time. It’s not something you get used to.”

Which was only half a lie, he admitted in the privacy of his mind.

Ba’kif was silent for a good while, his eyes scouring Ronan for any signs of a lie, but Ronan was relieved to see his body language relax into something more accepting before he gave Ronan a nod.

“Very well, I’ll arrange it for you. In the meantime, do you have any other requests?”

“No. None that I can think of right now.”

“I see. I must say, Secretary, I’m impressed by how well you’re handling this. I was expecting you to need more convincing.”

Ronan gave a shrug. “To be fair, I could make this more difficult,” he said brashly. “But I don’t see how that would benefit either of us.”

“It won’t indeed. In that case, you’re free to go back to your rooms and prepare. I’ll contact Rhiuh’vek and tell him to take charge of the bureau for the time being. I’m sure he can handle it.”

“I’m sure as well. Thank you, General.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Ba’kif raised a warning finger as he reached for his comm board. “You said it yourself, Secretary, you still have a lot of thinking to do.” There was a certain weight behind his words but Ronan ignored it in favor of a small cynical smile.

“I wouldn’t worry, General. I’m fairly certain I know where I stand.”

Chapter Text

Rhoar was a largely unremarkable place. Not by chiss standards perhaps but Ronan had seen so many like it that he couldn’t help the twang of homesick nostalgia in his chest.

Perhaps the only remarkable thing about it was that the motley farrago of beings and businesses seemed to be contained almost entirely to its handful of trading hubs, the rest of the planet swathed in rolling hills, fields and a pair of snow-capped poles that Ronan had observed upon their approach from space. Back home, those hubs would either be part of a planetary-wide network or otherwise be tucked between the places of residence of regular citizens.

But Rhoar was not just any world. It was a chiss trade world.

Ronan hadn’t even known about the existence of such worlds until recently though in hindsight it made sense. The steady stream of exotic goods that Syndics and Aristocra scratched each other’s egos with had to come from somewhere and singular excursions into alien space couldn’t possibly cut it. Neither were alien merchants allowed on chiss worlds for the sake of security.

Trade worlds were the solution to that problem.

Most importantly, Ronan thought as he gazed out the floor-to-ceiling viewport of his luxurious residence, they were also the only places where the chiss mingled and coexisted with a variety of other species. And that was all that mattered.

“The artisan market is right across the street from here. You’re highly advised to stick to that part of the city for safety purposes. Most of the species here speak Minniasat and Sy Bisti but in case you need them, there are kiosks where you can hire translators,” his guide finished in a bored tone and Ronan turned to him with a strained smile.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” he told the man with a nod.

Ronan couldn’t for the life of him tell if this was the same aide that had shown him around Csaplar when he’d first been dropped off on Csilla. Though he had the same annoyed, dispassionate air about him that implied he was doing this on autopilot and couldn’t care less about Ronan.

The man nodded back looking glad to be relieved of his duties and left Ronan to his own devices, the hatch sliding shut behind him with a sophisticated hiss. Everything in the room, Ronan noted, seemed like it had been made for nobility.

Naturally, the merchants crawling around the local markets were from all manner and walks of life. But the privilege of visiting Rhoar seemed to be reserved for the highest tiers of chiss society, as evidenced by the shiny hotel complexes and luxury villas that had been built to house them on their trips.

Regular citizens on Csilla also enjoyed access to the goods being sold here but Ronan supposed that had to do with the massive section of the hub’s port dedicated to freighters and cargo ships.

Either way, he decided as he pushed his hover case towards the bed, it wasn’t the chiss on Rhoar he was interested in.

After hastily unpacking his belongings, he ate a quick meal in his room and made the short trip from his residence to the market right across the street. The few odd looks on the way there were a given, mostly from the chiss lingering around their fancy buildings, but once he reached the area of the market, it was like stepping into a whole new world.

A cramped, improvised lineup of stalls and display carts, the place was positively teeming with all manner of alien life and nobody seemed to pay him any mind as he weaved around the crowd. The majority of the stalls were dedicated to small trinkets and decorations but there were a few that specialized in more elaborate wares like clothing and dishware, arranged in flashy displays and aggressively peddled by hardened stall-owners.

The first thing Ronan noted was the relative ratio of chiss to aliens. Most of the people there seemed to be local species who had paid a small docking fee to explore the markets – and enjoy the benefits of chiss security, Ronan guessed – and he eyed them furtively as he pretended to examine the stalls.

Some of them, clearly tourists. Awestruck and distracted and generally not worth his attention. They drifted between the stalls, oohing and ahing at the merchants’ demonstrations and losing their way every so often in the general hubbub.

Others navigated the place with more confidence, moving in small groups and seeming more focused on their conversation than on any of the displays. They gesticulated heatedly in groups made up of two to three species and Ronan figured that it was only natural for such places to become meeting spots where interspecies relations took place. Politics, trade, gossip; all topics that could be discussed in the safety and anonymity of the general buzz of the markets.

With the added bonus of the hundred or so combat-uniformed chiss that hovered around the place like prison wardens. 

At the very least, Ronan guessed, no one had to worry about a political assassination or the consequences of a trade dispute gone awry. The chiss had the March of Silence, he supposed wryly, but noise was just as good at keeping you cloaked as silence was. Which the chiss seemed happy to overlook as long as they pocketed their docking fees.

Speaking of the chiss, they were the clear minority there yet they moved about the place with the unbothered confidence of people who knew they owned the place. But it was the fourth group; those who hurried to scurry out of their way, or otherwise let their gazes linger a bit too long, that caught Ronan’s eye.

Most of them walked with that awkward, hunched gait that Ronan associated with fringe dwellers or dirt-caked asteroid miners looking for their next spice hit and took special care to avoid the information kiosks and their menagerie of guards. Ronan followed a few of them from afar, noting the way they gravitated towards one specific alley, branching off the main street, then dutifully filed that information away for later. 

Finally, after getting a good feel for the lay of the land, he stopped at a few of the stalls, filling his pockets with useless trinkets like any other tourist, before focusing his attention on a few sparsely decorated cloaks made of a soft material that looked unremarkable enough at a glance. He lifted the edge of one and quickly pushed it back down, making sure the action would go unnoticed by anyone watching, and paid for the piece, assuring it remained folded as he made his way back to his rooms.

By the time he was back, the day outside was crawling towards twilight and his legs hurt something vicious.

There was a nervous energy thrumming through his body alongside the fatigue but he simply put away the cloak, checking for the glint of the credit chips he’d swiped from his uniform before coming here, before emptying the rest of his purchases with affected care and sitting down to have his evening meal.

The rest of the evening was spent in contemplation, with him staring at the expansive view outside his viewport. Anyone looking would see a man in the throes of a brooding fit.

In reality, Ronan’s mind had never been clearer.

He did more of the same field work the following day, retiring early in the evening for another lackluster meal and a check of his belongings. 

The next morning, he barely stopped himself from rising too early.

He put his clothes on with extra care, making sure the strip of fitted sheet he’d torn from his bedding the night before was safely tucked into a pocket – same for the credit chips from the bottom of his case – then made his way outside. The main street was as crowded as could be by this time and he felt a small layer of sweat gather on his upper back where the cloak’s hood was tucked out of sight.

After lingering at a few of the stalls and even starting a small argument with one of the stall-owners, he decided it was time to make his move and dove back into the main street. His opening came in the form of a thickening in the crowd gathered around a street performer, and he used the amalgamation of beings as cover to duck into a nearby alley.

His hands were slightly clumsy as they shucked off the cloak and turned it over, putting the white lining right side up, but they had regained their confidence by the time he wrapped the strip of bedding around his head, the way he’d seen some of the local aliens do.

Merging back into the crowd was easy enough from there.

He took a few more turns down streets he’d never been to before, trusting his intuition to guide him back to the main street, and finally reached the alley he’d scouted out the other day, ducking into it just as a large group of aliens cut through his path.

It looked just like the kind of place he’d pegged it for – darker, narrower and more fetid than any other part of the city he’d seen so far – and he felt a sense of triumph as he turned a corner and found a bar nestled into the crook of a dead end, with a bright neon sign above it.

There were a couple of aliens loitering around outside; they gave him bored looks as he passed but didn’t react otherwise.

It was inside, he knew, where he would really make an impact.

Pausing in the entryway to remove his shawl – he expected the smell to be fouler without it but the odors coming from the bar were surprisingly agreeable – he tucked it away in a pocket and pushed the cloak off his shoulders, letting it hang by the clasp around his neck.

Then, satisfied with the way it revealed the robes underneath, he took one last fortifying breath and stepped inside. 

To say the reaction was instantaneous would be an understatement.

Immediately, at least a dozen pairs of eyes locked on to him and followed his every step.

Most of them were smart enough not to pause their conversations so as not to be too obvious but Ronan could feel the weight of their attention on him like needles digging into his skin.

He made sure his gait was confident as he marched to the curved bar and sat himself on a stool, waving down the burly red-skinned barkeep. In the process, he let one of his goldworked sleeves flash under the overhead lights. 

Presentation was key here. And nobody understood good presentation better than Ronan.

Chances were, he guessed, nobody would even speak to him if he weren’t dressed like this. He would just be another shabby alien trying to look tough in a den of wannabe tough types. But the demonstration had done the trick.

Now all he needed was for someone to take the bait, Ronan decided as he pretended to examine his glass while surreptitiously letting his eyes roam over the assembled patrons. There was a good number of them still watching him, trying to hide it behind raised glasses or by averting their gaze every so often. 

They all looked like they could potentially make a move but Ronan preferred to narrow the scope a bit. The more humanoid, the more likely to be from Wild Space so he singled out those that fit the description and didn’t look too much like stereotypical thugs.

Finally, after a minute or so of waiting, he noticed one of them slide out of the booth where he’d been sitting with two others and sidle up to him, trying his best to look casual. Several sets of eyes followed him, some of them clusters of four or six, but did nothing to stop him, only looking mildly disappointed for having been beaten to the punch.

The man came to a stop on Ronan’s left and rattled off something unintelligible. Ronan regarded him with a sneer.

“Sy Bisti only, if you want a conversation,” he sniffed in said language, turning imperiously back to his drink.

You’re in control here, he told himself mentally. Act like it.

The alien narrowed his eyes for a moment before seemingly deciding it was still worth to pursue this and sliding into the bar stool next to Ronan’s.

“Sy Bisti it is then,” he said, his accent smooth and practiced. He ordered his own drink in Minnisiat and tipped the barman with a wink before turning back to Ronan.

“So, friend,” he began with a smile. “You may have already noticed but you’re a bit of an oddity around here.” He pointed around the bar with his glass. “Any chance you’d tell a curious soul what your story is?”

Ronan paused as if to consider the question. And in doing so took the opportunity to examine his companion more closely.

This section of space boasted dozens of species he’d never encountered before. All in one place, they blurred together into a faceless mass of exotic bone structures, feathers, ridges, scales and all colors and patterns of skin.

But up close like this, the differences became more defined.

The man next to him – Ronan was pretty sure he was a male, if such concepts existed in his species – looked humanoid for the most part except for the deep symmetrical groves cleaving his face, going up from his mouth to his cheekbones, their borders raised into ridges with an intricate system of organic bridges crossing from one side to the other. 

The sides of those bridges had an iridescent scaly texture that occasionally reflected the light of the bar in purples, teals and pinks and contrasted with the man’s muted white skin.

Ronan’s guess was that the groves were a sensory organ of some sort – he’d seen other species with complex skin formations meant to provide a large surface area for as many sensory cells as possible and this didn’t look much different.

The top of the man’s head was also covered in ridges where one would expect to see hair, though these had no groves in them. Other than that, his features were remarkably standard and Ronan felt confident enough to be able to read his expressions.

“That depends on what you can offer in exchange,” Ronan retorted and took a sip from his glass. Or rather let the liquid touch his lips briefly.

He couldn’t afford to look too much like an outsider but he wasn’t going to take any chances with these alien concoctions either.

The man next to him chuckled.

“I see you’re here to do business. But for starters, I’ll offer some advice. It’s not very wise to strut around these parts tricked up like that.” He paused as if to let Ronan take in their surroundings before letting his voice drop an octave. Ronan didn’t miss the way his eyes studied him, occasionally coming to rest on the gold accessory on Ronan’s right ear.

“Lots of folks around looking to make a quick buck and that coat alone is worth good money.”

“And yet none of you will so much as try to get it off me.”

“Oh? How so?”

Ronan felt his heartbeat pick up ever so slightly. 

This was the big gamble of his scheme. In theory he had a good grasp of how these people thought but that was just theory sans experience. He thought he knew but he could have misunderstood completely.

Time to put that to the test…

“You don’t want to make them angry,” he said, his voice faltering only a little bit. The reaction was more than he could have asked for as the man’s lips thinned and his mouth contracted.

Bullseye, Ronan thought, mentally patting himself on the back.

So he had been right.

They were all afraid of the chiss. 

This sector may have hundreds of species that ruled their own worlds without opposition and the aliens here acted all tough and mighty but when it came down to brass tacks, the chiss were still the big bad of the area.

No one wanted to get on their bad side. Not when they did such a jealous job of policing the place.

“And you know you will if you rob someone like me,” Ronan finished confidently. For a moment, his companion seemed like he wanted to argue but he seemed to be smart enough and saved them both the time.

“If you haven’t robbed someone already yourself,” he muttered. “What are you anyway? Some kind of weirdly pigmented blueskin?”

The word came out with unmistakable derision. Even on their own world, the chiss didn’t seem much beloved, Ronan noted.

“That’s beside the point. What isn’t beside the point is whether you can be of any use to me.”

The stranger’s ridged brows rose and he looked put off for a moment.

“I didn’t exactly come here to make a deal… but that might change depending on what you’re offering.”

Without a word, Ronan reached into his robe and pulled out a credit bar, placing it in front of the man and making sure the action remained unnoticed by the barkeep and the rest of the patrons.

Even in the dim light of the place, he saw the way the other’s eyes widened.

The logic behind it was simple.

If Alderaanian wine could reach this far outside the Rim and serve as an exotic souvenir, it stood to reason that other wares trickled in from the edges of Wild Space as well, changing hands from merchant to merchant until they travelled the necessary distance. Credits could make the same journey in the same way, only backwards. 

And if expensive smuggled goods were valuable here, so was clean, unmarked cash to the shady types that supplied them. It was a symbiotic relationship Ronan was well aware of. Not least of all because of all the backdoor channels Stardust used to get many of its resources. 

(Which was also incidentally why high-ranking Stardust personnel had access to those kinds of credits, Ronan thought cynically. That and it did miracles for bribery.)

In short, the best move for a merchant in possession of a smuggled, stolen or otherwise questionably acquired ware – the only kind these wares could be; no legitimate business traded with the Unknown Regions – was to sell it where no one was looking for it and getting a clean stack of cash in exchange raised the status of a potential buyer exponentially.

By the looks of it, his companion knew that too.

Which was exactly what Ronan had been banking on.

“Let me guess, there’s more where that came from,” the man said, picking the piece up and running his finger knowingly over the groves.

Ronan nodded.

“One hundred percent real. Unmarked, clean. You can take this one home with you and check, on the house. There’s also credit chips, unprogrammed, of course.”

“And what you’re asking for in exchange?”

He took a breath.

“Transport. To Lesser Space. I don’t care exactly where but I need to get there. You can have the clothes too,” he hurried to add. Too eager perhaps but he had the man on the hook and he didn’t want to lose him. “And the jewelry. But only once we’re off planet.”

There was a definite spark of interest in the man’s eyes. And it made a corresponding spark of hope light in Ronan’s chest.

“Well, my friend,” he chuckled at length, “it sounds to me like you might just have a deal.”

He pocketed the credit bar and leaned closer to Ronan in a casual friendly way. Ronan reasoned that it wouldn’t do to look too conspiring in front of his colleagues. It might just tip them off to what they were missing out on.

“And if that’s the case, a name might be a good start. Real or fake,” he waved a hand, “we’re not too sensitive about it here.”

“Just Ronan is fine.” He didn’t care either considering he would be out of here soon. “Though I have a feeling you’ll insist on calling me your ‘friend’.”

“Small pleasures.” The alien grinned. “As for yours truly, the name is Ildavo. Transport services extraordinaire.”

“Are they now?”

“Fast ship. Low rates. Good company. What more can you ask for?”

Ronan rolled his eyes. He could have said smuggler and left it at that. 

For the time being, though, this Ildavo fellow looked reliable enough. Not too ambitious to try anything funny based on how he’d reeled back from the deal at first and not too thick to not know his way around.

Altogether the curious type that wouldn’t close his door if luck decided to knock. He was clearly a local and a regular if the friendly conversation Ronan had interrupted was any indication and besides the small sidearm strapped to his thigh that most of the local alien populace seem to carry around (the limit to what the chiss permitted, Ronan guessed), Ronan couldn’t see anything to suggest he was dangerous.

They talked for a while longer, smoothing out the details of the deal, while making it look like they were talking about the weather. 

Just before they parted ways, Ildavo gripped his upper arm and locked eyes with him. 

“Just so we’re clear, this doesn’t have the potential of getting me in trouble with our benevolent blue overlords, does it?” he asked intently and Ronan could feel the tension in his voice.

“If they were going to do something about it, they would have already,” Ronan lied. “As far as they know, you’re a clueless third party.”

“I’m not comfortable with the thought they might know anything about me at all.”

“I told you, they don’t.”

He seemed reluctantly appeased and Ronan reminded him of the credit chips once again for good measure before taking his leave, keeping a low profile now that everything was in place.

A shady-looking alien who had been side-eyeing him for a while stood up to follow but Ildavo was a smooth operator and Ronan watched him put an arm around the alien’s shoulders and steer it back to the bar.

“Friend! Why don’t you let me buy you a drink…”

Ronan shook his head.

He had no doubt Ildavo would go back to his companions and spin a completely false story about their conversation. If nothing else, the self-serving ingenuity of fringe-dwellers could always be relied on, he decided.

The trip back to the apartment was less tense but just as elaborate and by the time he’d flipped his cloak again and traversed most of the market’s back alleys to throw off any pursuers, he was more than ready to collapse into his bed and not think of any of this again for a lifetime.

A lifetime is not what he had unfortunately. A few days, however, he did.

And the best way to spend the next few hours of them was in a blissfully, hopefully dreamless deep sleep…

Chapter Text

For the next few days of his stay, Ronan stuck to his routine, repeating the same mundane patterns that would bore any outside observer to death. He wandered the market, spent a few hours a day staring meditatively at his questis and ate his meals inside, affecting a slowly improving mood.

On the second day, his guide had dropped in for an unexpected check-in and he’d answered the man’s probing in typical fashion, making it clear that he didn’t appreciate the scrutiny until the chiss had gone away.

His nights were fitful. Although that was to be expected.

By the third day, he knew the streets of the market like the back of his hand and the idleness was beginning to grow trying. Ildavo had promised to have his ship ready and all arrangements made by the end of the week and Ronan hoped that not seeing the man once during his wanderings meant that he was properly busy with that.

At the very least he had seemed confident when he and Ronan had parted. According to the alien, getting off Rhoar was a walk in the park compared to getting on it.

Ronan had flown in with an official chiss escort so he hadn’t gone through any checks but apparently all other alien visitors and merchants underwent a rigorous screening process and cargo inspection because of the war. Weapons and all other potentially dangerous devices and substances were confiscated upon arrival to ensure that everything that entered the planet was safe so that nobody had to worry about what was on or taken off it.

Ronan had countered that by pointing out Ildavo’s blaster but the man had simply taken it off his thigh to show him the small chiss-made device that limited it to a low-power stun setting.

‘Douses your hands in acid as soon as you try to tamper with it,’ he had said cheerily, making Ronan wince.

Of course it wasn’t a foolproof strategy. Any piece of glass or loose piping, heck the bare hands, claws and teeth of some of these aliens could easily become a lethal weapon, Ronan observed. But war and trade were eternal rivals.

And more often than not, trade came out on top.

In any case, Ildavo had sworn up and down that the only time they did port lockdowns or searches was when a theft or some other crime was reported. Which meant that as long as they didn’t run into some infernal piece of bad luck, they would be fine.

There was also, of course, the matter of getting to Ildavo’s ship in the first place. Ronan had studiously avoided going near the port during his walks, affecting a total disinterest in it. He had seen part of it when he’d arrived – the more sterile, official chiss section of it – but he was only vaguely aware of the bigger, more eclectic section dedicated to the alien merchant ships and smaller vessels belonging to non-chiss visitors.

The instructions Ildavo had given him were more than detailed however and he would have to rely on them to navigate when the time came. In the interim, he busied himself with burning daylight as innocuously as possible.

When the day did arrive, he woke to find his focus as sharp as the time he had played the small-time conman in front of Sisay and her thugs.

He dressed as usual, tucking the hood of his cloak out of sight, and made his leisurely way to the market, ignoring the familiar stares of the chiss that inhabited the hotel complexes and residences around his apartment. The market was awash in its habitual activity and less than an hour later he had his cloak flipped to its dazzling white lining and was heading briskly towards the starting point Ildavo had indicated, making sure not to falter as familiar surroundings gave way to alleys and streets he had never seen before and focusing instead on the instructions he’d been going over in his head since that day in the bar.

Two left turns. A tap café at the corner. Right turn. Straight ahead under the archway and through the roofed off section of booths… And finally, into the small square with its tiled fountain.

Ronan felt himself straighten almost involuntarily, slowing his pace to match that of the moving alien masses around him.

Beyond the living carpet of hair, scales and ridges, the skyline opened up to a midday blue with the silhouettes of ships taking off and gliding down towards the planet like ants, the smell of engine exhaust and ozone tickling Ronan’s nostrils.

It only got stronger as he emerged into the square –

And instantly ducked back out, gluing himself to the nearest wall.

Vader take him, he was going to kill Ildavo. Right before he shoved those credit chips down the man’s throat, he thought frantically as he peered out around the corner, ignoring the squawks of two aliens he had nearly barreled over in his haste.

There, standing squarely in the middle of the path was a chiss guard, staring placidly at the flow of tourists and merchants making their way towards the space port beyond.

Ronan sent a few more mental curses Ildavo’s way. The man had promised there were no patrols on this route to the port. Ronan’s approach was meant to be clear of them but that chiss was most definitely not out for a simple stroll. In fact, Ronan noted, his pulse picking up again, the guard seemed firmly rooted to his spot and Ronan watched in silent horror as he peered closely at every alien heading in the direction of the port.

Was it all a trick? Had he been betrayed?

Then again, Ildavo had mentioned that the chiss occasionally changed their patrol patterns…

Frowning to himself, he remembered his own thoughts about infernal bad luck. If Ildavo had gone and ratted him out, the chiss would hardly wait this long to arrest him. They certainly wouldn’t try to do it somewhere where it was easier for him to avoid them or cause trouble.

He could backtrack and try to find another entry point to the port, see if all of them were similarly blockaded, but that would take time and run the risk of getting him lost.

With another frown, Ronan moved closer to the edge of the square, raking his eyes over the ring of stalls around it and the motely assembly of tourists looking to buy last minute souvenirs.

Whatever the case, he couldn’t risk letting the chance slip if this wasn’t Ildavo’s doing. He would have to walk the high wire and hope that Ildavo was waiting on the other side, still willing to deliver on their deal.

The only question now was how to do that. Willing his pulse to settle, Ronan focused on the crowd again. After five minutes of desperate observation, he had a tentative plan and pushed off the wall behind him to make his way across the square.

His eyes were on one of the stalls a little way away from the street leading to the space port and the large bulky alien currently perusing the wares with an air of distracted curiosity. Ronan had observed the alien reach into his pocket every thirty seconds, pulling out a few metal chips – local currency, perhaps – and a pouch of what looked like precious stones and zealously checking them over before putting them back.

Paranoid about pickpockets, Ronan guessed. And likely to do something about them if he caught one, if the domineering bulk and posture were any indication.

Making sure to keep his head lowered so the hood concealed most of his face, Ronan slowed his pace as he approached, carefully slipping through the crowd to wedge himself between a few other shoppers and said alien, still pawing at his pockets absentmindedly every so often.

He timed his lurch to coincide with a group of avian-looking sentients passing behind them to make it look like he’d been pushed and let the man see his face clearly as he bumped into him to dispel most of his suspicions before muttering an accented apology in Minnisiat. The alien glared at him for a good moment, seemingly pegging him as a harmless nuisance before turning back to the stall.

From that point on, Ronan had mere seconds to push his way to another unsuspecting tourist before walking away. And sure enough, he had barely crossed to the other side of the square when there was a loud exclamation and the large alien swiveled away from the stall with an expression of what Ronan could only assume was fury.

It didn’t take long for him to find Ronan’s white cloak in the crowd and Ronan sent out a silent prayer as a pair of beady eyes locked with his and the alien started stomping toward him, bloody murder on his face. Hopefully his decoy wasn’t so clueless as to blow this whole thing…

If he was, Ronan would either have to be very quick or very convincing.

Or alternatively very lucky.

The second ticked by and he held his ground until finally a commotion ground the alien’s advance to a halt.

Not much further away, another alien stood staring in bewilderment at the scarf in his hand. The scarf he had finally noticed hanging out of his pocket and pulled out to inspect, only for the unfastened pouch wrapped inside to tumble out with it, spilling its contents onto the square and drawing most of the crowd’s attention.

There was a moment of confused silence. Then all hell broke loose as the large alien roared something furious and broke off from his vector towards Ronan to fall upon the bystander still holding the scarf.

What followed was an ugly little confrontation that quickly seemed to escalate and draw the attention of the whole square. Ronan ignored it however, his focus zeroing in instead on the guard who was now hovering uncertainly at his post, seemingly unsure about what to do.

Ronan’s eyes narrowed at the chiss.

Already, a few stall owners were breaking off from their booths to try and stop the squabble from turning destructive and some bystanders were rushing to join them. But the chiss had a reputation to maintain – a very zealously upheld reputation – and the guard seemed to feel the pressure of it as multiple sets of eyes turned toward him, expecting him to swoop in and end the dispute.

Ronan watched him dither, making a few aborted attempts to abandon his post, each looking more agonized than the last. Then, at long last, he seemed to receive some kind of signal from the commlink at his collar and moved forward, parting the crowd like a plasma cutter towards the two aliens still hurtling expletives at each other.

There was the briefest of heart-stopping moments where Ronan thought he saw the chiss pause and look directly at him before setting off again but he shrugged it off as his imagination and darted towards the now free path to the space port.

From there, it was easy to follow his instructions to the designated landing pad.

The port was as motley and as chaotic as the markets – Rhoar had air control; their own ship had received permission and instructions for landing upon arrival but all non-chiss ships had to go through their customs check and by the looks of it, that was as far as the chiss’ efforts of organizing them went.

There was a rudimentary numbering system in place however and Ronan released a stunted breath as he reached the agreed upon dock and found a ship of Ildavo’s description, the man himself loitering outside the open hatch, his long-limbed form propped lazily on the hull.

Ronan stood there for a moment, taking in the sight.

The ship was there. Ildavo hadn’t betrayed him. In fact, the man was seemingly not even aware of him yet, scanning the crowd with a look of casual boredom on his face.

So that was it, his mind whispered at him, you’re getting out. It was almost too hard to believe and he slowed his gait, walking slowly toward the modest ship while he tried to process the enormity of what he was about to do.

Vanto would be furious. Ba’kif even more so. And yet, some part of Ronan decided, he could hardly be blamed for it.

He hadn’t given them any reason to expect otherwise.

The crowd around him thinned as he moved closer to the pad, the noise and smells falling away to make space for the freshness of open air. Giving the ship another once-over, Ronan felt his brow scrunch as he assessed the vessel.

It was rather small. Perfectly serviceable for a smuggler’s ship, with a decently sized cargo bay attached to it but obviously designed with no more than two passengers in mind.

Perhaps a small living cabin somewhere in there, with a fold up cot and desk, he thought absently.

And yet Ronan wouldn’t even have that much once he reached the Empire. Once he gave Ildavo his credits, he would practically only have the small amount he had set aside for himself and the clothes on his back. If the smuggler didn’t decide to take those as well, Ronan had promised him after all.

He would have his name though. And his skills. And he would use all of that once he was back to do… what exactly?

What exactly was his plan, he thought with dismay, a spike of consternation lancing through him.

March up to the Emperor demanding a pardon?

Knock on Vader’s door?

Scour the nearest system for an officer patient enough to verify his identity and hope they wouldn’t drop his trial in the hands of one of Tarkin’s flunkies?

Ronan stopped and swallowed through the influx of anxiety.

For all that he had planned for this moment, he had never really planned for what came after it. Desperately, he tried to think of what Director Krennic would do in his place but his mind drew a blank and he chastised himself for even thinking he could measure up to the man. The Director would have a plan by now. He would be able to pull resources from thin air and talk his way out of any dead end with ease.

Ronan had only ever picked up a fraction of those skills.

Nevertheless, he needed to go back, he thought with chagrin. He needed to go back to fulfill his duty… whatever that duty was now that he didn’t have his post.

Because he didn’t have that post anymore, did he? He didn’t have much of anything really.

Everything he had ever stood on in the Empire was currently a pile of dust floating in space.

The thought filled him with another surge of dread and he stood there, paralyzed, while the crowd blurred into nothingness around him. At some point, Ildavo seemed to spot him and pushed off the ship, starting towards Ronan with a half-formed smile before doing a double take at his expression and scrunching his brow.

It registered only vaguely in Ronan’s mind, too preoccupied with its own little crisis.

Kriff…

Kriff, what the hell was he doing?

All of a sudden, a newfound wave of sobriety washed over him and he dug into his pockets, pulling out the pouch of credits and credit chips and the discreet handheld comm Ildavo had supplied him with. Then, dumping the pouch on a pile of nearby crates, he keyed on the device watched Ildavo fish for his own a few dozen feet away.

“The deal’s off,” Ronan spoke into the comm. “You can have your credits but the deal’s off.”

The whites of the man’s eyes were visible even at this distance but Ronan didn’t wait for him to protest and cut the connection before turning around and setting off at a brisk pace. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ildavo hesitate for a moment, hovering there in the same indecisive confusion as the guard, then start tentatively toward the credits.

By that time Ronan was well on his way toward the exit of the port, his mind going a thousand miles per minute.

What had he been thinking?

It was bad enough that they had lost Stardust and everyone on it and now Ronan was about to throw himself into uncertainty and risk without a lick of a plan as though acting on a death wish.

You have a job here, he heard Vanto’s voice sneer in his head, connections, friends in the Aristocra, prestige, luxury.

And he was right.

Damn it all, Ronan grit his teeth, he had always been taught to put his best foot forward and here he was, practically amputating himself. Throwing away all the resources he had amassed over the last few months and rendering himself helpless.

Director Krennic would have thrown a fit if he saw him.

He could still fix this though, Ronan thought as he weaved around dithering aliens and port staff in their coveralls, as long as no one had seen him skulk around the space port or communicate with Ildavo, he would be safe from reprimand. Even if someone had seen them talk at the bar and him giving Ildavo that credit piece, he could always pass it off as trying to purchase information about what was going on in Lesser Space.

Still an offense but a more minor one. One that could be explained away with Ronan’s state of mind and his desperation to learn more about the Empire’s situation.

He would go back, Ronan decided firmly. He would return to Csilla, he would apologize to Ba’kif for his tantrum and then he would go about fixing –

“Secretary Brierly’ro’nan?”

Ronan froze.

Time seemed to come to a stop as he turned to see a figure emerge from a side alley, its glowing eyes boring into him.

“Yes?” he said hoarsely, trying his best not to lose his calm.

The woman – a guard, Ronan noted bleakly, taking in her combat suit and charric; possibly even one of Ba’kif’s agents judging by the harsh, hardened look in her eyes – stepped forward, pinning him in place with her eyes.

“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” she said flatly and stepped aside to motion Ronan into the alley.

And just like that, Ronan’s hopes tumbled like a tower of sabacc cards.

Chapter Text

The trip to the waiting transport was made in silence. Ronan’s stomach had tied itself into knots by the time the hatch dropped shut behind them though his nerves began to unwind as they moved through the bustling city.

Resignation perhaps. Or shock. He wasn’t quite sure.

At some point he noted that his cloak was still flipped to its white lining which told him all he needed to know about whether that particular ruse had worked. A bitter taste, if nothing else, he decided as he watched the markets and crowded streets flash by.

His nerves returned with a vengeance once he stepped off the ship that had ferried them to Csilla and the feeling only became more vicious as he was marched along the twisting corridors of some part of Csaplar – a military complex, Ronan guessed – where the chill radiating from the surface was sharp enough to cut to the bone.

Either they were somewhere deeper underground or else a place like this didn’t bother with comfort. Few prisons did, his mind reminded him morbidly and he felt his steps slow as if trying to delay the inevitable.

The attempt was quickly thwarted by a jab from one of the guards behind him.

The room they eventually led him to was depressingly drab – stark floors, metal walls and furniture designed with every unforgivable edge in mind – and for a moment Ronan was reminded of the prototype plans for a specialized prison wing he’d seen in Stardust’s archives.

He considered pleading with them to do away with the psychological warfare.

He didn’t need any convincing; he was ready to cooperate.

But his guards seemed uninterested in listening.

By the third day, all hopes of negotiating his way out of this had dried up and crumpled like a piece of flimsi under the sun. His nights were spent in a small, compact cell with about as much imagination behind it as a storage closet and his days crawled by in the cold confines of an interrogation room.

There were times when he was left alone for hours, abandoned to wrestle with his own thoughts, but mostly they questioned him. Nameless, hostile-looking men and women who spoke too quickly and talked circles around him, leaving him exhausted and slumped in his seat by the end of it. On more than one occasion Ronan had had to make his guards wait until he mustered enough strength to get his aching body off the chair and he often didn’t remember getting to his cot afterwards.

Meals were sparse and forgettable, just enough to keep his body remembering to function. They hadn’t given him a change of clothes.

What stung the most, however, was that Ba’kif hadn’t bothered to show up once for the entirety of Ronan’s arrest. That his handler didn’t care enough to involve himself in his case… It left a hollow taste in Ronan’s mouth.

More hollow than he liked to admit.

So when it did actually happen, Ronan had a hard time believing it.

His head was still throbbing from the latest interrogation session – the lights in the complex seemed to be deliberately designed to whisk every bit of moisture from his eyes, leaving his vision blurry while still keeping the place claustrophobically dim. Ronan still didn’t understand how they did that – but there was no mistaking the tall white silhouette of the chiss as he stepped through the hatch.

“Secretary,” Ba’kif said coolly, positioning himself in the seat opposite his.

Ronan sat there for a moment, trying to blink the dryness out of his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak –

And was promptly cut off by Ba’kif raising his hand. “Whatever you need to say, I’m afraid it will have to wait,” he said brusquely. Then, almost as an afterthought, gave Ronan a tight smile. “I’m sure you understand but we’re the ones asking questions here. Which leads me to my first and most important question. Really, one might say it’s the only question that matters here.”

Ronan watched him reposition himself, an echo of the milder approach he’d used on Ronan in the early days of his arrival on Csilla. The sight was so painfully familiar, it almost made Ronan break down.

“Why did you give up?”

It was like the air had been sucked out of the room and Ronan squirmed under the feeling of the newly opened vacuum, trying to find a way out of it. Finally, he hung his head, feeling a sense of desperation wash over him.

“I already told your men,” he said quietly. “Multiple times.”

“And yet,” Ba’kif’s voice carried over the small space, deceptively soft. “You will tell me again.”

This time, despite himself, Ronan’s lower lip trembled.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” He shook his head.

It was true too. In the past few days, he’d been asked the same question more times than he could remember. And each time the answer had had a hard time coming.

“That’s unfortunate,” Ba’kif said, the sudden sharpness in his voice cutting through Ronan’s thoughts like a knife. Ronan blinked back up at the chiss only to swallow heavily as he saw the newfound coldness in the General’s eyes.

“I’m giving you a line here, Secretary,” Ba’kif finished icily. “You won’t get many.”

Ronan’s eyes darted back down to his lap.

After days of the same bleak despair, the surge of hope that Ba’kif’s arrival had brought had been almost nauseating, Ronan’s stomach still roiling with it.

But he realized now that that hope had been unwarranted. Ba’kif wasn’t here to spirit him out of this place. No, that had been a vain delusion on his part. Ba’kif was here to do his job and unless Ronan gave him a solid, actual reason to restore his faith in him – if that faith had ever existed in the first place – there would be no getting him out of there, with or without the General’s influence.

“Perhaps this will help.” Ba’kif’s voice cut through his thoughts and Ronan looked up to see him slide a small bottle across the table.

Ronan stared at it for a moment before the meaning of it suddenly became clear and he physically recoiled from the thing.

“No,” he blurted immediately, the spike of fear that shot through him strong enough to make his stomach lurch again.

The things they could draw out of him if he had no control over himself…

Ba’kif seemed to take his response in stride though, as though expecting it, and merely leaned over the table to glare at him.

“Then give me,” he said stonily, “something to work with.”

Ronan’s mind skidded and slipped for a moment longer, scrambling to get its bearings. Ba’kif was giving him an out here, that much was clear. To what end, Ronan could barely fathom in his current state.

Whatever the reason though, it all became moot because Ronan hadn’t been lying when he’d said he didn’t know what to tell him. It was true that they had asked him over and over again what his motives for giving up were. And it was equally true that Ronan had failed at producing a consistent response each time they had.

He’d realized the risk was too high. He’d decided it wasn’t worth losing his position. He hadn’t been sure if he could trust Ildavo. He’d never wanted to go against the Ascendancy... None of it had been a lie.

But it wasn’t really what stood at the core of his decision.

And Ba’kif, Ronan thought as he shrunk under the chiss’ glare, probably knew that.

The question now was whether Ronan was ready to admit that truth – a truth that he was barely ready to admit to himself – or whether he would rather jeopardize his entire future for it.

You will find that we appreciate and take good care of those who work for the good of the Ascendancy, Ba’kif had told him once. What happened to those that chose to lie to it, he asked himself tentatively.

In the end, your pride is only worth the distance it can carry you, a different voice from his memory piped up and Ronan deflated in his seat, feeling the last of his fight leave him.

Ba’kif was giving him a chance here. After Ronan had already failed to prove he deserved it.

A thought that somehow made him feel more ashamed than he expected it to. Coming here, he had never thought he would care about what these people thought of him. But that was when he had the surety and comfort of the Empire and its goals behind his back.

That Empire felt cold and unfamiliar now, a place that Ronan was no longer sure he knew how to navigate. The people whose opinion he cared for were dead. And those that despised him, or that he despised himself, remained.

Steering the Empire and those who believed in it towards a future he was no longer sure he agreed with… Once upon a time, with Director Krennic at his back, that opinion might have been worth something. Even as a perceived deserter. But faced with the single-minded brutality of Palpatine and Vader and the ghastly suspicions of what had sealed the Director’s fate, Ronan no longer felt like there were any ears out there that weren’t deaf or hostile to opposition, however well-intentioned.

Not anyone worth considering when weighed against their enemies.

And until Ronan was sure that wasn’t the case anymore, he couldn’t trust the Empire’s leadership.

The thought was chilling. It was borderline treasonous, Ronan thought, nauseated, but a fact nonetheless.

“You were right.” Ronan said finally, the words coming up his throat like glass. “I have nothing to offer the Empire. Nothing that would exonerate me from my status as a deserter… They might question me and make me tell them everything about your people. But in the end I wouldn’t make it further than a prison cell.”

Much like the one you’re headed for right now, he thought to himself. The mental agony of admitting it all was sharp and cutting but Ronan pushed through it.

“I don’t know what the Empire is like anymore.” He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “I don’t know if there’s anyone left who would listen, even if I warned them about the Grysks. I could make a fuss, insist and badger them but… I don’t know who’s in command. All of Director Krennic’s allies must have died on Stardust,” he finished quietly.

“And the Empire is full of his enemies,” Ba’kif said all of a sudden, making Ronan’s head shoot up. The chiss held his gaze, a hint of understanding finding its way into his demeanor for the first time since coming there.

“I know what it’s like to be on the defensive,” he explained. “No one is constantly in that mode unless they’re used to looking over their shoulder. You have a hard time accepting allies.”

Ronan stared at him, tight-mouthed.

And an easy time pushing them away, he thought with resignation, remembering Vanto.

“So what will it be, Secretary?”

Ronan paused to consider the question.

There were a million things waiting to be done. Fighting off the rebels for starters. And starting work on a new station, as soon as possible. Those were the priorities likely sitting at the top of the Emperor’s list. And with the Empire’s resourcefulness, Ronan had to believe that they would accomplish them.

The only problem left was the enemy outside their borders, the one that few were aware of, of yet. Should the Grysks move in to interfere, they could thwart any of those vital tasks that the Empire’s survival hinged on. Worse still, they were actively interested in harming his people as Ronan had seen for himself.

The Grysks had gotten to one of the chiss’ best kept secrets, he thought with a measure of contained dread, remembering the skywalkers. What was stopping them from getting to the Empire’s? Especially now that everything had gone up in flames?

Ronan’s brow furrowed, his fists clenching in his lap.

The Empire was home. Home was in danger.

And no amount of self-pity or denial could obscure the fact that there was only one way he could help prevent that. Regardless of whether he liked that way or not.

“I want to try and redeem myself,” Ronan licked his lips, feeling the words out. “I jeopardized my position with my actions. I realize now that that was foolish of me. I would like to try and earn that position again. And possibly your trust with it.”

From across the table, Ba’kif examined him with an unreadable expression. Then something in his posture shifted and completed the transition from the implacable General to the more approachable man Ronan had come to know.

“Very well. I’m glad you were able to come to that conclusion.” Ba’kif nodded, his tone clipped though Ronan could feel the underlying approval in it. “It won’t be easy as you may well guess but you’ve made the first steps by finally being honest with us. You may also be relieved to hear,” he added. “That news of your attempt hasn’t reached the Syndicure.”

The words made something in Ronan’s stomach unfurl and he felt himself take an easier breath for what felt like the first time in years.

That was indeed comforting.

Had the Syndicure actually caught wind of his actions, he doubted any of this would have mattered in the face of the quick and brutal trial awaiting him outside these walls. He’d worked with them long enough to be sure of it.

That Ba’kif had managed to prevent them from even learning of this was a small feat on its own. Even more so given how reluctant most of the military still was to go against them behind their backs.

“That said,” Ba’kif interrupted his thoughts. “This doesn’t mean you won’t have to put in the work to convince those that do know. Currently, the biggest obstacle to clearing your name, is the fact that you talked to an alien agent.”

Ronan jerked and blinked at him.

“You mean Ildavo?” He raised his brows. “He’s innocent, he knows nothing.”

Ba’kif inclined his head. “That’s what we’ve gathered so far. But we can’t know for sure.”

The words made Ronan still with a sudden rush of guilt.

“You’ve apprehended him?”

“Of course.”

“But he doesn’t know anything! Why would I give him information that would put us both in danger?”

“Because it might be of value to someone else. And you did need to convince him to cooperate.”

Ronan sucked in a breath.

There was a low simmer of frustration in his gut and he felt it rise steadily. For all the spying these people had done on him, they couldn’t plant one listening device that would clear him now.

“Even if I wanted to pay him with such information, why would I give it to him before he got me off planet? Why would I try to weaken your people when we’re fighting the same enemy?”

“Perhaps because your world is weakened as well,” Ba’kif said and Ronan felt his jaw drop. Was he seriously implying…?

“My point is,” Ba’kif cut him off before he could protest. “That there’s many a case that could be made against you, Secretary. I think you’ll find that a prudent approach on our side works in your favor as well.”

Ronan’s jaw clicked shut.

He supposed he couldn’t argue with that.

“In any case you can rest easy. We’ve let your alien friend go for the time being. Incidentally,” Ba’kif said, placing the familiar pile of credits and credit chips on the table before Ronan. “You’re lucky there’s no information on here. And you’re just as lucky that your gamble in the square paid off. If we had apprehended you as we’d intended, before you’d had the chance to change your mind, your circumstances would have been much more dire.”

At that, Ronan felt his throat go a bit dry again. Privately, he wondered if he would have any circumstances to speak of, besides a dark little cell and a lifetime of hopelessness. The thought was sobering and he remembered what was at stake here and how narrowly he’d brushed up against disaster.

And throughout it all, Ba’kif was still finding ways to pull him out of his messes. Because of course the man had had him observed. Ronan had accounted for the possibility but looking back now, it had been hubris to think that he could stay one step ahead of the chiss.

He’d never attempted such a thing before. Not since… well. Hijacking the Brylan Ross didn’t come close.

“With all of that said,” Ba’kif drew his attention again. “I believe we are ready to clear you to leave this facility. There’s further things to discuss, of course, but they can wait for when I can see you in my office.”

Ronan gave a mild nod.

“Yes, I would be glad for it,” he said quietly. “Just out of curiosity, General, how futile was my attempt?”

Across from him, Ba’kif paused in the middle of getting up from his chair and gave him a long stare. Then seemed to make up his mind and shrugged.

“The cloak was a good touch. Our agents almost lost you.”

Ronan blinked at him.

“How did they not then?”

“Infrared. Your body heat was slightly higher than that of most species present that day. They followed the few most likely signatures and one of them happened to be yours. But some luck was involved.”

Which Ronan should be grateful for, he decided quickly. If they had lost him in the crowd and didn’t know about everyone he’d spoken to, he would be under much more suspicion.

“And how do you know Ildavo didn’t contact anyone else?”

“We monitored him as well of course.”

Ronan’s smile turned wry again.

“Of course.”

In a way, that was fortunate for Ildavo as well, he had to admit. If Ba’kif’s agents hadn’t monitored him after their meeting at the bar, he would similarly be under much more suspicion. They might not even have let him go.

Indeed, Ba’kif’s prudence was exactly what seemed to be saving his skin.

The man was already pushing his chair forward and moving to leave when Ronan finally found his voice.

“Ah, General…”

Ba’kif turned to look at him. Ronan swallowed.

“Thank you,” he managed to say, the weight of the words settling heavy and true in the pit of his stomach. The silence in the room lingered and hung suspended for a long moment before Ba’kif gave him a brisk nod and keyed the controls to the hatch.

“Don’t thank me. Make it mean something.”

There was a dull ringing in Ba’kif’s ear and he frowned as he reached in and pulled the small concealable device from inside it. He had always hated the things. Particularly with age, as they seemed to make his hearing more sensitive.

That said, they did have their benefits, he decided as he let the hatch slid shut behind him, sealing him off from the small dimly lit corridor behind.

He had worked hard to mask his relief when Lamiov’s approval had come from the tiny speaker sometime during the middle of his ‘interrogation’. Convincing the man had been Ba’kif’s biggest concern going into this and Ba’kif once again thanked his luck for the last minute flash of sense that had struck their envoy.

And for the fact that Lamiov had agreed to cover up this whole ordeal from the Syndicure to begin with. Though in all fairness that was less for the sake of anyone involved and more for the benefit of maintaining his own control over the situation.

Speaking of the man…

Ba’kif put the small comm device away and approached the masterfully hidden one-way see-through wall.

Lamiov was in the same place he’d left him, standing in front of the glass with his arms clasped behind him. Ba’kif gave his face a quick appraising look before coming to a stop at his side.

On the other side of the wall, a pair of agents were already escorting Lyron away, keeping at a distance that Ba’kif recognized as just respectful enough to indicate they were no longer dealing with a threat or a criminal.

“Your Venerante,” Ba’kif greeted with a small nod, eyeing the group as they filed out. “You seem thoughtful.”

Lamiov hummed next to him, his eyes still on the scene beyond the masked glass.

“I was just contemplating your envoy.”

“Oh?”

The old man hummed again.

“He had the chance to walk away… at least he thought he had one, we would have stopped him of course. And yet he gave up on it.” There was something unreadable in the patriarch’s tone and Ba’kif strained to pierce that inscrutable façade to try and pick up on it.

At length, Lamiov broke out of his reverie and shook himself off.

“I admit, Labaki, your human has managed to intrigue me.”

Ba’kif barely managed to suppress his triumph.

“Thank you, Your Venerante,” he tilted his head humbly. “The question now is, will he manage to impress you.”

Lamiov snorted.

“That much, at least, he has covered. I hope for all our sakes that he manages to pull through. With whatever you have planned for him.”

For my part, I’m hoping we figure that out sooner rather than late, Ba’kif thought to himself.

“I’m confident he will,” he said instead.

Lamiov raised one thin eyebrow.

“Are you saying that based on Tharwn’s assessment or based on your own?”

“Once it might have been the former,” Ba’kif admitted. “But as of late, I’ve begun to believe it myself.”

The patriarch huffed.

“In that case, I wish you luck. And bear in mind that we will keep a close eye on him.”

“I am counting on it, Your Venerante. Our forces are stretched thin as it is.”

“Not as thin as the Grysks probably hope,” Lamiov said darkly and Ba’kif noted the underlying threat in that tone.

With that, and a whisper of robes that displaced the air at Ba’kif’s feet, the man was gone and Ba’kif heaved his first real breath of relief as the hatch hissed shut after him.

That, at least, had been taken care of for the time being, he decided as he flexed his shoulders. The only thing left now was to make sure the Syndicure didn’t catch any whiff of what had been covered up right under their noses and carry on as usual. Which was no easy task on its own.

And yet, he couldn’t help but feel optimistic for the first time in a long while. They may have courted disaster, but they had made valuable progress in the process, he decided, noting mordantly how close such thinking came to the destructive logic that underpinned all of Thrawn’s successes.

The Syndicure would be ecstatic about it no doubt. But he was at a point where the Syndicure’s opinions washed off him like low-power laser hits against a full electrostatic barrier.

The callousness of that thought struck him and he gave it a moment’s worth of contemplation before shaking his head and heading for the hatch at the other end of the room.

Scruples and self-reflection were a luxury reserved for times of peace. Until they had that luxury, victory was at the top of their priorities.

And Ba’kif had every intention of using every resource at his disposal in order to reach that end.

Chapter Text

“Going back to Rhoar?”

Ronan’s jaw dropped open.

Across from him, Ba’kif met his stare from under that maddening blanket of calm he put over himself when he was being particularly intractable.

“Why?” He put all possible emphasis behind the word, hoping to get the Chiss to budge. He had no such luck.

“Because we’ve decided you need to fulfil your original goal there. Hence why we’re sending you back.”

The muscles in Ronan’s face twitched. A litany of questions flashed through his mind – starting with who exactly we was supposed to be – but he settled on the most important one.

Namely whether Ba’kif was trying to drive him insane.

It was less than twenty-four hours since his guards had dropped him off at his apartment and he’d summarily passed out in his bed. To be carted off Csilla so soon after he’d restored the slightest bit of normalcy in his life…

“I feel the need to point out we both know that was a lie.”

“Nonetheless. It’s a necessary step.”

“What about the Bureau?”

“I’m sure Rhiuh’vek can handle himself a bit longer. Incidentally, the Syndicure have been rather quiet these days.”

Ronan grit his teeth. Well, he would appreciate them getting off their asses and causing some trouble right about now.

“Will my absence not rouse any suspicion?”

“It might but I doubt it will be any cause for concern.”

“What if it does?”

“Get to the point, Secretary.”

“You know what the point is.”

“And you know how this goes. We don’t acknowledge it until you say it.”

They held each other’s stares for a good while. As always, Ronan was the first to break off.

“Look, can we just…” He felt his words falter. “Skip over the whole ‘dwell on your mistakes in silence’ thing. It’s really unnecessary at this point.”

Or maybe it was necessary, Ronan didn’t know. The point was, he really didn’t want to do this.

“You distract yourself by working, Secretary,” Ba’kif said, surprisingly soft. “This time you really need to take a moment to consider your future with us. And before you ask, there’s no use trying to change my mind.”

Ronan tried anyway, throwing the Chiss one last pleading look. The effort fell flat.

“When do I leave?”

“As soon as you’re done packing. I’ve arranged for a shuttle that will be waiting for you when you’re ready.”

“And how long will I stay?”

“However long you need. There’s no rush.” The words were meant as a placation but Ronan felt the unspoken imperative under the surface.

“How do you even – wait, no. Let me guess. I’m more productive when I’m stressed.”

 “Very much so.” Ba’kif nodded approvingly.

Maker help him, he was starting to think like them.

“You will put me back to work when I return though?”

“Of course. Your position at the Bureau will be waiting for you. You can be sure of it.”

That was indeed a relief.

“Now, I believe it’s time for you to start packing. Your shuttle should be ready for takeoff in less than an hour. You can head there at your convenience and the pilot will inform me when you’re on your way.”

Ronan paused at the foot of the desk, his hands working at the back of his seat.

“Are you sure –”

“My mind, Secretary, is made up.” Ba’kif said flatly.

Ronan swallowed. “Yes, General.”

He should have stayed put on Rhoar.

Packing took considerably less time than Ronan had expected it to. The trip back to Rhoar even less so.

Ronan clutched the handle of his hover case as their ship descended towards the planet, the familiar polar caps and market towns peeking out from beneath a cover of clouds. There was no guide with them this time and it was a single guard who accompanied him to his suite and surprisingly left Ronan to his own devices once they were there.

Although surprise probably wasn’t the right word. They had observed him from a distance last time, he thought, and they would probably do so now.

Unpacking took even less effort – his previous hover case sat at the foot of the bed, exactly where he’d left it – and before long Ronan stood in front of the suite’s wall spanning window with absolutely nothing on his schedule but the task of figuring out what to do with himself.

You did this to yourself, a small voice in his head reminded and Ronan forced it down, fingers digging into the sleeves on his forearms. The fabric there was a gaudy yellow and he felt the stab of that change add to his discomfort.

Earlier that day, he’d returned from Ba’kif’s office to find the new set of robes laid out for him along with the implicit suggestion that that was what he was expected to wear on his trip. There hadn’t been any official order attached to it but again, Ronan was familiar enough with implied ones to get the message.

Holding his hand out in front of him, he ran his eyes over the embroidery at the edge of the robe.

The last one had been a muted green, with other subtle colors of thread interwoven into the fabric, adding a touch of nuance to the hue. This one was a bright yellow, almost gold, the golden patterning covering most of the garment all but blending in with the color.

A part of him saw the reasoning behind it.

If they were keeping this affair private as Ba’kif said and trying to hide that there had been any falling-out between them, then the flashy choice of fabric would be a good move. Anyone who thought Ronan was in poor standing with his handlers wouldn’t expect to see him being so bold.

Ronan racked his brain to try and remember the symbolism behind this particular color in Chiss culture – yellow, from what he understood to be the case, was a color that wasn’t very kind to their visual receptors, neither did the qualities it symbolized match with the inherent aloofness of their culture, so they used it sparingly. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of their decision to don him out in it.

All the same, Ronan thought, pulling his arm back, it was yet another reminder of his less than favorable circumstances.

The thought had barely finished forming when a quiet ping disturbed the silence of the room and he all but tripped over himself on his way to his questis. The message turned out to be a perfunctory notification from their pilot, informing him that they’d taken off, and Ronan tossed the device aside with a scoff.

Moments later he was back to staring out of his window.

By the time evening rolled around he’d all but succumbed to the dreary, restless cloud of depression that hung over him.

He’d contemplated going out to the markets on a few occasions but the thought of wandering the stalls in a shameful impression of his last time being there made him vaguely ill. So he waited. And thought. Around lunchtime he’d finally found it in him to steel his nerves and make the best of his situation.

If they wanted him out of their hair for a few days Ronan would oblige them, he decided with newfound determination. He was no stranger to patience.

That determination lasted him all the way to midday the following day.

Damn it all to hell, Ronan thought to himself in the silence, flicking angrily through the files on his questis. Seconds later he was back to pacing the length of his room, feeling like a caged animal. He was just about to reach for the comm on the bedside table and make some poor Csillan aide’s day worse, when a flash of dark fabric caught his eye and he paused.

That was… a surprise.

Slowly, wondering how that had gotten into his luggage, he approached the open case next to the bed, lifting the pouch of credit chips that he had to have thrown in there without noticing. He really had forgotten that was there, he thought with a frown.

There and not with Ildavo, a distant part of his mind reminded him. The idea was slow to come and definitely risky but he gave it some space.

He had gotten Ildavo into trouble, Ronan conceded, and if the alien decided to hold a grudge, that could snowball into a problem. Even if the man didn’t present any kind of serious threat.

He chewed on his lip, going over the potential risks.

Well, if they didn’t want him getting any ideas, they should have put him to work, he decided finally and set the small pouch aside before marching back to the comm next to the bed. This time he keyed the code directly to Ba’kif’s office and waited for no more than two seconds before an answering beep indicated that the call had gone through.

Ba’kif had barely finished forming his first syllable when Ronan cut him off.

“Tell your men I’m going to go see Ildavo,” he said brusquely.

And winced immediately after.

Maybe he should have phrased it as a question... Strictly speaking, he hadn’t been forbidden from seeing the smuggler. But it wouldn’t have hurt to tread carefully until things settled down.

Ba’kif’s harsh answering “What?” confirmed his doubts and he bit down on his tongue to avoid cursing out loud. Well, no use mincing words now.

“To give him his credits,” he hurried to explain. “I don’t want to make any new enemies and your people have enough as it is.”

A series of clicks and some shuffling sounded on the other side.

“Are you that eager to get stabbed in an alley?” Ba’kif’s voice came through, louder this time, and Ronan could picture him leaning over the receiver, his face thunderous.

“I’m hoping your agents will prevent that if it comes to it.”

“They’re not your bodyguards,” Ba’kif growled.

Then at least they’ll have front row seats, was the retort that popped up in Ronan’s mind but he forced it down again.

“… Trust me?” he tried tentatively instead and felt another wince.

To say it was absurd to even suggest such a thing would be an understatement. Thankfully, Ba’kif didn’t feel the need to point it out.

“We’ll talk about his when you get back,” the Chiss snapped from the other end and a moment later Ronan heard the dual tone that indicated the connection had been cut.

He took a deep breath and keyed the comm off. At least that hadn’t been a no.

Ba’kif was clearly not happy with him but they’d cross that skybridge when they got to it, he decided. And if the Chiss did bring his anger down to bear, Ronan had the meager comfort of having already seen the worst of it.

With that done and summarily forgotten, he strode away from the bed and crouched down to rummage through his belongings. Before long he’d yanked out a brown leather jacket that he’d purchased just in case during one of his diversionary trips on his last visit.

Underneath that, stacked in a neat pile, were his Imperial uniform trousers and boots.

His trousers and boots but not his tunic, Ronan paused to note ruefully. Naturally the Chiss hadn’t wanted him strutting around in white and they’d bullied him out of his uniform the minute he’d stepped onto the Steadfast. And even if they hadn’t, he conceded, the tunic was far too obviously military and would have made walking around Rhoar difficult which is why he’d left it safely back on Csilla.

One day. One day he would be able to wear it proudly again. But until then, he had work to do.

Quickly shucking out of his robes and pulling the clothes on over his undershirt, he tucked the pouch of credits into a pocket and a portable comm into another and keyed the hatch to the apartment. He had the vague thought that this was exactly the kind of restlessness Ba’kif was probably trying to train out of him by sequestering him on Rhoar but it was promptly swatted away in favor of focusing on the task at hand.

The rest was easy enough.

Finding his way back to the seedy little alley and the equally seedy bar was done almost on autopilot – Ronan had spent hours scouting the place out on his first visit – and he positioned himself near the exit, taking a quick look at his surroundings and the few aliens loitering about.

It was a far-fetched strategy as far as strategies went. He had no way of knowing if Ildavo was even planetside, much less if he would still frequent the same bar after the mess it had gotten him into but Ronan didn’t have many options. Another one would be wandering the streets in hopes of running into him but that sounded even less appealing.

Thankfully, Ronan’s luck seemed to be right side up for once and it was only after an hour or so of various aliens gawking at him as they went in and out that the hatch of the bar hissed open and a familiar tall silhouette stepped out into the alley.

Only to recoil the moment its eyes landed on Ronan.

“No,” Ildavo said hoarsely, his throat bobbing as he raised his hands in front of him and started backing away slowly. “No, no, no, no. I don’t want any part in this anymore.”

The skin on his face had turned an alarming yellow and Ronan felt his own hands shoot up in a placating gesture.

Kriff, he had expected the man to be reluctant but not that reluctant. It made him wonder what exactly the Chiss had done to him and whether it was worse than the little isolation treatment he’d been subjected to.

“Relax,” he hissed out. “I’m only here to give you your credits,” he hurried to add, darting his eyes at the alley around them. A few of the loiterers had turned around to watch and Ronan felt himself grimace.

The last thing he needed was a scene. Or to be pegged as a troublemaker.

“I’m not here to get you in trouble,” Ronan stressed. “Just to give you your money. As promised.”

Ildavo paused and his skin seemed to recover some of its off-white color though he still looked like he was ready bolt. Ronan bit back a curse.

“There’s no catch and no deal this time,” he tried, softer this time. “Just the credits.”

The alien’s eyes narrowed. Then, to Ronan’s relief he seemed to relax marginally and lower his hands down to his sides.

Ronan watched him take a few cautious steps forward and look around warily.

“So there’s no team of blueskins ready to drag me into the shadows this time?”

Ronan couldn’t help his snort. Some of his own tension drained away with it.

“Clearly I’ve sorted it out with them. I wouldn’t be out and about if I hadn’t. In fact,” He raised a finger to gesture around them. “If it makes you feel any better, they’re probably watching right now. There’s no chance of you getting in trouble for something they already know.”

“That’s not as comforting as you probably think it is.”

“Take it or leave it. Either way, I’m here to make us even.”

With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the credit pouch, holding it out to the other. There was a pause as the man eyed it through the narrowed slits of his eyes before moving forward.

“That you are, it seems. What put you in such a benevolent mood, if I may ask.”

Ronan shrugged. “It’s nothing new. I told you you could have your credits even if the deal fell through.” He hesitated briefly. “And I know they weren’t exactly kind to you for it.”

One of the ridged edges on Ildavo’s brow quirked upward. Ronan could practically see the man’s gears turning behind it.

“So you’re clearing away grudges and putting down an investment.”

“You could say that.”

Though probably not for the reasons you’re thinking.

“Some would call that a fool’s gesture.”

“They might. I like to call it prudent.”

Ronan held his chin up, letting the action speak for his confidence.

It prompted another silent scrutinizing pause from Ildavo and Ronan had almost decided he’d lost him when the man’s lips finally twitched into a smirk and he took the pouch, putting it away in one of his jacket’s pockets.

“Well, consider my appreciation given.” His stance became more relaxed and he tucked his thumbs into his belt. “So you’ve really hashed things out with them?”

Ronan watched with mild fascination as the last of the yellow tinge of his skin retreated from his face, bringing back the luster of his facial scales as it went.

“They’re not exactly happy with me at the moment but yes. We’ve come to an agreement.”

“Not an easy feat.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Ildavo sorted.

“That mean you’re free to move about then?” he asked casually.

“Yes. Like I told you, I already cleared things up with them.”

“In that case…” The alien paused to think.

“How about a walk, ‘Secretary’? I doubt you’ve had the time to see the local landmarks.”

The question caught Ronan off guard and he paused to blink at the other stupidly.

The offer sounded genuine enough. Except that Ronan hadn’t seen anything like it coming. That said, Ildavo did seem to have relaxed fully around him and Ronan had an entirely empty schedule ahead of him… He sucked on his cheek, considering the suggestion.

There were many reasons why Ildavo might be making it, including the intention of dragging Ronan away somewhere to get back at him for his little run-in with the Chiss, but Ronan was pretty sure he had a handle on the right one. The man was curious. It was as simple as that. That’s what had drawn him to Ronan and that’s what Ronan saw when the smuggler ran inquisitive eyes over him.

And if he wanted to drag Ronan into a side alley and murder him, well, Ronan thought as he looked around, there was hardly a better place for it than the one they were already in. There was of course the question of whether his handlers would make a fuss over him talking to an alien again but… Did he really care at this point?

They’d stuck him here, knowing he would go stir crazy with nothing to do. And they weren’t even subtle about it.

Ronan scowled at the thought.

Screw it. If they wanted to know what he chatted about with other aliens, they should have planted a bug on him. Or kept him on Csilla for that matter.

Either way they only had themselves to blame if they didn’t like this.

“Very well then.” He straightened, putting some determination behind the words. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

There were many decisions Ronan had made he would admit were questionable in hindsight, or at the very least unnecessarily hazardous. His decision to follow Ildavo certainly fell under that category.

But it had more than paid its weight in gold, Ronan decided as they traversed the busy streets of the market, ducking between shoppers and visitors as Ildavo rattled off whatever explanation he had embarked on a few minutes ago.

Because as it turned out, the man was a treasure trove of information.

He was also chatty, sociable and keen in that way typical of all successful fringe-dwellers that could read the world around them and used that to their advantage.

“I don’t know.” Ronan wrinkled his nose, eying the four-eyed creature Ildavo had pointed out as a pickpocket and apparently running a local smuggling ring. “This place doesn’t look nearly as crime-infested as you make it out to be.”

Ildavo’s huffed laugh was lost in the din of the crowd.

“That’s because the people here are professionals,” he said, not breaking his stride as a squat bulky alien cut through their path. “Most leave here not even realizing they’ve been robbed or swindled. The blueskins that come here are all very highbrow and the price of getting caught sucks out the nerve of any amateurs.”

Ronan gave a hum in acknowledgement, thinking back to the paranoid alien he’d tricked in the square.

A high-risk, high-gain environment. He could certainly see that being the case.

“And you’re saying the chiss tolerate that?”

“Sure they do.”

“That doesn’t sound like them.”

“Which goes to show you don’t think like them.” Another alien tried to cut through their path and this time Ildavo moved his shoulder in a subtle, rotating motion that directed it away from them. Ronan hurried to slip through the gap the gesture had created.

“Imagine you’re a lofty blueskin, safely snuggled at the top of your orderly little society. Not much to write home about besides the occasional political crisis. That is, until you decide to mingle with the dregs…”

Ildavo continued his explanation and Ronan focused his full attention on the man.

So far, he had learned more about the local area, species and politics than he had for the entirety of the duration of his stay on Csilla. And all Ildavo had asked for in return was that Ronan answer some of his own questions about Lesser Space.

Curious, Ronan reminded himself. And sociable. It was a small wonder too, given how little the locals seemed to know about the galaxy beyond their own backyard. Ildavo himself had never heard of the Empire or the Clone Wars or even the names of the various regions closer to the Core and Ronan made a mental note of it as he gave the man a brief overview of each topic – no more than the average trader operating at the edges of Wild Space would know.

A small price to pay for everything he was learning.

Which wasn’t all that much of a shock – Ronan may be the sole source of information about Lesser Space around but Ildavo wasn’t giving away anything valuable by chatting about his neighborhood. At the end of the day, that was information Ronan could get from any of the shady types skulking about and looking for business.

Which raised the question, Ronan suddenly thought to himself, of why the chiss weren’t equally informed about what was essentially a part of their own territory. Ronan had perused the small data file about Rhoar that Ba’kif’s aide had compiled for him with great care before coming here and he hadn’t found any of the finer details in there that Ildavo was telling him about.

Was it because the chiss were happy keeping him in the dark? Or did they send him here in the hopes he would obtain that information for them?

No, Ronan scrunched his nose, that couldn’t be it. Ba’kif was good at maneuvering Ronan where he wanted him but he was clearly displeased at Ronan’s decision to see Ildavo again. And there was no way they could have foreseen him seeking the smuggler out again.

Not to mention that Rhoar had been under chiss custody for decades and looking into it now was a ridiculously belated effort.

There were some things they did seem to be aware of through, mostly because they benefitted from them, Ronan decided as he looked around, singling out a few individuals that seemed to look roughly like they dabbled in the same sphere as his companion .

Like the fact that Rhoar was a heaven for smugglers due to the chiss’ extreme nonchalance regarding the origin of the merchandise being brought in and sold there. A neutral ground where anything could be sold to anyone, with any protests quickly silenced by a reminder of just how fond the chiss were of outsiders poking their noses into their business.

It was a clever and, Ronan had to admit, profitable way of weaponizing their aggressive isolationism. More than likely encouraged by all the high-ranking Aristocra that saw trade worlds like a luxury shopping trip. Or made a profit from the freighters that carried wares off them, Ronan noted, remembering that each and every one of those ships had a family crest emblazoned on them.

Of course none of the trouble of organizing such a complex system would be necessary if the chiss used the regular trading hubs scattered about this corner of space but that just went to show how far the wedge between them and their neighbors had dug itself over the centuries.

Which both parties were undoubtedly responsible for. Because a simple wedge wasn’t really an apt enough metaphor to describe what was going on here.

In all honestly – and Ronan didn’t need Ildavo to point that out to him – besides the few species the chiss had been in a position to offer humanitarian aid to or had rescued from pirates, most seemed to simmer with that old ‘hate thy neighbor, especially if they’re more prosperous than you’ mentality.

This had apparently only worsened during the war where most locals saw the conflict as two bigwig species settling their own scores without a care for the chaos they sowed around themselves, disrupting trade and space traffic or just generally generating tension and fear in the region.

On the face of it, it made some sense. No on liked the sound of laser fire whizzing this close above their heads. In reality, and in this particular case, it was absurd.

The Grysks had already made a name for themselves as an aggressive and enterprising people. Despite this, most of the species around were content not to get in their way and watch as they battled it out with the other disliked resident power.

No matter how much dislike the chiss had generated with their haughty policing tendencies, surely these people could see that having the Grysks as the local overlord would be much more detrimental to them. The chiss guarded what was theirs jealously and had probably thwarted many of their neighbors’ ambitions for local domination but at least they didn’t go around attacking planets and asserting their will over others.

And yet, Ronan thought, the way they went about it didn’t help matters.

A little holier-than-thou attitude could wreak havoc on one’s reputation and Ronan supposed gleeful spite had a hand to play in the way this conflict was gauged by outsiders. In their arrogance, they probably thought they could sit back and wait until the powers that be exhausted each other, making the sole survivor easy pickings once the conflict was over.

Those thoughts stayed with him long after he’d parted ways with Ildavo and made his way back to his apartment. They stayed with him, in fact, even after he’d absentmindedly eaten his dinner and retired to bed.

Local hostility, he turned the words over in his head. Cultural barriers. Historical tensions. An informational blind spot.

Maybe there was a way around it. A loophole through which a thread could be woven and only Ronan had the needle for.

Ronan chewed on his lip in the dark, staring at the fuzzily outlined ceiling above.

Maybe it was worth a try.

The next few days passed in a bit of a blur as Ronan made the necessary calls and sat through the ensuing disgruntled conversations. As always, Ba’kif’s skepticism was nothing short of a mountain to scale but the man was open enough to ideas and suggestions to hear Ronan out and get the necessary arrangements underway.

Which had ultimately landed Ronan here, standing in front of one of the quieter buildings in the chiss district and peering down the pedestrian walkway in his full administrator garb. The area around him was all but deserted and he had a feeling it had to do with the nature of the business they were about to conduct.

Finally, after what felt like a good twenty minutes, the two guards that had shown him here appeared from around one of the buildings, with Ildavo’s leisurely long-legged gait keeping pace with them as he trailed a few steps behind.

Ronan took a discreet fortifying breath.

This had better work out, he told himself, holding Ildavo’s stare until the group reached him at the foot of the building and the two chiss broke off to circle around Ronan and lead them inside.

“So,” Ildavo started casually as they fell into step behind their escorts. “What exactly am I looking at here?”

Ronan saw the man’s eyes dart over his robes with a dubious look. Thankfully he kept his comments to himself.

“Like I said, they’re only going to ask you a few questions. Things along the lines of what you told me in the market. And only what you’re willing to answer.”

“Right. And are they actually going to be polite about it this time or should I expect the usual?”

Ronan threw him a sharp glance. If there was any lingering fear from his last encounter with the chiss, he was doing a good job of hiding it.

“I suggest you don’t say that in front of them. I won’t be able to get you out of trouble if you do,” he warned, making sure the two chiss in front of them had been out of earshot.

“Relax.” Ildavo shrugged. “I know how to survive around blueskins. The trick is usually to say nothing of what you actually think of them. But you probably know that already.”

Ronan’s throat bobbed uncomfortably but ignored the comment. Before long they had reached a nondescript metal hatch where their escort broke up to reveal another uniformed chiss, standing at attention.

“Halt,” she said harshly, raising a hand to motion. “Only him for now,” she finished as she pointed at Ronan and he turned to nod at Ildavo over his shoulder.

“Wait here,” he instructed and let himself be ushered inside. The room beyond the hatch was relatively bare, with some furniture pushed up against the edges and a few dormant screens lining the walls. A few chairs had been pulled to the center, making a half-circle that pointed toward the hatch.

Ronan ran his eyes over them and the single pair of occupants.

In the chair on the far right, in all her brilliant-white glory, was Ar’alani, seated with her legs crossed and her fingers twined coolly in front of her. And in the chair next to her was Vanto.

Glaring at Ronan with the same icy look he’d stormed out with the last time they’d seen each other, Ronan noted uneasily.

Ronan gave his luck a mental kick and tried not to let any of it show on his face as he came to a stop in front of them.

“Admiral. Commander.” he said formally, giving the slightest of bows in acknowledgement.

“There’s no need for formalities, Secretary,” Ar’alani cut him off, making a brisk movement with her hand. “Please, take a seat.”

He held back a frown and did as instructed.

As he settled in his seat, he noted there was no chair set out for Ildavo.

A holier-than-thou attitude indeed. And a piss-poor start to what they were trying to do here.

“Now, tell me more about this informant of yours.” Ar’alani uncrossed and recrossed her legs.

Distantly, Ronan registered that her demeanor was harsher than he remembered it.

She knew, a voice in his head taunted. She definitely knew. Or else Ronan was being paranoid. Ba’kif had promised that they would keep it all under wraps but Ronan couldn’t help but wonder if that was truly the case.

Although, in all honesty these people looked more worn and wound up by the day so this might just be another sign of how thinly the war was stretching their nerves.

He focused back on the conversation, steeling his nerves.

“He’s a smuggler. He mostly operates from Rhoar but he also does business in the nearby systems. More to the point, he’s well-informed and knows a lot about what’s going on in the region.”

“Very well. Ba’kif told us that much. Now tell me why I should trust this not to be some ploy meant to mislead us.”

Ronan shook his head. “Ildavo’s interested in money, not in stirring up trouble. He’s that type.”

“Who’s to say the Grysks won’t make him a better offer?”

That depends on how stingy you are, Ronan thought privately.

“I told you, he’s a practical type. He won’t risk playing double agent. In fact, I’m sure he wants this as much on the down low as we do.”

Next to him, Vanto stirred in his seat. “The Grysks have other methods of getting what they want,” he muttered darkly. Ronan felt his jaw clench.

“We’re trying to get information from him, not giving it.”

Vanto glared harder in response and Ronan suppressed the urge to flinch. He was already feeling the strain of not having Vanto on his side.

“And you’re sure this information is worth pulling the Steadfast away from its patrol duty?” Ar’alani joined the conversation again.

This time Ronan let his dismay show. He hadn’t been the one to make the decision of which ship they would send but clearly Ar’alani wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

Did she know?

“I’m not a military expert,” he said. “I can’t tell if any of this might be tactically viable in any way. But clearly you thought the possibility worth coming here and finding out for yourself.”

The response was slow to come and Ronan could feel the agitation building under his skin but finally, Ar’alani seemed to give a simple shrug and leaned back into her seat.

“Fair enough. Quite frankly, our patrol vector had us passing close by anyway.”

That or you’re the only fleet officer who hasn’t made too much of a fuss about working with me and that’s why Ba’kif sent you, Ronan thought to himself.

Then let out a sigh of relief.

Apparently, this was just another one of Ar’alani’s mind-games that she was so fond of. Ronan was almost entirely convinced she’d learned those from Ba’kif at this point.

“In that case, Lieutenant Apvirsk, you can invite our guest in. It’s time for us to have a chat.”

The woman standing at the hatch nodded and keyed a quick code into the controls. A moment later she was ushering Ildavo inside and the man strolled into the room leisurely. Ronan followed the path his eyes charted over the space, snapping over to Vanto almost instantly and widening in surprise.

He then pointed at Vanto and unsubtly mouthed the Sy Bisti word for ‘another’ at Ronan. Ronan flashed him a scowl with a vigorous shake of his head, earning himself a shrug.

“Lycka Ildavo, from the Eaz provinces, ma’am. At your service.” Ildavo turned back to Ar’alani. At least he recognized the resident authority in the room.

“How may I be useful to you?”

Ar’alani quirked one of her sculpted eyebrows.

“From the Eaz provinces?” she echoed, her tone suspiciously innocent. “So it’s Lycka iv’Eaz Ildavo?”

Even sitting furthest away, Ronan noticed the way Ildavo’s jaw clenched, a sneer fighting not to appear on his face.

“That’s correct, ma’am. Very perceptive of you,” Ildavo ground out and Ronan resisted the urge to sigh and bury his face into his hands. Blatantly reminding the man how much the chiss knew about his people.

A wonderful way to start friendly relations.

“Thank you,” Ar’alani said, satisfied with herself. “I am Admiral Ar’alani of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet. This is my second in command, Mid-Commander Vanto. Secretary Lyron tells us you may have information that may be useful to us. We are here to find out if that is indeed the case.”

The interview that followed was thankfully uneventful, with Ildavo answering all of Ar’alani’s questions in decent detail and the proper respectful tone. Ar’alani herself was difficult to read on a good day but Ronan thought he saw a couple of flashes of interest from her at a few of the answers Ildavo gave.

The whole affair wrapped up more or less without a hitch and Ildavo seemed decently satisfied with his reward as Ar’alani placed it in his hand – a small pile of currency chips that looked fairly substantial to Ronan’s eyes – even doing a little bow as he stepped back to the center of the room.

After a few perfunctory closing words, the Lieutenant from before was called back in and they all filed out into the hallway.

“I’m assuming you’re happy?” Ronan asked once he caught up with Ildavo.

Ar’alani, Vanto and the other officer had paused at the threshold of the room, conversing in hushed tones while the two escort guards waited for Ronan and Ildavo to finish their own conversation.

Ildavo ran his finger thoughtfully over one of the currency chips, much like he’d done with the credit piece back at the bar.

“It was a nice chat.” He shrugged finally, putting the piece back into his jacket. “Nice outcome of it too.”

“Speaking of nice,” he added. “Nice upgrade on your look. What color will I be seeing you in next time?”

Ronan started then scowled, acknowledging that the sarcasm was fully warranted.

“Whatever they put me in. Thanks for asking.”

Ildavo huffed.

“Control freaks.”

The words left an unpleasant feeling on Ronan’s skin but once again he didn’t comment on them. If bonding over their ‘mutual’ dislike for the chiss was a way of gaining more of Ildavo’s trust, then he would indulge it.

“You think putting you in bright colors is a way for them to keep track of you?”

Ronan blinked at that.

“That’s… ridiculous. But I wouldn’t put it past them.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Ronan angled his head to the side on accident and caught the tail end of Vanto’s glare in his peripheral vision. It sent another flash of unease through him and he frowned in the other’s direction.

Noting, in the process, the way Vanto’s glare wasn’t focused solely on him but was instead pivoting from Ronan to Ildavo and then back again.

“Kriff,” Ronan cursed under his breath, realizing what this was about.

“Listen.” He grabbed Ildavo’s sleeve on the side that was only visible to their guards. “I may be wrong but Vanto looks like he’s planning to have a private chat with you. If he asks you how we came into contact, you absolutely don’t tell him the truth, you hear me? Tell him I was on leave when I ran into you and tried to pay you for information about Lesser Space.”

Still a transgression but a more minor one. And a cover story Ba’kif had approved for him.

Ildavo’s eyes flicked over to Vanto briefly before turning back to Ronan.

“I don’t know about that, my friend, trying to hoodwink the blueskins didn’t end well for me last time.”

“He’s not a blueskin, he won’t be able to tell if you’re lying,” Ronan insisted. “Trust me.”

He let go of the other’s sleeve and leaned back, trying to act casual. “And don’t run your mouth. There’s no need for everyone and their grandmother to know what you saw here today.”

That part was said with less urgency though Ronan recognized the equal weight behind it. The Grysks definitely knew about him and Vanto but the local alien populations didn’t need any rumor fuel, risking fears that the Chiss might be conspiring with another race and getting people’s hackles raised unnecessarily.

Hopefully, Ildavo was keen enough to recognize that. At the very least Ronan relied on him to understand that a bit of silence now could mean more business for him later.

“Fine, fine.” The alien raised his hands in surrender. “Who said I was planning to anyway?”

With that, they exchanged a few parting words before Ronan took his leave and joined one of the guards waiting to escort him back to his apartment.

And sure enough, the moment he left Ildavo’s side, Vanto broke off from his group and made a beeline for him, his face schooled into an expression Ronan had rarely seen on him before.

That mild grassroots charisma of his would have probably worked better on Ildavo, Ronan thought absently, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to tell him that. Because by the looks of it, he was definitely going to try and grill Ildavo for information.

Ronan pretended not to care and let his guard lead him out, following him back to his suite. Once there, the tensions and anxieties generated by the meeting finally caught up with him and he made wearily for his questis, settling into his bed to read.

In a few more hours the streets outside his viewport had gone dark and quiet and Ronan had all but banished the thoughts of his little experiment and the possible consequences of it from his mind. There was still a lot of planning and deliberation to be done.

But there was also rest to be had.

Reaching for the switch to the bedroom’s lights, he keyed them off and slipped under the covers.

Only to be woken by the shrill beeping of his bedside comm a few hours later.

“Yes?” Ronan croaked, trying to peer at the chrono on his questis through narrowed eyes. Three and a half hours. Had he really not earned himself more than that?

“Your informant, the Eishi, where is he?” Ar’alani’s crisp voice came through the speaker, laced with impatience and making Ronan sit up straighter.

Eishi? Ronan blinked at the dark blearily.

The word bounced around his brain, trying to find where it had first been recorded. It took him a good moment to remember it was the name Ildavo had mentioned as being that of his species.

So this was about Ildavo?

“He’s probably on his way off the planet. He said he had a cargo to pick up. Why?”

“Get him back.” Ar’alani growled through the comm.

Ronan felt himself freeze.

All of a sudden, he was completely awake.

“What? Why?”

His mind raced with a thousand questions that Ar’alani seemed content to ignore.

“The Steadfast will be back in orbit in about an hour. I want you both back at the complex by that time. I’ll inform security of your arrival, so get him back there.”

She paused, her voice becoming even harsher.

“And do it now.”

Chapter Text

It took five minutes and a reminder that Ar’alani could get planetary security involved at the drop of a hat for Ronan to start hearing cursing and the sound of console switches being aggressively flipped in the background.

He didn’t expect Ildavo to be any happier in person.

He was mostly right about it.

“This better be worth it,” Ildavo growled, his eyes flashing as his guards performed the familiar maneuver of bypassing them and taking the lead. “Your friends at the port gave me hell for cancelling my takeoff slot and making them put this on again.” He gestured harshly at the blaster at his thigh and the capsule device attached to it. “You’d think telling them who called me back would be common sense.”

Roan endured the barrage, taking pains to stomp out his own irritation.

“I understand why you’re angry. But I doubt Ar’alani would go to such lengths if it wasn’t urgent. She sounded pretty tense over the comm.”

“That’s her problem. I don’t see why it should be mine too.”

The words landed with finality and Ronan turned his attention back on the path ahead of them without a word. He wished he could say something to that but he really couldn’t.

They were guided to the same silent building complex, looming tall and dark in the muddy night air. Only this time they didn’t go inside. Instead Ronan was surprised to find them taken around the building and to a discreet landing pad hidden among the surrounding structures where one of the Steadfast’s shuttles stood waiting.

The sight managed to make Ronan’s already high anxiety level crawl up a notch. Usually, the chiss were reluctant to bring any aliens into their warships unless absolutely necessary. The fact that Ar’alani had decided to meet them aboard one, even if it was a small transport shuttle, gave him a bad feeling.

He had thought long and hard about what this all might be about as he’d waited for Ildavo to arrive, he reflected as they approached the open ramp, spilling a cool tinted glow out onto the asphalt, and he’d come to the conclusion that Ar’alani’s tone could be the result of one of two cases.

One was that she was angry with them. Either with him or Ildavo, perhaps because some of the information the alien had given them had turned out to be false or because Ildavo had managed to run his mouth in the interim between their meeting and now.

The other possibility was simply because she was tense.

Which became all but obvious as the two of them were ushered up the ramp and into the shuttle’s cargo bay where Ar’alani and Vanto were already waiting for them.

“Secretary. Informant.” Ar’alani nodded at each of them in turn. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I realize this is quite sudden.”

Her voice was just as strained as it had been on the comm and Ronan noted all the other small but noticeable signs of her discomfort. Like the gathering of stress lines around her temples or the rigid set of her shoulders.

“I called you here in the hopes that you might be of further assistance to us.” She turned to Ildavo this time. The alien scowled in response.

“Is this assistance really that urgent, Admiral?”

Ronan watched a quick glance pass between Vanto and Ar’alani.

“I believe you’ll agree that it is.”

With that, she removed one of her hands from behind her back and held out what what looked to be a small necklace made up of delicate-looking gold chain links and small stones or pearls, set in gold casings and spaced evenly along the chain.

Ronan felt his eyebrows twitch up.

The stones were rather pretty, he decided as he watched them glitter and reflect the ship’s lights in a handful of shimmery hues. Their polish was a bit rough and the metalwork looked pretty unimpressive but he supposed they could be fairly valuable.

They certainly made up for their size with luster.

The question was, what did they have to do with Ildavo.

Ronan turned to the side to ask only to find the man frozen to the spot, a kind of cold petrified shock written all over his face. Instantly, Ronan straightened and felt his pulse speed up with the motion.

He had only seen Ildavo this way once and even then the man hadn’t looked so stricken. Ceryainly the skin around his ridges hadn’t been that yellow and swollen, making it look almost sickly, while the rest of his face had gone unnaturally still.

“Where did you get this?” Ildavo asked, his voice stone cold as he reached out to take the necklace. Ar’alani didn’t move to stop him. In fact, she looked vaguely uncomfortable and was all but avoiding the man’s eyes.

Ronan felt himself frown. What exactly was the connection here?

And then suddenly, without warning, he had it.

The groves on Ildavo’s face, Ronan thought, horrified, staring at the alien in the bright fluorescent light. The scales inside them and the necklace’s stones… they were the same thing.

“We found it on a pirate ship whose identity is still unknown to us,” Ar’alani’s voice cut through the cold, plunging feeling in the pit of his gut. Both her and Vanto looked equally like they wanted to be anywhere else but the cramped suffocating space of the ship with the necklace nearby.

“We’ve had it in our custody for a while now, hoping it would give us a clue about the owners. It was only after our meeting that I managed to make the connection.”

Ildavo was silent for a good while, his eyes glued to the necklace in his hand. Then he shook himself off and barked a rough-sounding laugh.

“Well, congratulations, Admiral, your pirate is no longer unidentified. You’re dealing with a Xizazzi.” He raised the shimmering necklace up to hold it under the ship’s light and Ronan thought he saw Vanto swallow down a surge of bile. “The group that hunted my people for sport in order to make these.”

The atmosphere in the ship became almost oppressive.

“Yes, I thought you might confirm that for us,” Ar’alani said tentatively. Next to her Vanto stirred and spoke up for the first time since their arrival.

“Our records say that the Xizazzi used to sell these for profit. But you say they hunted your people for sport?”

Ildavo gave a deceptively casual-looking shrug.

“Normally, if you’re just after a quick profit, you would stun or kill to make removal easier.”

Ronan thought he saw Ar’alani turn a shade paler. “You mean they were conscious during the extraction?”

“Many of them lived to tell the tale. They described to us just how much pleasure the Xizazzi took in their work.”

“Those scales are smaller than what you see in most adults. Does that mean…?”

“They’re more vibrant in younglings, yes.”

“Fucking hell.” Ronan heard Vanto swear under his breath and felt his own stomach twist with disgust.

To think that there were barbaric people like this in the Unknown regions as well. A naïve, idealistic part of him had hoped such atrocities only happened in the most crime infested parts of Hutt space and the parts of the Rim where slavery was still common practice.

It was a nice hope to have but apparently a deluded one.

Ar’alani’s mouth contracted into a thin line, then loosened into a more determined one and she seemed to compose herself.

“That pirate ship was discovered sneaking around one of our asteroid fields,” she said, her tone back to being brisk and focused. “We managed to capture it but the crew either escaped or died during the attack. They also managed to destroy all the data on their computer. Do you think you could further confirm their identities for us if we take you aboard the ship?”

Ildavo gave a small nod. The lines of his face had smoothed out a bit, Ronan noted, but he was still holding the necklace in a death grip.

“We learned plenty about them while our people tried and failed to stop their attacks. Yes, I can do that for you.” He paused then added. “And then?”

“And then,” Ar’alani said, “we plan to discover what they were doing on our territory and deal with them accordingly.”

“You mean pulverize them.”

“If they dare to fire on a chiss ship again.” She narrowed her eyes. “That’s the only fate they can expect.”

“At first we only had rumors of what had been happening but the rumors were wide-spread enough and the sources fairly reliable. Some of them said a few of the pieces had been sold on our trade worlds but either way, we had no means of confirming that.”

Ronan listened to Ar’alani talk, watching the backs of the bridge officers laid out in a half circle around them.

They were back on the Steadfast again, with the yellow-green surface of Rhoar passing below them as the ship made its ponderous turn to starboard and angled itself to escape its gravity well.

A few meters away and a few steps down from Ar’alani’s command chair, Ildavo was hunched over the comm officer’s console, giving quiet instructions to the chiss assisting him and occasionally speaking in a choppy language Ronan had never heard before.

“In the end the case raised enough moral outcry that local nations banned any trade of the jewelry and threatened intervention. Because of that the Xizazzi decided the operation was too much of a hassle and dropped it though it’s safe to assume some of their wares are still circulating the black markets.”

“And are apparently being kept as trophies…” Vanto muttered darkly where he was leaned on Ar’alani’s chair.

Ar’alani nodded with visible reluctance. “Possibly. If it’s indeed one of their ships. Unfortunately, the response was slow in coming and many believe that needless death and suffering could have been prevented if more decisive action was taken from the beginning.”

Ronan scowled, his eyes on the planet below as it floated out of view.

“Did the chiss know of it at the time?” He heard himself ask.

“We knew of the rumors. But it wasn’t a matter that threatened our sovereignty.”

“Right.”

Not long after, they watched as one of the comm officers broke away from the console and made his way up the steps.

“Any progress?” she asked as he reached them.

“I don’t know, ma’am.” The man shrugged uncertainly. Like everyone else aboard, he seemed just as unsettled by the whole situation. “They speak to each other in their native language and we have no linguistic records of it in our system. All I can tell is that his contacts become extremely tense once he mentions the Xizazzi.”

“Small wonder. What is their native language called?”

“Ejesh, from what our data files tell us. Though they might not even be using that, it might be a local dialect we’re completely unfamiliar with.”

Ar’alani shrugged.

“No matter. We don’t know the principle one anyway.”

There’s no need for you to know it either, Ronan thought to himself, his scowl deepening. If Ildavo came across something useful, he was sure to tell them. It was as much in his interest as it was in theirs to catch this group.

But it seemed the chiss weren’t ready for that level of trust yet.

Suddenly, their attention was directed elsewhere as the other chiss at the comm board slid his hand behind the back of his seat and made a surreptitious sign.

Ar’alani frowned.

“What does that mean?” She turned to her comm officer. The man’s brow scrunched in thought.

“I think it means he’s managed to hold a conversation for a bit longer than usual. Most of his communications last a minute or two, long enough for him to pass the information on or request someone to look into it. That’s what we assume at least. But this time it looks like he might be on to something.”

Ronan rolled his eyes.

“You can assume. Or you could just ask him,” he finally voiced his thoughts and got a trio of looks in response, ranging from skeptical to mildly embarrassed.

Really, this was getting ridiculous.

The comment seemed to make the comms officer even more restless until his shuffling caught Ar’alani’s eye.

“Something troubling you, Lieutenant?”

The man jolted. The question seemed to have caught him off guard.

“Well, yes ma’am…” His eyes flicked briefly to Ronan.

Not one but three aliens on the bridge, Ronan thought dryly, at the same time no less. His heart went out to them.

“Shouldn’t we have waited for him to identify the ship first? To make sure we know who we’re dealing with?” the officer finished, jerking his shoulder in Ildavo’s direction. Ar’alani’s lips quirked into a wry smile.

“He might not even get to see the ship, depending on our hosts’ mood. In any case, I’d prefer we have this information on hand before we arrive. Even if it turns out to be useless.”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

The exchange gave Ronan some pause. He hadn’t heard anything about any hosts and certainly nothing about hosts whose mood would decide anything.

He took a few steps in Ar’alani’s direction, lowering his voice a bit. “Is it normal for them to be this jumpy?”

Her response was a slow release of breath that Ronan almost sympathized with.

“This case is a bit more complicated than it seems, I’m afraid. And speaking of which.” She paused to take in the clear stretch of space ahead of them, noting at the same time the way Ildavo pulled away from the comms.

“I believe it’s time for your briefing. It doesn’t look like we’ll be in realspace much longer.”

Ronan pulled back a bit.

“My briefing?”

“Yes, Ba’kif wanted to talk to you in private because of some… special circumstances surrounding this case. Political circumstances if you will.”

She gave him a long meaningful look that Ronan didn’t like one bit.

That was never a good sign. Which, he supposed was almost perversely familiar at this point, given all that had happened recently.

The duty office was cramped but reasonably comfortable at least, he decided as he waited for the call to go through in the small space attached directly to the bridge. Most importantly it provided a secure private comm connection which was all that mattered for this conversation.

“Secretary, I trust you’re well,” Ba’kif’s voice came through the speaker as his image resolved on the small screen in front of Ronan.

“Well and comfortable, thank you. Though between you and me, this place could use a drink bar.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Admiral Ar’alani would appreciate it.”

And with that, the casual part of their conversation was over.

“I assume she’s already informed you there are some political aspects that make this situation delicate.”

“When aren’t there? She mentioned something about hosts on the bridge. What am I to make of that?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. As you probably know, there are parts of the Ascendancy that belong exclusively to particular families.”

Ronan nodded at the cam. “And the attack happened in one such territory. Are they asking you to stay out of it because of that?”

“The ship the pirates engaged was an EDF patrol ship surveying that particular edge of our territory.” Ba’kif spread his stapled fingers apart. “So no, they can’t fully kick us out of the investigation.”

“But they have some authority over it, I assume.”

“Quite the authority. Which is where things become difficult.”

There it was. The meat of the conversation.

“Whose territories are they?”

“I’ll give you a hint. Let’s say someone involved is very enthusiastic about working with you again.”

Ronan was silent for a moment, mulling it over. Then growled and dragged a hand over his face.

“The Mitth.” he spat. “Of course.”

“Indeed, the Mitth.” Ba’kif’s tone was flat but Ronan could hear the wry resignation under it. “To be more precise, it’s a minor family allied to the Mitth but they’ve asked Thurfian to intervene and he was more than happy to oblige them. So happy, in fact, that he’s there personally to ensure we don’t overstep our jurisdiction in this investigation.”

Ronan frowned, thinking back to the hurried conversation Ar’alani had had with someone before their shuttle had headed up to the Steadfast.

“So the reason we’re getting so much pushback is because Thurfian doesn’t want me or an alien agent anywhere near the investigation,” he surmised.

“Correct. Although the discovery of the necklace is a strong case for involving the Eishi.”

“What about my connection to Ildavo. Does he…?”

“No. But he figured out we were planning to contact someone for help and refused to cooperate until we revealed who it was. We told him you approached Ildavo as part of an experimental undercover investigation to glean more about recent events in Lesser Space.”

Ronan could already feel the direction this conversation was headed and plastered on a dry smile in preparation for it.

“I assume he wasn’t happy about that either.”

“He’s promised to bring it up with the Syndicure.”

“Fantastic. Any chance I won’t be behind bars by the end of the week?”

“They won’t be happy that we’ve let you anywhere near other aliens but so far the news coming from Lesser Space is troubling enough that we might convince them it was worth it.”

“Might,” Ronan echoed. “Lovely.”

The dull tension in his temples crawled towards a full-blown throbbing and he forced it down through sheer power of will.

“Speaking of worth its, I’m guessing you’re about to tell me why exposing my communication with Ildavo to the Syndicure was worth bringing us into this case.”

Ba’kif was quiet for a good while, sending a spark of curiosity through Ronan.

“There is something disturbing about it…” he said at length. “This operation seems far too well-coordinated for the Xizazzi to have just stumbled into it by accident. Ar’alani agrees with my assessment.”

“Let me guess. You think there’s a third party involved but you’re worried the Mitth will just blow the pirates to pieces before you’ve figured it out.”

“Ordinarily yes, that would be our primary concern. However, in this case the Mitth seem happy to just let the pirates go.”

Ronan’s eyes widened.

“Let them go? But they fired on you. And encroached on your territory.”

“They did fire. But circumstances are such that the patrol craft crew aren’t exactly sure the pirates were aiming at them. They believe they were actually aiming at the asteroid they left behind and hit them on accident.”

“So they were trying to destroy evidence.”

“Worse still, they succeeded shortly after. And they wiped any and all information from their computers as you already know.”

“What about territory?”

“Ships stumble into our territories by accident all the time. Broken drives. Outdated nav equipment.” Ba’kif shrugged. “We can’t hold them accountable for that. As for the fact that they were obviously mining something in the region, that would fall under theft. Which may as well also be accidental. But the point is, that it’s not an attack.”

“And no attack means no response.” Ronan swallowed, thinking of the grim determination on Ildavo’s face back on the bridge. If this whole thing ended up completely blowing up his hopes and expectations…

On the screen in front of him, Ba’kif gave a small nod.

“If the Mitth decide to see it that way… I’m afraid there will be nothing we can do about it.”

Chapter Text

Ronan exited the duty office to find that the Steadfast had already jumped to lightspeed and the comms officer had reclaimed his spot at the board.

“You’re up to speed?” Ar’alani asked as he approached her command chair.

“Yes. What are we expecting?”

“In about two hours, we’ll exit hyperspace at the edge of the asteroid field.” She gestured at a small tactical screen built into her armrest, showing a portion of space with a few dozen scattered objects marked on it. “A Mitth frigate, the Solar Flare, will be waiting for us there and we’ll transfer onto it along with a small contingent of warriors. The Steadfast will remain on standby where it can render help if needed but won’t be able to interfere in the investigation. Then they’ll take us to the ship.”

“And Thurfian?”

“Onboard the Solar Flare, eager to offer his assistance.”

“Can he offer it by removing himself from the scene?”

“That would assume we’re extremely lucky.”

“Point.” Ronan said and swept his eyes around the bridge, finding Ildavo stood a little ways away with a trio of warriors standing guard around him, one of whom was Vanto.

“What about information?” He jerked his chin in the group’s direction. “Did the calls yield anything useful?”

“He managed to find a pair of asteroid miners who might be able to help. Once we get a positive id on the ship, we’ll call them back and see where it goes.”

That was reasonable enough. Though Ronan had hoped for a bit more leverage. He made to step off the raised section of the bridge and join Ildavo and Vanto’s group when he felt a tug at his sleeve.

“One more thing.” Ar’alani stopped him. “From the moment we arrive, he is your responsibility,” she said, lowering her tone and gesturing at Ildavo. “You stay with him at all times and don’t let him out of your sight.”

Ronan’s first instinct was to protest but then he noticed the tense, uncomfortable set of the Eishi’s shoulders and that of the guards around him and quickly reconsidered.

From the chiss’ point of view, Ronan had brokered a deal with Ildavo, defended him during his interrogation, reestablished contact with him without incident and persuaded him to work with them. The chiss on the other hand had dragged the alien off their space port, taken away his payment, harassed him a few days and then threatened to pull him off his ship a second time…

Ronan winced internally. Yes, he could see why they wanted to have him nearby.

Which didn’t mean his presence wouldn’t exacerbate Thurfian’s already meager willingness to cooperate.

He spent the next two hours in the small crew’s cabins he and Ildavo had been offered, the latter accepting his reluctantly while Ronan did so with an odd sense of déjà vu. It wasn’t too long ago that he and Vanto had shared much the same quarters on the very same ship.

Shortly before breakout, they were both summoned back to the bridge and they made it just in time to see the massive viewport fill with starlines before coming to a halt a few hundred kilometers away from a sea of bobbing and slowly rotating asteroids.

In the middle of that sea – and projected onto the bridge’s closeup screens – was a sleek-looking ship with a familiar crest painted in gold onto its flanks. A crest that was partially obscured by a stumpier, ugly little craft, docked and maglocked to the frigate’s side.

As their shuttle approached its destination, Ronan observed the charred and pitted spots where the chiss’ lasers had eaten into the smaller ship’s hull. Not enough to blow it open to space but pirates were never the reasonable type and these had apparently put up enough of a fight to warrant killing all of them in the subsequent boarding.

Making their job all the more difficult now.

Upon docking in the frigate’s bay, they were welcomed by a party of burgundy uniformed chiss and taken to its bridge where the ship’s captain and Thurfian were conversing around a pair of small screens. Shortly after and without so much as a glance from Thurfian, Ildavo was ushered away to the docked Xizazzi ship and Ronan watched his back disappear down the hall, flanked by a complement of three Mitth and two EDF warriors.

Contrary to Ar’alani’s instructions, Ronan hadn’t been allowed to go with him.

“Admiral, welcome back to the Solar Flare.” The voice pulled Ronan’s attention back to Thurfian, striding leisurely towards them.

His robes were a more practical version of the splendor he usually wore on Csilla and they looked to be better suited to travel but the flair and gravity of a high-ranking Aristocra was still there. Not much different from the ship itself, Ronan noted; the Solar Flare’s bridge echoed the more practical arrangement of a Defense Fleet warship but there were subtle nods of decoration and design that set it apart as the vessel of a dignitary.

A reminder of whose territory they were on here, no doubt.

“Captain Thorisof would like to consult with you about some of the tactical data we managed to compile while you were gone. If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course, Your Venerante,” Ar’alani said and broke off from Ronan’s side to join the captain. Ronan waited for Thurfian to do the same but the chiss merely watched Ar’alani go and remained where he was.

Which could only mean one thing.

Ronan braced himself.

“Secretary.” Thurfian gave a diplomatic nod. “It’s been a while since we last crossed paths on Csilla. I trust you sleep better now knowing your would be murderer is behind bars.”

I sleep better knowing what he’s going through because of it, Ronan thought to himself then checked the chrono on his questis. Too early for this and yet he had to deal with it.

“Thank you, Your Venerante, I certainly feel better with the improved security around my office.”

“Albeit you’ve spent a good amount of time away from that office recently.”

“Everyone is entitled to a break, Your Venerante.”

“To process the news, of course.” Thurfian’s expression remained the same but Ronan could feel the man’s noose tightening around him, starting with that little attack at a sensitive spot. “I’m sorry to hear about Thrawn,” Thurfian continued and Ronan had the satisfaction of winning the next round.

“I never much liked the man,” he said with a shrug. Then relished the flash of bewilderment on Thurfian’s face.

If the Syndicure thought he was here to sing Thrawn’s praises, he was more than happy to correct them.

“In any case, is there something you wanted from me?”

Thurfian had composed himself in less than a millisecond and Ronan watched the subtle shift of gears as the man transitioned from preliminary poking around, to full-on assault.

“I’ll cut to the chase and save us both the time,” he said. “You should know that I consider the Eishi to be untrustworthy in this case.”

“Because they are involved through me?”

A slow patronizing smile stretched itself across Thurfian’s lips, the same one Ronan had already been on the receiving end of once at Thurfian’s office.

“Again, you place too much importance on yourself.”

Ronan clenched his teeth.

“What’s so untrustworthy about them then?” he ground out. They both knew Thurfian was doubly suspicious of Ildavo because of Ronan but the chiss was playing coy about it.

Thurfian straightened to look casually around his bridge.

“The Eishi suffered an injustice by the Xizazzi. That injustice was heinous but it came to an end without sparking a conflict. They may not be satisfied with such an end.”

“You’re implying they will see this as a chance at retribution.”

There was a quiet chime from the sun-shaped ornaments the chiss’ hair as he shook his head.

“Not only that. This is a chance for them to ensure we’re the ones that enact that retribution as compensation for our refusal to help them in the past.”

“So you believe they will do whatever it takes to provoke you into destroying the pirates.”

“Yes,” Thurfian said. “Even though this still has the chance of being a misunderstanding or an incursion not at all worth our attention. That is why I didn’t want the Admiral contacting your friend to begin with.”

As if on cue, the questis in his hand lit up and he raised it to look at the message that had appeared on the screen. The angle was just right for Ronan to see it as well and he cocked his head ever so slightly to read it.

Spare clothing on ship carries pirate insignia. Subject has identified it as a Xizazzi.

The corner of Thurfian’s mouth quirked up and he lowered the screen and held it there, as if letting Ronan get a better look.

“Tell me, Secretary, how did you come to know your contact?” he asked suddenly, probably hoping to throw Ronan off-balance with the non sequitur.

“General Ba’kif will have already explained this to you,” Ronan said. “I was instructed to gather more information about Lesser Space.”

“Does General Ba’kif believe that our scouts aren’t up to that task?”

“That’s a question for the General, not me.”

Thurfian inclined his head. “So is the responsibility if your friend turns out to be manipulating things here.”

“You think Ildavo’s trying to manipulate you?”

“I’m just saying an Eishi might find it convenient that the chiss are suddenly open to establishing connections with other species. And now, seeing this opportunity he could just as easily coordinate with his people to exploit it. Unless that plan hasn’t been in motion from the start.”

Ronan’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“I don’t understand. Are you saying you believe they arranged this whole thing?” Ronan nearly sputtered. “How in the Chaos would they have pulled that off?”

“Many of their people are miners and ore experts.” Thurfian shrugged. “They could have cobbled together a plausible enough excuse to trick the Xizazzi into our territories, I don’t know yet. But the point stands.”

There was cursing and there was cursing, Ronan decided as his mind raced at this new development, and he was definitely doing the latter in the privacy of his thoughts.

On any other day, Thurfian’s paranoia might have passed into the realm of valid concern. Except this whole thing was ludicrous. Ildavo had never asked to make contact with the chiss and his initial agreement with Ronan required him to travel away from the Unknown Regions for what would have taken weeks if not months on end considering they didn’t have a navigator with them.

But Thurfian didn’t know any of this… and neither could Ronan tell him about it. Which meant he would be dead set on this conspiracy theory of his till the very end.

“Even if we accept that’s the case.” Ronan tried his next best move. “What’s so wrong about it? Those pirates shot at your people. Your military doctrine dictates a response. And you acknowledge their crimes.”

“What’s wrong about it,” Thurfian whirled on him suddenly, his voice dropping to a glacial temperature, “is that the chiss will not allow themselves to be goaded into battle for someone else’s benefit. In case you have forgotten, we are at war. That war might not concern you – ” Ronan opened his mouth to protest but the chiss bulldozed over him. “– But we will not waste precious resources on others’ grievances. Nor will we allow ourselves to be drawn into a campaign which might potentially divert those resources away from other places.”

Ronan listened dejectedly, his hands clenched behind his back.

Blast Thurfian… There was precious little he could or should say here, seeing how agitated the Patriarch was. Worst of all Ronan couldn’t even argue with that logic. Even the Empire in recent years, under increased pressure from the rebels, had diverted its attention from petty crime and disorder in the Outer Rim for the sake of narrowing its focus.

If Ronan hadn’t personally seen evidence of the Grysks’ meddling in the Empire’s affairs, he would be just as vehemently opposed to lending Imperial resources to the chiss to deal with them.

Thankfully, he was saved from having to parry by the return of the group that had gone onto the pirate ship.

Without a word, he slipped away from Thurfian’s side – the chiss let him go without a comment – and joined Ar’alani and Ildavo where they were already conversing quietly while a group of comms officers worked to set up a connection with his contacts.

Normally, this was the point where one made a tactical retreat to consult with an ally. Ronan didn’t have that option. Asking to call Ba’kif now would draw too much attention not to mention raise Thurfian’s hackles further. A part of Ronan briefly wished Vanto was there so they could have a private conversation in basic but he banished that thought as soon as it appeared.

Vanto couldn’t offer any political advice anyway.

The crushing reminder that Director Krennic would never again be available to offer his didn’t help any either and Ronan willed himself to focus. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to do things on his own. His self-sufficiency was what had made him such a valuable resource on Stardust and what gave the Director the confidence to send him out on solo assignments, so he would simply have to power through this one.

Starting with making sure that the impending conversation with Ildavo’s contacts went smoothly.

Focus on what can be done now and save the rest for later, Ronan reminded himself. Thurfian’s reservations may be a problem but that could change in the blink of an eye as new information and factors came into play.

“Connection open,” one of the comm officers announced and everyone stepped back to look at a screen above the viewport as it came to life.

The image was blurry at first but soon cleared to show two Eishi. Both women, from what Ronan could tell by their facial features.

Ildavo introduced one of them as Oola, the one who looked older and wore a shawl around her head though Ronan could still see the prominent ridges on her skull and jaw (More prominent than they were on Ildavo, he noted, a case of sexual dimorphism perhaps?) while the second, a much more timid girl who looked to be in her late midage years, was introduced as her niece.

The girl was clearly nervous about the whole situation but the older woman had the hardened look of someone who meant business.

“I greet you on behalf of the Chiss Ascendancy,” Thurfian’s voice rang deep and clear around the bridge after the initial introductions were made. “I am Patriarch Mitth'urf'ianico and I preside over this investigation. I am told you might have information that could be useful to the chiss?”

From the screen the woman – Oola, Ronan remembered – gave him a long appraising look. If she was impressed by his title, she didn’t show it.

“I return your greetings, Patriarch Mitth'urf'ianico,” she said briskly. Her voice was similarly deep and clear, with a slight accent coloring her Sy Bisti. “I understand you have a Xizazzi problem on your hands?”

“I would hardly call it a problem. But the ship we found has been identified as belonging to that group, yes.”

“The Xizazzi bring nothing but problems wherever they go. Be advised of it.”

Ronan watched Thurfian’s jaw work but noted that he didn’t react with any visible offense to the blunt statement. With a history like the Eishi’s, a bit of tension when dealing with the Xizazzi was to be expected.

A good diplomat knew that and rolled with it.

“Rest assured that your warning is acknowledged.” Thurfian gave a small nod. “What can you tell us about them that could help us solve this case?”

Oola’s head tilted to the side.

“You have not yet ascertained what they were after?”

“We know they were trying to take something from our asteroids but we don’t know what. They destroyed the one they were tampering with before they were captured.”

“In that case, we can solve that mystery for you.”

A trickle of well-concealed doubt entered Thurfian’s face.

“Is that so?” he said, his voice still perfectly flat. Oola’s image flickered a few times as the connection wavered.

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“They invaded you because your asteroids have Nyix in them.”

Chapter Text

Ronan’s skin prickled at the mention of the word.

Nyix. An extremely sturdy and valuable metal the chiss used to make their warships’ hulls and the Unknown Regions’ equivalent of doonium and chromium. Though allegedly even rarer than them.

On instinct, his eyes swiveled to Thurfian to watch the man’s reaction. And was caught flat-footed when the chiss merely smiled a small, knowing smile.

“We are aware of it,” Thurfian said, a bit of that self-satisfaction seeping into his voice. “Did you think we would be ignorant to the presence of Nyix in our own backyard?”

“That may be so,” Oola countered. “But you don’t know why they were bold enough to venture into your territory to get it.”

“Because they are fools,” Thurfian said. “They don’t realize yet that those deposits are too negligent and too difficult to refine to be worth the effort.”

“Or,” Ar’alani interjected mildly as she took a step forward. “They’re still of worth to them. We mostly use Nyix for hull production but other species use it in electronics manufacturing where small amounts are still valuable.”

Despite her efforts, Oola’s image on the screen shook its head. “Not valuable enough. If your deposits are that hard to mine, they will soon realize that and close their operations without the need for you to intervene.”

Thurfian threw Ar’alani a triumphant look.

“That is correct,” he confirmed.

“And yet, they have already made the mistake of venturing into chiss territory and firing on a patrol,” Ar’alani shot back. “That has entitled them to a response.”

Ronan watched her, feeling a genuine stab of sympathy for her this time.

She and Ba’kif believed there was a third party involved and she was desperately trying not to let the case slip through their fingers. If the Syndicure considered it closed, they would not only lose their evidence but would probably have to investigate without the Syndicure’s knowledge. A nigh impossible feat for something so large-scale.

“You’re wrong,” Oola said suddenly and Ar’alani’s back stiffened.

“I’m wrong?”

“Not you. Him.” The Eishi jerked her chin at Thurfian and Ronan thought he saw every muscle in the man’s body flinch in protest. “If you were right, they would have shut their operation down long before they reached your territories.”

“Long before they reached this place…” Ar’alani said, almost to herself. “Are you saying they have been doing this elsewhere?”

There was a newfound fervor in her voice, Ronan noted. The sound of a climber who had found a handhold on a near smooth surface.

“In multiple places, in fact. We have proof of it.”

“Can you show us those places?”

The question made the skin around Oola’s cheek groves twitch and then all of a sudden something in her demeanor became bristled and guarded.

“No, we cannot,” she said sharply, making the flutter of hope in Ronan’s stomach plummet. “We cannot let you see the proof. But we can predict where you might find the Xizazzi’s next operation if you’re looking for it.”

Thurfian chose that moment to rejoin the conversation.

“I’m afraid you will have to explain how you know this.”

“I’m afraid we’re not willing to do so.”

“It’s settled then.” The chiss’ shoulders relaxed under his robes. “We have no interest in following a lead that can’t be verified.”

There was nothing but disdain in Oola’s sneer as she glared down from the screen at him.

“So the chiss refuse to accept information cloaked in secrets when cloaking their knowledge in secrets is all they do.”

“Yes, we do in fact refuse to do that. For all we know, you may be leading us into a trap.”

“I see. Then there’s nothing more we can do for you.”

To Ronan’s horror, the image on the screen flickered before it winked out completely and the comms officer announced that the connection had been cut. Thurfian made no move to reestablish it, merely turning away and walking to the other end of the bridge as if the entire conversation hadn’t happened at all.

Ronan wasn’t quite so willing to let go yet.

“Let me talk to them,” he lowered his voice to a hiss as reached the spot where Ar’alani and Ildavo were standing. Both of them were motionless, the same dejected disbelief written over their faces.

“Give me a way to contact them and I’ll try to talk them back into it,” Ronan insisted again.

“And why would they listen?” Ar’alani hissed back. Ronan had rarely seen her so frustrated before. He remembered Ba’kif telling him that her resentment for Thurfian ran deeper than most.

“Because I’m not a chiss,” Ronan said and crossed his fingers that the statement wouldn’t be taken the wrong way. She held his gaze for a moment, the awkward noises of the bridge crew flowing in around them, before shoving her questis at him.

“Use the long-range comm. He’ll give you the contact information.” She nodded at Ildavo and marched off to where Thorisof and Thurfian seemed to be discussing the Solar Flare’s next move. Ronan didn’t need her to tell him a second time.

Nudging Ildavo towards the hatch leading out of the bridge, he positioned them right outside where the crew wasn’t likely to overhear them. Ildavo keyed in the necessary id and they waited for the signal to connect.

Oola was predictably not thrilled to be hailed again and Ronan stood to the side as Ildavo offered a few hurried assurances in Ejesh before she was finally willing to speak to him.

“What do you want? Your Patriarch was clear that he wanted no help from us.”

Ronan took a deep breath.

The expression on her face was just as hostile as it had been right before she’d cut the connection the first time but his focus went to the girl he could see fidgeting next to her on the screen. He remembered seeing her reach out and say something that sounded reassuring before, while Ildavo had tried talking to them, and felt the beginnings of a hunch form in his mind.

He marked that thought for later use and focused back on her aunt.

“That’s true. But I’m not him. And neither is Admiral Ar’alani. Both of us would like to know more about why you’re not willing to show us the proof of what you’re talking about.”

“We have little faith in strangers nowadays, as you may well imagine,” Oola said, her tone less hostile but still skeptical. The word strangers sounded particularly pointed to Ronan. “If the chiss don’t want to respect our reservations, they have no right demanding our help.”

“I understand,” Ronan said.

He understood alright. But he didn’t necessarily agree. Oola was clearly the cautious type yet he’d seen Ildavo strut the streets of Rhoar like he owned them, cowed only by the threat of dealing with the chiss, and he’d shown no hesitation in putting himself in a situation with potential Xizazzi involvement. Oola’s niece too, seemed more open to hearing them out.

The Eishi had every right to play their cards close to their chests but that distrust wasn’t a universal rule and it was thinner in some places than it was in others. If Ronan found the right spots to chip at, he could still salvage this.

“Would you at least be willing to tell me why those reservations exist?”

Oola was silent for a moment.

“There is knowledge there that can further empower the chiss. We can’t let that happen.”

“You think they will use that knowledge against you?”

“We don’t know who it might be used against. But we owe it to our people to protect them from that risk.”

Ronan nodded. “I understand your concern. But the chiss are at war with the Grysks. Even if they show interest in using that knowledge, they’re far more likely to use it against their actual enemies.”

“And who can guarantee this? You’re an outsider. You don’t know what it’s like to live in the shadow of – ”

Ronan raised a hand.

“Have they ever attacked your borders?” he asked calmly, using the same tone he would on a frustrated tech back on Stardust.

On the screen, Oola sneered.

“No.”

“Have they harmed your people?”

“They have not.”

“And did they not offer assistance in destroying the pirates that have caused you harm?”

“They do it for their own sake.”

Ronan jerked back.

It was jarring to have his own arguments thrown at him. And to expect him to argue against them. This was the second time that day he was being forced to tussle with logic he didn’t necessarily disagree with and it rankled.

He took yet another stabilizing breath.

A few feet away Ildavo was watching him quietly, his pale green eyes focused like laser points. Apparently the man had decided that now was a good time to assess him.

If he fumbled this and lost Ildavo’s faith in him, the smuggler probably wouldn’t remain as their agent. Or at least would never be a reliable one. Ronan had far more to lose here than the outcome of a single investigation.

And somewhere near the top of that list was Ba’kif’s confidence in his abilities. Which would be crucial if Ronan planned to go through with the proposal that had been brewing in his mind.

“For what it’s worth, I may be an outsider but my people have deemed the chiss trustworthy enough to cooperate with,” he said carefully. “So far, I haven’t had reason to doubt that.”

Oola sneered at him. “You describe the chiss as trustworthy while you parade their symbols of power. Can you promise that they will treat our people with the same integrity? Can you promise that they won’t just use us and forget our help?”

Ronan opened his mouth to counter but Oola chose that moment to drive her point home.

“Can you promise that if the chiss come out victorious and start conquering our worlds, your systems will come to our aid?”

Ronan felt his lips thin.

It was generally believed that the most important job of a mediator was to remain neutral. That wasn’t the case in Ronan’s experience. In reality, a mediator’s first priority was to convince the weaker party that they were on their side. Many disputes started from a place of contempt because one side was already convinced it was powerless and was speaking up against a rigged system. An average intermediator came to terms with that reality and tried to work around it. A good intermediator made the weaker side feel empowered and made them drop that hostility altogether.

“I certainly hope it won’t come to that,” Ronan said. “But I can promise you that if they show signs of taking that path, I will use every piece of knowledge they’ve laid in my hands to stop them.”

Oola snorted. “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Out of the consideration that their conquest might not end when they reach our borders. That’s the kind of behavior you nip in the bud. And believe me, your Grysk problem is far overdue for it.”

The silence in the small corridor stretched and distended, the only sound the hum of the ship’s engines and the distant footsteps of a patrol. Finally, Ronan saw a chink appear in Oola’s armor and watched as the woman deflated a bit and released a tired-sounding breath.

“If you’re a chiss agent, you’re a damn good one,” she growled. “Fine. The reason we don’t want the chiss to look at the evidence is because those asteroids have something else in them besides the Nyix. Something that can be weaponized.”

“You’re sure of it?”

“Yes, we’re sure of it. We haven’t examined your asteroids because they are in chiss territory but all the other instances where we observed the Xizazzi do their little operation had the same component.”

Ronan raised a finger to his chin, his mind picking up speed now that they’d finally made a breakthrough. So it wasn’t the Nyix that had drawn the pirates to the asteroids. Which didn’t mean the Nyix couldn’t be used as a convenient pretext to excuse their presence there.

“All the more reason for you to get involved then,” he urged. “If there’s something in those asteroids that the Xizazzi can use as a weapon.”

“No. The Xizazzi wouldn’t use it themselves.” Ronan startled at the sound of Ildavo’s voice. He had almost forgotten about the other Eishi, leaned against the wall on the other side of the passageway.

“They’re a cowardly bunch,” Ildavo explained prompted by Ronan’s questioning look. “When they attacked our people, it was never our homeworld or larger ships carrying more passengers. It was always those with few people aboard.”

“Where they were met with the least resistance,” Oola agreed form the screen, her tone going dark. Ildavo nodded.

“The way they deal with local patrols and security ships is also by fleeing. No, they won’t be using those weapons themselves.”

Ronan rubbed his jaw in thought.

“So they’re selling them to someone.”

“That’s your best guess,” Ildavo said. “And I’m willing to bet good money they already have their buyer. If it’s a new product, you’d usually bring a small sample to the market first and test the waters for interest. The fact that their operation is so large-scale means someone has already made an order in bulk.”

“It’s not just that.”

All three of them jumped this time then turned their eyes on Oola’s niece who began to fidget harder under the increased scrutiny. Ronan racked his mind to try and remember if the girl had ever spoken before this or if this was the first time.

“What do you mean?” he prompted as gently as he could. This could be his opening. If he managed to encourage the girl to participate, she could end up being the key to softening Oola’s resistance.

The girl hesitated, throwing a glance at her aunt, before finding the courage to talk again. “How many ships did you find in your asteroid field?”

“There were apparently two,” Ronan said. “One of them managed to make a break for it while the other stayed behind to destroy the asteroid they had been working on and got caught as a result.”

Oola cursed under her breath. “So they were wrapping that operation up and the bulk of their forces are already hard at work elsewhere.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because the operations we’ve observed have had up to twenty ships.”

Ronan’s eyes widened.

“Twenty?”

“Yes,” Oola said grimly. “All specialized mining craft. Nothing too fancy that would draw attention but a big investment for the Xizazzi.”

“Which either means the profit is really worth it or that their benefactors are really insistent on getting their product,” Ildavo added.

“Meaning they supplied them with the equipment too,” Ronan finished. “And that it’s probably both.”

“And if that bigwig isn’t the chiss…” Across from him, Ildavo met his gaze and lowered his chin meaningfully.

Ronan almost wished he didn’t already have the answer to that.

“Blast.” he surmised.

So Ba’kif and Ar’alani’s intuition had been right in the end, he thought wryly as he contemplated the newfound stakes of this whole mission. The Grysks were somehow involved in this and worst of all, their involvement was happening right under the chiss’ noses.

There was no option for failure now. If there was one thing that Ronan had learned about the Grysks it was that seemingly innocuous busywork concealed plans of sinister proportions and no stone could be left unturned with them.

Oola and her niece – he really needed to ask the girl’s name again – had caught the tail end of one such scheme and their only hope of following that trail was with their help.

Ronan steeled himself, making sure the gravity of the situation showed in his voice.

“You’ve surely seen what the Grysks can do. And you see the kind of people they work with,” he said, focusing most of his attention on the older Eishi while throwing a few surreptitious glances at her niece. Without a doubt Oola was going to be his biggest source of resistance here and he needed all the help he could get. “Are you just going to let them get away with it?”

The Eishi was silent for a moment before her niece bit her lip and raised a hand to tug at her aunt’s sleeve. “We were planning to report those ships to someone anyway, right?”

A few more seconds of silence, this time more grudging and more brittle.

Ronan couldn’t really blame the woman. He’d seen operations like these – they were the first ones to scuttle out of the way when the Empire moved in to take control of a large doonium vein or some other resource. Small and mobile, usually made up of no more than a few dozen employees who scoured systems for easily extractable metals, more often than not ones found in asteroid fields that were too much of a pain to deal with and were therefore ignored by the big companies.

Ironically, that same small scale and flexibility was what allowed them to survive in the ever-shifting market landscape.

But it also meant that they didn’t have the resources to protect themselves if someone did decide to harass them. That already accounted for Oola’s jumpiness. Add to it the fact that she was clearly trying to protect the kid and you got the full picture.

Unfortunately for them, there were bigger factors at play here. And if the Grysks were starting to realize they could exploit the chiss’ unwillingness to spread their forces, then there was no time left to drag their feet.

A deep breath broke Ronan out of his thoughts.

“Oolik is going to kill me…” Oola muttered to herself on the screen. Ronan watched her square her shoulders and look away from her niece to turn back at the cam.

“Very well. We’ll cooperate.”

And with that, they were finally back on track.

Chapter Text

Ar’alani wasn’t sure how he’d pulled it off.

The hope of it working had been slim from the start and she’d all but moved on from it, already thinking of other ways she could stall Thurfian long enough for Ba’kif to find a way to swipe the investigation from under him. But somehow Lyron had managed it.

She watched the way Thurfian’s face moved as he chewed on his dismay in silence. Unfortunately for him there was nothing he could do about it, she thought as one of the larger asteroids moved ponderously towards them, tugged by the ship’s tractor beam.

His only condition had been the Eishi’s transparency and now that was no longer an obstacle.

“Nyix deposits confirmed,” one of the Mitth sensor officers announced before squinting at her screen. “Surface indentations match the shape of a docking claw.”

Ar’alani allowed herself a small satisfied smile. So the Eishi hadn’t lied to them.

“Very well,” Thurfian said, his voice admirably controlled. “That’ll be the last of them. We won’t need any more proof.”

They certainly didn’t. All the asteroids they had examined so far matched what Oola had told them. Of the smaller ones they had found with scratch marks on them – the kind that indicated bumping against the internal paneling of a mining ship’s processing dock – some still had their Nyix deposits intact, while others had had theirs extracted and contained small empty pockets where another material must have been.

The larger asteroids, those too big to fit into the pirates’ ships or the Solar Flare, were more difficult to examine but they fit the same pattern. Docking claw marks with either intact Nyix deposits or extracted such with the same mysterious empty pockets.

So the pirates only bothered with the asteroids that had both the Nyix and the mysterious material. Dumping the ones that didn’t have the latter and moving on to those that did, she thought as she rubbed the fingers of one hand together in thought.

“This also explains why they were so eager to destroy the asteroid we caught them working on.” She mused out loud. “It’s because – ”

“– they hadn’t finished extracting the other material and didn’t want us to know about it. Yes, I’ve caught on.” Thurfian finished for her and didn’t argue for once. Ar’alani inclined her head without stoking his irritation.

As much as she relished it, he was still the deciding factor on whether they followed this investigation to its end. Which is also why she hadn’t suggested bringing the Steadfast into it, even though her ship was much more capable of handling the larger asteroids and had enough sensors and tractor beams to finish the job quicker.

It would have saved them the time but it would have also cost them more of Thurfian’s tolerance. Besides, if the man wanted to see the results with his own eyes – or equipment – Ar’alani was happy to oblige him.

“We’ve confirmed your claims.” She turned back to the screen where Oola was waiting for them to finish their examination with the long-suffering look of a parent watching a child learn something they didn’t know. “I’m guessing you know of a filed with the same asteroid composition where the Xizazzi are likely to have gone next?”

“We do,” the alien confirmed. “There’s two more, lined up on a vector that suggests they’re next.”

“If they’re on a vector one of them is a more likely target than the other,” Thorisof commented quietly next to her.

“Unless the ship we allowed to escape has sent them into a panic and they’ve decided to change their schedule,” she reminded him and watched him grimace in agreement. Ar’alani’s feelings weren’t much different.

She raised a finger to her chin. Perhaps she would be taking Ba’kif’s offer for reinforcements after all… It would mean more grumbling from the Syndicure if it turned out this case wasn’t as important as they believed it was but their best move here would be to check both locations simultaneously.

Of course there was also the chance that the pirates had already packed up and left but that was unlikely. Pirates confident enough to venture into chiss territory were probably confident enough to think her people wouldn’t be able to figure out their next move. Even more confident still, knowing that their ship computers were rigged with self-destruct mechanisms. Thankfully, they had no way of factoring in Oola’s help.

Which was all well and good, Ar’alani thought wryly, except that the alien had been unusually reticent about one piece of the puzzle.

“Alright,” she said at the screen. “Now that we’ve confirmed the existence of the pockets, you promised to tell us what has been extracted from them,” she prompted and watched as the alien’s mouth curled into a scowl. Her hands twitched around her upper arms and she shot Lyron and the other Eishi a quick glance that didn’t escape Ar’alani.

Finally, with a deep accompanying breath, the alien caved.

“It’s dust.”

“Dust?”

“Yes. Dust that has the ability to disrupt sensors.”

Ar’alani’s back straightened at that.

“It’s a fine substance we don’t know the composition of. Highly radioactive. It won’t show up on your scans but if it’s spread over a ship’s sensors, it renders them completely blind.”

“And most asteroid miners don’t know about it?” Ar’alani raised an eyebrow. If it were something so simple and straightforward, someone would have caught on to its usefulness by now.

“Most of the asteroids that have it don’t have any other useful deposits,” Oola said. “And like you said, the Nyix deposits in them are too much of a pain to refine so nobody bothers with them. Occasionally though someone tires their hand at drilling one and they get a surprise sensor blackout.”

And there’s little else the Grysks would be interested in, Ar’alani surmised, than in turning that into a weapon.

“You can verify it for yourselves,” Oola continued. “It you find an asteroid that looks like it has the deposits and fire at it at close range –”

“I’m going to stop you right there.”

Ar’alani startled and turned to look at where Thurfian stood next to her, his face rigid.

“We will absolutely not be doing that. We have no guarantee of what that dust does and I won’t put my people or my ship at risk on the word of an outsider.”

Oola made a stiff gesture with her hand. “Suit yourselves. We already established this is probably going to your enemies. That’s your problem, not ours.”

Damn it all to hell, Ar’alani clenched her teeth, just when they’d picked up some momentum.

There were times when the path to victory required patience and a delicate approach. They were far past that point. She had been willing to give Thurfian time to warm up to the idea of possible Grysk involvement but now that they had a description of what they might be dealing with, they were due to pick up their pace.

The pirates may not have broken camp yet but their operation wouldn’t last forever and Oola only knew of two possible locations they could ambush them at. Should she return to the Steadfast and mount an attack without Thurfian’s permission?

No, that may well backfire. If Thrufian decided to be difficult and insisted the pirates hadn’t really attacked them, Ar’alani might just find herself contending with the word of a Patriarch at another one of the Syndicure’s drawn-out trials.

Worst of all, she could somewhat see his point of view – asteroids concealing weapons wasn’t exactly tactic they hadn’t wrestled with in the past. That said, tampering with asteroids in their own territory would have been a difficult feat, even for the Grysks. They were being invited to fire at a random one anyway.

Unless of course, any asteroid with the dust deposits was far more dangerous than the Eishi made them out to be and firing on any of them proved fatal. Ar’alani narrowed her eyes at the two Eishi – one on the screen and the other on the bridge a few feet away.

A species that felt itself slighted and lashed out because of it. It wasn’t unheard of. Not to mention that they had the safety of a Patriarch on their hands to consider, she thought as she observed the grim tautness on Thurfian’s face.

He knew as well as her what chaos his death or injury would cause back at Csilla. There was always the option of carefully extracting the dust and analyzing it in a more controlled environment but that could take days, if not weeks.

Should she just remove Thurfian to the Steadfast and do it without him? Or would it be better to bring the Steadfast in, with its superior shielding and hull strength?

Or maybe they didn’t need the Steadfast at all, she realized suddenly, her eyes widening.

“Your Venerante, if I may make a suggestion…”

“Ship rigged and ready to go, ma’am. All hatches have been sealed,” the tech’s voice carried over the Solar Flare’s speakers.

Ar’alani nodded to herself.

“Very well. Release docking clamps please, Captain Thorisof.”

There was a brief acknowledgement before Thorisof gave the necessary instructions and the Solar Flare jerked as the mining ship attached to its side was released by the mechanisms holding it in place.

Shortly after, the ship’s thrusters sputtered to life and Ar’alani watched the intense focus on the tech’s face as he maneuvered the craft using the hastily put-together rerig. The screens above the viewport showed that the ship was managing but she was still glad that she’d instructed for an additional cam to be set up in the mining ship’s cockpit.

Not least of all because of its last-minute added passenger, she thought as her eyes shifted from the tech to the grainy image of the tall Eishi, standing a little ways away with the binders he’d reluctantly agreed to clamping his arms behind him and no less than four warriors boxing him in.

The alien’s face was unreadable on the small screen but Ar’alani thought she could see a hint of determination on it.

Lyron, standing next to her, seemed far more anxious in comparison.

“I should have gone with them,” he muttered under his breath, his hands twitching in agitation where he’d clasped them in front of him.

Ar’alani shook her head.

“I told you, Ba’kif will have my head if I lose him the chief of his Mediation Bureau. I’m not risking that.”

He didn’t seem satisfied with that but Ar’alani hadn’t budged before and she wouldn’t budge now. If this operation went sideways, five of her people and one alien was all she was willing to risk. Thurfian had insisted that he send some of his own warriors as well but Ar’alani had reminded him that he had a duty to protect them – and they him – and that this was her idea to begin with.

Her idea indeed. A slightly insane plan that nonetheless seemed to be working. In any case, re-rigging the dead mining ship to circumvent its fried consoles had taken them much less time than bringing the Steadfast in and the prospect of the pirates’ ship taking the brunt of any risk as opposed to a chiss ship had softened Thurfian’s resistance significantly.

The final nudge to bring that resistance down had been a surprise however and Ar’alani still remembered her own disbelief as the Eishi had leaned over to her and whispered his suggestion in a low voice:

“He suspects me, doesn’t he? If his theory is that we’ve set up some kind of trap, then I shouldn’t want to be anywhere near it.”

“That’s true. However, your presence on the ship may also raise fears of tampering.” Ar’alani had countered.

The alien had shrugged, giving her a half-sheepish look. “With all due respect, Admiral, if two of your soldiers can’t be relied on to keep me from meddling…”

Ar’alani hadn’t been able to stop her eyes from rolling.

“Nice try. You’re going. But I’m raising your escort to four.”

“Flattered, ma’am.”

“Don’t be. Or I’ll make it six.”

And that had been that.

Thrufian had agreed to the plan and they had made the necessary arrangements to put it in motion. They had understandably been in a rush at the time, Ar’alani thought somewhat guiltily, looking at the alien on the screen, though in hindsight they could have given him some of the same armor her troops were wearing… or at least an oxygen mask.

Not that it would do him much good with his arms bound. If his people didn’t mind sending one of their own to the slaughter just to avenge a small grudge, she couldn’t be held accountable for it, she reminded herself. And in the end he had volunteered to go.

Much like a certain someone else. Ar’alani reluctantly let her focus split between the screen and the human next to her, letting her eyes slide over him. She’d taken his fidgeting to be a sign of anxiety earlier but looking at him now, he seemed more impatient than anything else.

Eager to get this over with? In that case, he would very much have to be sure this would work as intended.

“You trust them,” Ar’alani remarked quietly as they and the rest of the bridge observed the ship’s slow drift towards one of the asteroids. Lyron flicked a quick glance in her direction.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Ar’alani hummed. “But you trust him. And he trusts them.”

This time her response was the careful bob of his throat.

“I do, yes.”

“You know what’s next.”

Lyron sighed. “You want to know why.” She saw some of his attention redirect from the screen and focus on her. “I’m guessing you won’t be happy if I say it’s a hunch.”

“Not at all.”

A beat of silence.

“It’s because it was my job,” he said finally. “Taking care of the small constituents of our project. Figuring out what people wanted, how they felt, what motivated them and whether they were likely to betray us. It’s what I’ve done for my entire career.” Ar’alani watched him shake his head. “The higher ranks’ motivations make no sense sometimes. But you’d be surprised how consistent those of the average person are.”

“You mean survival?” Ar’alani guessed.

“Mostly yes. Although what most people don’t realize is how much of that is dodging the strays from the battles of those above them.”

Which is why he understood politics, Ar’alani finished in her mind, remembering Ba’kif’s report on Lyron’s progress. You couldn’t dodge a stray if you didn’t see it coming.

Silently, she gave him one last appraising glance.

There had been something desperate about him lately, something almost frantic. She hadn’t given it much thought before as she’d had more important matters on her mind but she could see it clearly now. Something to prove perhaps, she wondered, eyeing the cheerful yellow robe that contrasted with his nerves.

He hadn’t been like that for the first few weeks she’d had him on her ship. Back then he’d been guarded and suspicious, the kind of behavior she’d expected from him. But then Ba’kif had whisked him off to Csilla, promising to try a different approach and he’d since assured Ar’alani that the ‘Secretary’ had found his footing.

That report had matched what Vanto had told her after visiting the Mediation Bureau’s office though the man she was currently looking at didn’t seem either confident or stable. Ar’alani pursed her lips in thought. Had the news from Lesser Space finally made him realize what was at stake here? Or was it that he was desperate to finish his mission here and go back?

She felt a stab of almost-guilt at that. Of course, going back was no longer an option for him. That ship had long left the gravity well. And it almost made her uncomfortable to think that Ba’kif might be goading him with such a promise.

But no, that wasn’t Ba’kif’s way of doing things. There was something else going on behind the curtain and Ar’alani would simply have to trust that whatever it was – Because there was something there, she knew Ba’kif well enough by now – would pay off in the long run.

Still, she would keep an eye on their envoy in the meantime. Desperation was better than unwillingness or suspicion but it could lead to blind spots and mistakes, she thought narrowing his eyes at him one last time.

Although she was just as desperate here so who was she to talk.

“I see. One more thing, in that case,” she said as she turned back to the screen. The attention of everyone around them was focused on the distance between the small craft and the asteroid as it got progressively smaller.

“Admiral?”

“Whatever it is that’s stewing between you and Vanto, I want it fixed. We have enough squabbling in the Syndicure and the military as it is.”

He flinched then lowered his head like a child caught reaching into a fruit-treat box.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m working on it.”

Ar’alani released a carefully controlled breath. The audacity of this alien to lie to her.

“Make sure that you are,” she said pointedly and left it at that. For now, of course.

On the screen, the pirate ship hit its forward thrusters to slow its momentum and came to a jerky stop a mere few meters from the asteroid. The power readout on a nearby screen indicated a surge near the craft’s bow as one of its mining drills came to life.

“Ready for test, Admiral,” the tech’s voice came through the speakers and Ar’alani lifted her chin in anticipation.

Time to see if this whole thing was worth all the trouble she was putting herself through for it.

“Very good, Lieutenant. Proceed on my command.”

Chapter Text

The drill’s first contact with the asteroid was rather anticlimactic, Ar’alani decided, watching the small ship as it busied itself in the distance and on their screens. There was no atmosphere in space to carry the sound of the drilling equipment nor any physical contact with the pirate ship to feel the vibrations travelling through its hull or the chinks as discharged pieces of rock bumped against it.

The only indication they had gotten was a gentle lurch from the cam installed in the cockpit and that was it.

“That’s enough for this one, Lieutenant, time to switch locations,” Ar’alani instructed, getting an acknowledgement from the tech before the drill slowed its spin and moved to a different spot.

She hadn’t expected the process of finding a dust pocket to be this tedious. They had no way of scanning for them and there wasn’t even a guarantee there were any in this particular asteroid. Unsurprisingly, they hit another dud and she ordered the tech to move on to the next location. She had all but decided to switch the target of their test altogether when the cam footage gave another lurch and the tech’s voice crackled through the speakers.

“Pocket hit! Drill has made a sudden surge!”

Ar’alani jerked forward, noting that every other person on the bridge had done the same. The entire bridge held its breath.

This was it. Would it be an explosion? Or a sensor blackout? Or had they simply been misled to waste their time end efforts on a diversion of some sort?

“Removing drill now,” the tech said carefully as though the tone of his voice somehow controlled the movement.

Ar’alani tensed. Then all but leapt forward as the footage from the ship flickered. Her mind flashed with a flurry of images, ranging from a scattering of ship debris floating in space to that of the alien aboard dispatching her warriors and hijacking the ship.

She was just about to bark an order to her comms officer when the image winked back on, accompanied by the voice of the tech.

“ …–ward sensors out! Port forward sensors going as well. Wait. Starboard sensors gone too. Reading full blackout now, ma’am.”

The relief in her chest was unmistakable.

There was a low whistle next to her and she turned to look at Thorisof.

“Talk about effective,” the man muttered under his breath and Ar’alani had to agree with him. All that from a single dust pocket too… Even their short-range comms seemed to be affected and Ar’alani made a few grim predictions in her mind of what would happen if the Grysks managed to incorporate such a resource into their inventory.

Nothing good came to mind.

“Hold position, Lieutenant,” she said and felt her shoulders straighten. Their first priority now was to call the Steadfast and prepare it for battle as soon as possible, then get those coordinates from Oola. But that wasn’t a given yet and Ar’alani let her gaze slide to the silent figure standing a few steps ahead of them on the bridge. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Lyron had done the same, his jaw set in that stubborn belligerent way of his whenever he expected a confrontation.

This was still Thurfian’s investigation. And still Thurfian’s call to make. And the man may very well still decide to let the pirates off the hook.

What’s it going to be, Ar’alani thought, her eyes narrowing, your people or your pride?

“Admiral?” Thurfian’s voice reached her, his back still turned to them.

“Yes, Your Venerante?”

“I believe it’s time for you to signal your ship.”

The corner of Ar’alani’s mouth twitched up. It seemed he had not yet forgotten his duty to his people. “Of course, Your Venerante. Comms, signal the Steadfast and tell them I want full combat and jump readiness in ten minutes. In the meantime, Captain, I believe I’ll need my shuttle for my return trip. And I also suggest you start tractoring the pirate back to us, I doubt we want them flying back blind…”

The battle that followed was less tense though with stakes far higher than those of drilling the asteroid.

The Steadfast had emerged from hyperspace to catch the pirates completely off guard, scrambling to flee from the chiss warship that had suddenly filled their viewports and finding, rather frantically, that they could only flail in place as their hyperdrives refused to function.

What followed was a rather one-sided shootout where the panicking pirates had thrown all they had at her ship while the Steadfast sent lazy, low-powered ion salvos at them, keeping them occupied as Commander Apsinti’s four cloaked ships had snuck up on them from behind.

Like a Nexu playing with a ground rat, she remembered Vanto remarking next to her.

She didn’t know what a Nexu was, or a ground rat. But she was pretty sure she understood the sentiment. The only thing she couldn’t decide on, she mused, was what was more pathetic – the fact that the pirates had thought their weapons could breach the Steadfast’s electrostatic barrier or the fact that a single salvo from one of her lasers could blow each of those ships to smithereens.

Still, she sent a silent thanks out to Oola, as she ordered her men to prepare for boarding. Their entrance wouldn’t have been nearly so dramatic if they’d had to split their forces and the woman had saved them the effort by dropping in at the second location while they were testing their asteroid, confirming that the Xizazzi hadn’t decided to alter their planned schedule last minute and move their operation there.

That high had only lasted so long though and in the end, despite their best efforts, they had only managed to capture one Xizazzi with its computer console still intact. Nineteen mining ships. Plus four armed ships that had apparently been sent as escort after the mishap that had befallen their last operation.

And they had only managed to get one, she thought bitterly as she stood in the dusty craft’s cramped cockpit.

If there ever was such a thing as a lousy reward, that had to be it.

“Report, Lieutenant,” she barked as she watched her techs mill uselessly around the ship’s console, preparing to extract the data. At their feet, shoved hastily to the side were the bodies of the two Xizazzi that had been piloting the ship – the same dusty little mining craft with minimal firepower in the form of a pair of sloppily attached laser canons.

“Solar Flare’s shuttle on its way, ma’am. ETA five minutes.”

“Good. Start the data extraction. We’ll have it ready for our guests when they arrive.”

She was momentarily distracted as she felt the air next to her shift.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Thurfian to be here?” Lyron whispered, eyeing the two corpses with some distaste. Behind him, the Eishi he was here to accompany and who had insisted on joining her boarding party managed to pour a lot more venom into his glare.

“He needs to be the first to see the data, not the one to extract it,” Ar’alani reminded him, trying to keep her irritation at bay. As if their winnings hadn’t been meager enough, she still had to deal with Thurfian’s authority over this investigation.

She threw the dead pilots one more look. She was used to this kind of disappointment with the Grysks, she thought with a sneer, but not with pirates. In all honesty she had expected them to be suicidal – a bit of reckless panic was a given with odds like that – but she hadn’t expected them to be that suicidal. All of them had defended their cockpits like their lives depended on it and had mostly been gunned down for their efforts but not before they managed to trigger the consoles’ self-destruct mechanisms.

In her experience, beings of that kind were more concerned with their personal welfare over any other objective. And a part of her had hoped that that small-mindedness would make them less susceptible to the Grysks preferred method of indoctrination. But it appeared that she had been wrong.

That thought was abruptly cut short by a yelp and a commotion at the console and she whirled around to find the source of the disturbance. Only to feel her breath seize in her throat.

Damn the Grysks anyway.

“It must have rebooted itself and gone into standby when we damaged the ship,” one of the techs explained desperately as the console began to smoke and send up sparks and small arcs of electricity. “The mechanism was set to trigger the moment we activated it.”

To the side, a warrior was steering away an injured tech, holding what looked to be a nasty burn on her hand. Lyron and the Eishi had made their own hasty retreat, watching in varying degrees of shock as the console continued to spark and sizzle, small explosions already beginning to erupt all over it.

Ar’alani cursed again mentally. If you ever think things can’t get worse, then work on your imagination, one of her academy instructors used to say.

“Stand back!” She ordered and pushed the warriors closest to her to the back. Damn the Grysks but damn her too if she lost any of her men in addition to that data. The air began to fill with smoke and the panicked voices around her rose a few decibels as she tried to think.

But the self-destruct sequence had already begun and it looked like it was designed to prevent anyone from interfering with the process until it had run its course. The ship didn’t seem to have a fire suppression system or else it had been turned off. Even then, she noted grimly, most of the destruction seemed to run along the wiring hidden beneath the console meaning that trying to stop it from the outside would do them little good.

She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to think. Then a flash of movement caught her eye as someone darted past her and her first reaction was to reach for her charric. Her second reaction was to freeze as she watched the Eishi push his way to the front, unstrapping the sidearm at his thigh. The move prompted an instant response from her men, all of them similarly reaching for their weapons.

But the alien’s target wasn’t any of them. Instead Ar’alani watched in bewilderment as he chucked his weapon at the console, aiming it at one of the data ports that still looked relatively intact.

And then she understood.

His eyes met hers over the crowd but she didn’t need any additional prompting. Her charric was in her hand in a flash, her thumb sliding the power adjuster to its lowest setting and she gave herself a split second to aim before sending a flickering blue bolt at the Eishi’s weapon –

– And hitting the dead center of the acid capsule attached to it.

There was a moment’s delay where she thought they may have been too optimistic. Then the device whirred and – recognizing an attempt at tampering with it – launched its intended function by shooting its contents out in a tight ring. She watched it rise a few inches above the console before the ship’s artificial gravity caught up to it and sent it splattering over the surface with a wet noise.

The rest was a matter of chemistry as the military-grade liquid began eating through the metal and wiring around the weapon and before long, that section of the console was completely isolated from the surrounding carnage.

That section of the console… and the still intact databank directly under it.

Ar’alani released the breath she’d been holding. As if on cue the rest of the self-destruct mechanism’s spectacle fizzled to an end, leaving a smoking black mess of burnt metal and wiring behind. A few cheers erupted behind them that she couldn’t quite identify.

“Secure that data, Lieutenant.” She spoke quietly, letting her voice cut through the noise as she turned to the tech next to her.

“Yes, ma’am!”

He slipped past her and she watched him go, catching her breath and making sure there were no other surprises waiting for them as he plugged his equipment into the board. Then moved to return her charric to its holster and stiffened as her eyes met those of the Eishi again.

They stood there, gazes locked for what felt longer than it was. She swallowed tentatively.

“Nice aim,” she said, her throat still stiff with adrenaline.

He held her gaze for a while, seemingly working through the same reservations. Then jerked his chin at the charric in her hand.

“Likewise.”

Ar’alani couldn’t help the smirk that crawled over her lips.

Thurfian’s face rivaled an ice sheet as he stared at the readout on the questis in front of him. From the corner of her eye, Ar’alani saw that one of his hands was shaking.

“Something wrong, Your Venerante?” she asked diplomatically, wondering what he might be seeing there that had drained almost all the blood from his face in less than a minute. There was so response as he stood there like a man staring at his own grave for a few more moments before his lips moved in a twice aborted move to form words.

“Nothing, Admiral. We’ll brief you when you get back to Csilla.” With that he all but staggered away from the cockpit, Thorisof hurrying behind him in what looked like an attempt to stay as close to his patriarch as possible in case he fainted.

Ar’alani scowled to herself.

The only thing she could think of that could have him this shaken was a confirmation of the Grysks’ involvement which they had been hoping to find there anyway.

She shook her head and reached for her comm. In any case he was right about one thing – she would learn all there was to know about that databank when the Council briefed her on it once she was back at Csilla. For now, she had a grav well projector to retrieve and a few final touches to arrange before jumping back to hyperspace.

“The one thing I don’t understand,” Lyron was saying two hours later while her bridge crew made the final preparations for the jump, “is why you left that cloaked ship out there instead of rounding up the dust and taking it with us.”

Ar’alani keyed a few commands into her questis, darting a glance at the progress of her crew. “That’s not the only ship we left. We also left one at the other location Oola gave us.”

“I still don’t follow.”

She let out a small huff. He really was better suited to politics. At the very least, the jittery desperation she’d observed in him was all but gone now.

“Think of it this way. The Grysks have no way of knowing what happened. As long as they didn’t have a ship observing our activities while we investigated the asteroids – which is unlikely given those were our territories – we should be able to fool them.”

He scrunched his brow. “So if someone comes back to check on the rest of the dust…?”

“They will assume we left it because we don’t know about it. And that we learned of their location through the captured ship. Thinking that we were merely delivering a punitive slap to pirates trying to steal our Nyix.”

“And you have all the samples you need in the asteroids they weren’t able to mine before they were caught.”

Correct. So he was able to keep up, at least a little bit.

“We don’t need to use the dust, Secretary,” she confirmed. “We only need to know how to counter it.”

She heard him hum next to her. “Clever plan,” he acceded with a tilt of his head.

Of course it was. It was her plan.

“Ah, one more thing, Admiral.”

She turned to look at him.

“Do you think we could stay a bit longer?” he lowered his voice, indicating something on the bridge. She followed the direction he was pointing at until her eyes found the silent figure of the Eishi informant, gazing out at the sight beyond the viewport. The sight of the Xizazzi ship remains, floating serenely through space, she noted to herself.

Her teeth found her lower lip. Normally there was no good excuse for keeping a jump-ready ship in realspace when they had a task ahead of them. But then again…

A species that had cowered in fear for years before taking to the stars again. Unjustly maimed innocent people, many of them children. Slowly, Ar’alani nodded back at the human. “Yes. I suppose we could stay another minute.”

“Why are you so eager to indulge him?” she added after a bit. His facial heat shifted subtly in preparation for what she suspected was a lie.

“There’s something we call basic human decency in my species –”

“No,” she warned, glowering at him. He may have been useful on this mission but this was still her ship and he was still one thin ice sheet away from losing all of her goodwill. “None of that. I want the actual reason.”

He gave her a wry smile, an acknowledgement that he’d been caught.

“Who’s to say that doesn’t play a part in it as well? Anyway, he’s proof of concept, if you really need to know.”

“Proof of concept for what?”

If possible, his smile turned even more smug.

“That’s between me and General Ba’kif I’m afraid.”

“So that’s why they called him in,” Ronan said thoughtfully, rubbing a finger against his chin.

The plush seat against his back was a familiar sensation and the steaming cup of tealeaf in his hand was an added bonus. He had to ask Ba’kif’s aide about that particular blend.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Ba’kif said from across his desk. The data that had been extracted from the Xizazzi’s ship had caused quite a stir in the aftermath of the case but Ronan thought he could see an underlying contentment in the old chiss’ posture – that of a man who had gotten what he wanted and had been able to see it through till the end.

A relatively rare case in the context of a never-ending war.

“They were worried their involvement would come to light and hoped they could get Thurfian to throw us off their scent. That’s why they were so insistent that he bring the investigation to a close as soon as possible without pursuing the pirates.”

“Presenting it as though they didn’t want any trouble on their territories.” Ronan nodded to himself. “And he was happy to indulge them of course. Not least of all because it aligned with his own reluctance to allow any EDF resources to be redirected to this.”

“Exactly,” Ba’kif confirmed.

Ronan leaned further back in his seat, watching the steam rise off his drink and contemplating that particular political mess.

A minor family, allowing alien pirates access to their charts and territories in exchange for a cut of the Nyix the pirates extracted from them. Then panicking as that plot was threatened by a casually passing EDF patrol ship and scrambling to get the help of the highest entity they could think of, in that case Thurfian.

It was as underhanded, as underhanded could get.

At the very least, the Mitth had reacted adequately by denouncing their allies and doubling down on them twice as viciously in the following trial, Ronan decided. A way to prevent the muck from landing on them as well perhaps but Ronan had a good enough handle on Thurfian by now to know that the man must be just as furious as his retribution suggested.

A chiss family colluding with aliens for their own profit… He was surprised Thurfian hadn’t called for the resignation of their allied family’s patriarch. To their credit, they seemed to have had no clue that the Grysks were involved in the whole thing but that was exactly the kind of recklessly selfish sloppy behavior their enemies liked to take advantage of to slip through their defenses.

According to Ba’kif, his people should have known better by now after a similar case had nearly tipped them into a civil war and cost several prominent patriarchs their posts a few years back but history tended to fade quickly from people’s minds when greed was there to obscure it.

Ronan had seen it himself. Voracious governors pushing for influence much like the leaders of the Separatist alliance moments before plunging the Galaxy into a civil war.

And similarly greedy rebel cells that refused to abide by the status quo, sowing chaos just to get their demands heard. The very memory made Ronan scoff.

But while there was satisfaction in knowing they had stomped this particular plot out before it had spiraled out of their control, there was also an unsaid understanding of the implications such a situation carried. Namely those of disturbing tendencies.

The only upside to it all was that Thurfian seemed to be so busy stomping out the ensuing fires that he hadn’t said a word of Ronan’s supposed investigation into Lesser Space to the Syndicure. Though neither Ronan nor Ba’kif had any delusions that he would keep that card to himself for long.

“In any case.” Ba’kif straightened with a shrug, pushing his finished cup of tealeaf to the side. “What’s important is that our pirates’ precious dust is already at the UAG’s labs and our techs are well on their way to finding a way to counter it. Admiral Ar’alani’s scout ships have also reported that the Grysks are scrambling to extract the rest of it and we’re more than happy to let them waste their time on a weapon that will prove useless.”

“That’s good news indeed.” Ronan took a sip form his cup. “I doubt you have to worry much about the political ramifications either. The Jopli family already have holdings in that region and they’re a longtime ally of the Mitth so I’m guessing they’re already poised to fill that vacuum.”

He had the satisfaction of watching Ba’kif be caught by surprise for once.

“And when, pray tell, did you manage to figure that out?”

Ronan smirked. “Homework. That’s what I did on my lovely exile.”

“You were idle for a day and a half at best,” Ba’kif deadpanned.

“More than enough time to do some reading. I’m very efficient as you well know.”

Ba’kif’s lip twitched. “Perhaps I should send you back to Rhoar, if it’s proven to be that productive.”

Ronan felt himself stiffen and shot the chiss a look that said don’t you dare. His response was a deep full-toothed chuckle.

“Don’t worry Secretary, your work is ready and waiting for you.”

“Good. I hope we haven’t managed to drive Rhiuh’vek insane in the meantime.”

“He did show signs of cracking when the Dasklo Speaker decided to oversee her granddaughter’s case personally but we kept him away from the ledge.”

“He’ll get over it.” Ronan waved his cup. “At least the Dasklo are never shy with their gratitude afterward.”

The general gave another amused huff.

“In that case, you can head back to the office. I’ve transferred a data file of all the cases from the past few days to your computer and questis so you should be able to start on them right away. When you’ve finished your tealeaf of course. You’ve deserved it after the work you did on this one.”

He moved to stand from his char but noticed that Ronan was avoiding his gaze and sat back down with a scowl.

“Secretary?”

Ronan chewed on his lip, feeling some of his earlier confidence leave him.

“I would love to do that yes,” he said slowly. “Except there’s one more thing I need to talk to you about.”

Ba’kif’s brow furrowed and he turned to face Ronan more directly. As usual, the gravity in Ronan’s tone hadn’t escaped him. “I’m listening.”

The inside of Ronan’s mouth had gone completely dry but he moved to put his cup back on the desk in front of him. This was it. The moment this whole experiment had been building up to.

“I have a proposition to make.” He steeled himself. “And I need you to hear me out.”

Chapter Text

Ronan had been in many personal offices over the course of his career. Mostly, he remembered those belonging to high-ranking dignitaries and military officials. Some of those offices had been grand and pompous, stuffed to the brim with gaudy artwork. Others had displayed the kind of artificial, curated taste that most Senators used to project an image of intellectualism. Others still had had an edge of clinical austerity to them which was usually the most effective at rousing a sense of intimidation.

A lot of those places had even been purposefully designed to play with the minds of their visitors. Excessive relaxation or excessive anxiety, both had their use in achieving an effect the office’s owner could use to their advantage.

Ba’kif’s office, Ronan decided, was none of those things. If anything, he surmised grudgingly as he let his eyes roam over the place, it fell into the category of the few tastefully arranged spaces Ronan had been in.

The glossy white walls and ceiling made the place feel airy but still official, and the dark, wooden desk at the end of the room provided a splash of color. Rounded corners and wall paneling compensated for the lack of decor and the far wall opened to a sweeping view of the outside – another one of Csilla’s modified caverns, except this one had been styled to look like a valley carved into a glacier, with steep walls of ice encircling an open area under an artificial sky, almost making it seem like the EDF complex and the government offices nestled up to it were brazen enough to sit on the planet’s surface.

All in all, it made for a striking effect. And was a fair reflection of the man that inhabited it, Ronan conceded.

And just like him, it was a subtle understated reminder of the power vested in the EDF. As with most power however, how you directed those resources mattered far more than how many of them you had and the rudder of it all was information.

“Like I said, I’m listening.”

Ba’kif’s voice cut his musings and Ronan flexed his fingers in his lap. There was a time when Ba’kif had allowed him his impudence because it came with the benefit of his honesty. What Ronan hadn’t failed to notice was how the chiss’ own cool politeness made him all but unreadable at times.

Currently, the Ba’kif’s façade was as firm as durasteel. What he thought of Ronan’s demand or how much he already suspected, Ronan would have no way of knowing until Ba’kif said it outright or gave him some kind of sign. That was the risk in all negotiations however and all Ronan could hope to do was find the right approach to nudge the chiss towards the outcome he wanted to hear.

He licked his lips and made his first move. “Has there been an increase of guerrilla warfare around here since the war began?”

Ba’kif studied him silently.

“We’re not at war with any other species,” he said, his tone flat. “None besides those the Grysks enslaved or manipulated for their purposes.”

Ronan resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, I misspoke. Have the locals been harassing you more recently? Trying their luck, sneaking about, smuggling, hit and fades.”

“You mean like the Xizazzi’s trespassing?”

“In a sense, yes. Anything that’s required you to divert your forces to investigate.”

There was a split-second thinning of Ba’kif’s lips. “Nothing that requires a large-scale response. But the EDF has had more reasons to spread out lately.”

Bullseye, Ronan thought to himself. And therein lied his first foothold. A single ship, diverted from its patrol duty could significantly weaken the chiss’ entire defense. It sounded like an exaggeration but it was a reality Ronan was well familiar with. After all, it was the same problem the Empire struggled with back home. Star Destroyers had been the Empire’s weapon of choice for more than a decade now and their production had ramped up significantly over the past few years. But while the gargantuan ships did an excellent job at pacifying their territories, a single rebel cell kicking up dust nearby could divert that precious resource, send it on a goose chase and disappear faster than its captain could sneeze.

It was a frustrating but irrefutable problem. One that Stardust was meant to rectify by dangling the threat of a punitive strike the scale of which no other weapon could rival.

The chiss also dealt in punitive strikes and those tactics dictated a significant presence of Nightdragon-class ships in their fleet, combined with the nature of the Grysks’ WarMasters against whom few other ships had much of an effect. Admittedly, the chiss also had a good deal of smaller cruiser and gunboat sized ships, as well as a sizable complement of patrol craft but those were kept close at hand to their own worlds on the Syndcure’s insistence, leaving too many gaps in their defense.

In other words, large swaths of the Chaos that weren’t monitored or accounted for and could sprout a security risk at any moment. Potentially dragging a ship like the Steadfast off its route and monopolizing its attention, just like the Xizazzi situation had.

In that particular case, Ba’kif and Ar’alani had been right to suspect malicious activity, Ronan thought to himself, but how many such situations turned out to be simple false alarms? And how many of them had diverted the chiss’ attention at just the right moment?

A simple solution to that would of course be to spread out their staff and simply produce or reroute more ships to those territories. But the chiss were far too proud of their hands off approach to local domination to change that. Which was all good and well, there was something to be said about the image of confidence it lent them, Ronan decided.

Changing those tactics now might seem like paranoia or insecurity. And becoming more nosy would irritate neighbors that already grumbled and frowned at seeing them around.

But if that whole task was relegated to the locals themselves…

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ba’kif cut his train of thought suddenly, “but it’s not going to work.”

Ronan watched the way the chiss had stiffened, abandoning his previous reserve. Which told him all about Ba’kif’s feelings on the subject.

He took a quiet breath and braced himself. He had never expected the idea to meet with success from the get go so this was hardly a surprise. It was all about considering cultural differences and approaching this tactfully. He couldn’t force the opinion on Ba’kif, not when it went against everything the chiss were comfortable believing in, but he could spoon-feed him assurances backed by his own experience and Ronan had plenty of that.

“It’s called space denial,” he said slowly and watched a trickle of curiosity enter Ba’kif’s face. “And with the way public opinion is poised against you, your territories are ripe for it. Small disturbances dilute and divert your resources. And if your enemies are positioned well enough to take advantage of those distractions…”

He finished with an open-handed motion, letting the obvious hang in the air between them. Ba’kif was quiet for a good while and Ronan watched some invisible conundrum in him fight with the open-mindedness Ronan knew was there.

“I’m afraid I don’t see your vision.” Ba’kif shook his head eventually. “If the Grysks have already indoctrinated or gained control of that many species, then the war is as good as over for us.”

“Who’s to say they have to be aware of Grysk manipulation to be doing it?” Ronan said. “Or that the Grysks have already spotted this opportunity? I’m not saying it’s already a reality,” he hurried to add. “But it is a possibility. Back on the Solar Flare Thurfian believed that the Eishi had manipulated you and the pirates into a conflict without anyone realizing.”

“And you want us to do the same?”

Ronan flinched back, feeling a sense of revulsion wash over him.

Throwing small-time species at the Grysks and watching them smash themselves into pieces against the shore wasn’t exactly what he had in mind here, that was far too callous even if they ever became desperate. Ronan knew for a fact that the Grysks didn’t have such scruples. But if the locals were already poised to favor the chiss, then the Grysks would have a much harder time making a breakthrough.

He shook his head, getting back on track.

“No,” he said firmly. “But it goes to show that even he recognizes what a small amount of well-placed information can do.” He leaned forward in his seat, putting more conviction behind his voice. “We can start small. Start with reconnaissance.”

“What makes you think we’re not already doing reconnaissance?”

“I was thinking of a different kind here.”

“Explain.”

Ronan swallowed. This is where things became touchy. Depending on how he picked his next words, they could easily be interpreted as an offense. Much of that hinged on just how aware Ba’kif was of his own people’s blind spots and how willing he was to acknowledge them. There was only one way to find out, of course.

“Look,” he said carefully. “Your people make the locals freeze up. That’s good if you’re just trying to keep control of the place but not if you want to get a feel for the lay of the land. If there’s any useful gossip going around, they’re either not going to tell you because you’re not on chatting terms or they’ll withhold it altogether to keep you from becoming more influential than you already are.”

Ba’kif went to protest but Ronan cut him off.

“Ildavo leapt at the opportunity to work with me, didn’t he? They see an alien benefiting from your patronage and they’re fascinated. Maybe they’re hoping for a trickle-down effect. Or maybe they’re smug that you’re finally forced to play nice with others. Either way, you can use it to your advantage.”

The look on Ba’kif’s face was hard but not the impossible wall Ronan had been met with at first.

“You’re asking us to compromise a reputation the chiss have spent centuries, if not millennia cultivating,” the chiss said slowly.

Ronan waved him away. “Not necessarily. Not if they’re talking to me. Besides, you don’t have to be genuine about it. Stay one step ahead of them. Pretend that you’re finally being a benevolent overlord and keep practicing your nonintervention policy in the meantime.”

There was another stretch of silence and Ronan watched as the idea took its time to sink in, chipping away at Ba’kif’s defenses and whispering its possibilities. Ronan’s own doubts had washed away long ago.

One friendly agent was all it would take for a start. From there word of mouth would do the rest. The Grysks were much more involved in using other species as proxies and tools but from what Ronan could glean, they still used the same boot-to-throat methods as the chiss. Allegedly to an even greater degree.

The chiss could use this opportunity to offer a different approach – instead of being the strict overseers or menacing overlords, they could be the benevolent patrons. Everyone knew it would be self-serving but fake hospitality was always more welcome than open aloofness. Director Krennic had used that tactic all the time. Fear-mongering and scare tactics were the Tarkin doctrine but the withered old disciplinarian had been as arrogant as he had been single-minded and he’d dismissed the reason why Director Krennic would always outclass him. Because Director Krennic had recognized the value in both.

The chiss needed an image touch-up. It sounded simple but it could earn them an invaluable advantage on the battlefield down the line. Ronan was certain of it. He’d seen the edge it had given Stardust over the years. And the fact that he was so conveniently placed to play his role in it made it all the more urgent that they took hold of this opportunity.

It’s not like he hadn’t been looking for an opening like this either, he admitted to himself somewhat guiltily. He had known from the start that his work at the Bureau would keep him busy but that it was by far not enough to make the difference he was hoping to make here. So he’d never stopped looking for alternatives. For the first time he felt like he might have actually found one too.

Distantly, he remembered what Thrawn had told him when he’d made his case for sending Ronan here.

‘Because you have worked with many non-human species, and your insights into how others think and act could be of great value in the coming conflict,’ he’d said, in among reminding Ronan that he would end up dead if his true feelings about the Emperor came to light.

Ronan smiled wryly at the memory. Whether Thrawn meant it genuinely or not – probably not, he thought with a sneer – it was something he was indeed good at and something he intended to prove. All he needed now, was for Ba’kif to give him his approval.

Give me a chance, Ronan urged, feeling his fingers dig into the cushioned armrests of his seat, give me something meaningful to make a difference with.

Ba’kif held his stare throughout, one hand stroking his jaw while the firm set of his mouth betrayed the vigorous mental processes happening behind that frown. Ronan could hear his own pulse counting out the seconds as they passed.

Finally, the chiss shifted in that way that signaled he’d made a decision and Ronan watched him release a breath before uttering a single word.

“No.”

Chapter Text

Eli bit back a sigh and turned at the next junction. The image of the two chiss whispering among themselves stuck to him like a particularly stubborn dust particle and he made another mental mark in his mind. Four so far. And he’d only made the trip to the prosecutor’s office.

The irritation of it simmered to a low hum and he tried his best to look unbothered as he made his way down the long, tinny, echoing corridors. This is why he hated staying on Csilla – the stares and whispers were bad enough when he’d first joined the EDF but having to deal with them all over again was almost worse.

He threw a glance at the chrono on his questis and tried to guess how long they had before taking back to space. The Xizazzi case seemed to be coming to a close – Thank the stars for that. Eli had seen enough inquiry boards and court-martials in Thrawn’s time to last him a lifetime – and all they needed was for Ar’alani to finish her consultation with the UAG techs. Both fairly cut and dried affairs that seemed to be taking longer than anticipated. Or at least longer than Eli liked them to.

Two aliens in the entirety of the navy and Capital world and he had to be one of them, he thought wryly.

Up ahead, the passageway opened into a spacious decorated lobby and he hunched his shoulders, trying his best to become invisible. That was another downside of staying in Csaplar – with the government district and EDF offices so tightly intertwined, it was nigh impossible to avoid the areas where they bled into each other and with that came the impossibility of avoiding the upper echelons of chiss society. Eli dodged a few more hostile stares as he weaved between the chiss strolling about, keeping his head down and trying not to step on anyone’s elaborate robes.

He had all but made it to the other side too when he heard someone call his name and came to a sudden stop. He turned around and scanned the crowd behind him. A young, harried-looking chiss was making his way toward him, ducking between the moving traffic. Eli narrowed his eyes at the man. The red underrobe and simple cut of his clothes marked him out as a low-ranking administrator. Eli didn’t know any low-ranking administrators besides –

“Secretary Rhiuh’vek. We met once at the Mediation Bureau,” the chiss beat him to it, speaking in a brisk tone. Eli frowned to himself. The man he remembered used to carry himself with the same haughty aloofness he’d seen in most Aristocra. Seeing him so agitated set some alarm bells off in Eli’s head.

“Yes, I remember.” He nodded at the chiss. “How can I help you?”

Instead of replying, the man paused and threw a quick glance at the hall around them. “Perhaps a more private location would be better before we speak.” With that he led Eli to the edge of the hall and halfway behind one of the massive ornamented support pillars.

“I’m afraid this is to do with our mutual acquaintance,” he said when they were finally out of earshot and Eli bit back a curse.

Of course this was about Ronan. Eli should have known better than to hope otherwise.

“Why? What has he done this time?” he blurted, feeling a knot of tension form in his gut. Ronan had seemed rather over his emotional fit the last time he’d seen him but then again he’d also been in the company of an alien Eli still wasn’t sure how he’d come into contact with.

“I believe he and the General have had a falling out,” the chiss said in a low tone. “A rather serious one.”

That made Eli’s brow scrunch. “Do you know what it was about?”

“Unfortunately I couldn’t get anything from him. But they were in there for a while and both came out looking… well.” The man shrugged. “Either way, he hasn’t been to the office lately and there are rumors he is being shipped out.”

Shipped out, the words echoed uncomfortably in Eli’s mind. As vague and as ominous as you could hope to get.

“Shipped out where?” he asked tensely. “And to do what?”

“Last I heard it was a diplomatic mission. To a planet called Kinoss.”

Kinoss. A minor chiss world used for agriculture, situated all the way out at the edges of the Ascendancy, Eli recited in his mind. He raised a hand to worry at his jaw. A good place to start if Ba’kif was hoping to tentatively push Ronan into a diplomatic career. And just as good if he wanted to strand him somewhere for a while in order to force him to cool down.

Narrowing his eyes, Eli looked up to study the man in front of him. He looked calm enough but there were little signs, like the way his arms twitched under his sleeves, that he was uneasy about the whole thing.

“Alright,” Eli said slowly. “What do you want me to do about it?”

The other gave a sigh of frustration. “I’m aware this might look like an overreaction –”

Eli snorted. Worrying about Ronan and his only lifeline falling out completely? Hardly what Eli would call an overreaction.

“– but I was hoping you could talk to Lyron. I assumed you might have a better chance at getting through to –”

“Secretary, Mid-commander.”

There was a strangled breath from Rhiuh’vek and Eli watched as the chiss froze, a poorly-veiled layer of fear settling over his face. Eli frowned and turned in the direction he was staring in. An older chiss was striding towards them this time, his robes fluttering around him and his face set into an impenetrable mask.

Eli racked his mind to try and see if he recognized the man. The inquiry came up empty but he man’s elaborate clothes and age marked him out as pretty high up the Syndicure ladder.

“Good day to you Secretary, I hope you don’t mind the interruption,” he said as he came to a stop beside them. “And you Mid-Commander, I trust admiral Ar’alani is well?”

“Quite well, thank you.” Eli nodded and tried to stop himself from grimacing. The man’s words were perfectly polite but there was a nasty undertone to them and Rhiuh’vek still looked like he had a charric pressed to his throat.

“That’s good to hear,” the chiss said with no real cheer before turning back to Rhiuh’vek. “Secretary, I would like to see you in my office for a moment.”

If possible, the other chiss went even paler. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to –”

“I didn’t say you could decline,” the older man cut in. Eli then watched as he all but shoved the other in the direction of one of the corridors leading out of the lobby. His narrowed eyes flicked to Eli one last time. “Make sure you send my regards to your admiral, Mid-Commander. And you. I’ll see you in my office. Now.”

“But, Speaker –”

“Now I said,” the chiss growled in some of the most aggressive cheunh Eli had heard. “Or do you want to be slapped with a charge of disobeying a high-ranking member of the Syndicure?”

Rhiuh’vek’s eyes darted to Eli a few times desperately as though asking for help. But really what could Eli do here?

“Come on, move.” The man gave the other one more shove and Eli watched them go before they disappeared down one of the carved passages that led the deeper into the government district. For a while, he simply stood there, wondering what the hell had just happened. Then he felt his jaw clench and turned on his heel, making a beeline for the corridor he’d just come from.

He didn’t like any of this, he thought darkly, clutching his questis to his side. Not anything he’d just heard, anything he’d just witnessed and certainly not the fact that Ronan was involved somehow. The EDF offices fell away behind him as he retraced his steps and made his way to the housing district where most of its administration was quartered.

Finding the familiar hatch was easy, though Eli tried his best to forget the last time he’d been there, and he pressed his hand to the buzzer, listening to the sound echo on the other side of the hatch. The apartment answered him with silence. Feeling the knot in his stomach tighten, he pressed the key again, then opted for a few knocks before meeting with the same result.

He chewed on his lip to stave off the taste of foreboding in his mouth. Either Ronan wasn’t there or he wasn’t in the mood to entertain guests. Doubling back again, he made sure the Mediation Bureau office was locked down and deserted before stepping back and hovering in the middle of the passageway at something of a loss. So Ronan didn’t want to be found… In that case maybe someone else would talk to Eli.

Explaining why he was there to Ba’kif’s aide was more than a bit embarrassing but he powered through it until the aide finally caved in and ushered him into Ba’kif’s office. Only for his quest to come to a grinding halt once again.

“Unfortunately, I can’t help you here, Mid-Commander.” Ba’kif spread his hands. “The Secretary and I did have a minor disagreement over the Xizazzi case but it was nothing to be concerned about. In fact, he’s preparing for a mission to Kinoss being approved by the Council as we speak.”

The spot on Eli’s lip stung as he dug his teeth into it for the umpteenth time.

“I see, sir… Might I request that someone try to contact him nonetheless? It’s unusual for him to fall off the radar like that.”

Ba’kif’s lip twitched and Eli shrunk in on himself on instinct. He had always been a bit uncomfortable around the man. His rank and reputation aside, he was someone Thrawn had apparently held in high regard and Ar’alani spoke highly of. He was also a fair bit harder to read than Ar’alani when he wanted to be and Eli was in no position to point out that there was something off about the way he was acting.

“Hardly unusual and hardly the way you describe it,” Ba’kif said. “He may be consulting with one of the aides I pointed him to or gathering supplies for his trip.”

“What about his comm, sir?”

The strained note in Ba’kif’s voice became even more strained and Eli tried not to squirm. “He’s not a child, Mid-Commander, he’s not obligated to answer all his calls.”

As if on cue, the questis on Ba’kif’s desk gave a soft ping and he reached for it to read the message that had appeared on the screen. Eli watched, almost fascinated, as his façade cracked to morph into something sour.

“Something wrong, sir?”

The muscles in Ba’kif’s jaw worked. “Not at all, Mid-Commander,” he said stiffly. “In any case, I’m sure you concern is unwarranted.” He set the questis aside, folding his arms over his desk.

“Now, is there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

And just like that, Eli was right back where he’d started. He glared down at his feet as he wandered the corridors of the underground complex, listening to his steps echo off the metal-clad walls. Something had clearly happened between Ba’kif and Ronan, he reasoned. Whether that something was just a minor spat or some more serious clash was unclear though the differences in Ba’kif’s and Rhiuh’vek’s accounts didn’t help reassure him.

He paused and pulled the questis from under his arm, running his eyes over the latest message.

Steadfast moved to resupply dock. All personnel to remain off duty until further notice.

Eli ran his finger over the metal casing of the device. He had one more course of action available to him here and while it wouldn’t be easy, he’d probably accumulated enough owed favors to make it happen. Even if it didn’t, he decided as he tucked his questis back under his arm, he didn’t stand to lose much by trying so he may as well make sure he’d touched on all his bases.

And Ronan better be grateful for it when this was all over, he thought darkly, adding some speed to his gait.

“I’m telling you, they’re carting him off to Kinoss to get rid of him.” Zistalmu gestured emphatically, the other hand holding his drink keeping completely still. “Either that or he’s messed up somehow and Ba’kif’s trying to cover it up by keeping him quiet. They’ve even quarreled about it.”

Thurfian remained silent, looking out at the gardens stretching below his window.

“The Boadil upstart tried to lie to me.” A huff. “But I heard most of their conversation. You were right in the end, tailing one of them would lead us to catching the other. They’re all connected in some way,” Zistalmu muttered under his breath, swirling the liquid in his glass. 

“This has Thrawn’s fingerprints all over it. We thought we were rid of him and yet he manages to make trouble for us even from the grave.”

At that, Thurfian’s fingers gave an involuntary twitch. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d repeated the same rhetoric at himself.

“Do you hear me? This is our chance to strike at them while they’re weak.”

He turned to find Zistalmu’s glare leveled at him, the other man’s expression soaked in frustration and what Thurfian recognized as some other more pointed feeling. The accusation sent a stab of betrayal through him but he couldn’t find it in himself to argue with it.

“You’ve been out of it lately…” Zistalmu observed quietly, his eyes narrowing at the same time as the look on his face softened into something contemplative. Thurfian eyed him for a while before letting out a thin sigh and turning away from the window.

It was no less than half an hour ago that Zistalmu had marched through his office doors, dismissing Thivik with a flick of his hand – much to the old aide’s annoyance – and proceeding to bombard him with his latest discovery. A discovery that would have had Thurfian on his feet and moving in an instant under any other circumstances.

And yet here he was, contemplating shrubbery, he thought to himself dryly.

“I suppose I have been…” he said at length. “So what do you suggest?”

Zistalmu’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m surprised you’re not the one suggesting a plan. You’re the Patriarch here remember? You have more political sway than me.”

“I’m merely asking how you think we should proceed. I’m not saying I don’t intend to take steps of my own.”

Zistalmu hummed, his lips thinning. “What I think,” he said, “is that we shouldn’t allow him to go on this mission. It doesn’t matter if it’s not anything important besides an exchange of pleasantries, we can use it as a pretext to put him under suspicion. Pointless drivel or not, if there’s doubt and troublesome rumors surrounding the emissary, then they’re not fit to go. Once we open an investigation, we can use that as an entry point to dig for what’s actually under the surface.”

Thurfian nodded to himself. “It’s a sound strategy. Do you plan to involve anyone else?”

“The more people we can get to rally behind us, the better.” Zistalmu shrugged. “If we can make it look like these rumors are more widespread than they actually are, the Syndicure will have a better case. Can you get some of your allies in on it?”

The sudden swell of defensiveness made Thurfian stiffen.

“I don’t know if that’s wise,” he said, his tone going tense. “You know he was involved in exposing our most recent scandal. If I move against him now, it will look like a petty bid for revenge. I can’t afford that as things stand.”

He braced himself for a fight but for once, Zistalmu didn’t press the issue.

“You may have a point…” The Irizi clicked his tongue. “This would have been more solid if we could get people from opposite camps to back us but I suppose my allies will do.”

Then, with his usual vigor, he rose from the couch and deposited his glass on the table in front of him.

“Very well, Your Venerante. I guess this means I should get to work as soon as possible seeing as I’m virtually on my own here.” He paused to eye Thurfian. “You will support me from the shadows, though, won’t you?”

Thurfian tilted his head.

“Haven’t I always?”

“I don’t know, like I said you seem out of it lately.”

The words prompted a wave of anger in him and he whirled on Zistalmu, dropping his tone to a hiss.

“Can you pause for a moment and consider my position here?” he bit out. “One of our allies was exposed as inadvertently aiding the Grysks. And the Mitth were made a laughing stock by conducting the investigation that brought it all out into the open. You of all people should understand why I need to lay low and avoid tangling with Ba’kif and his human.”

For the first time since knowing him, Thurfian watched Zistalmu actually recoil and raise his hands in a placating gesture. It made him all the more frustrated at himself for losing his calm like that.

“Alright, alright, you have a point,” Zistalmu soothed. “I understand, I’ll handle this. You just make sure you get your affairs in order.”

With that he threw Thurfian one last look – laced with what Thurfian didn’t dare identify as concern – and walked out of the office. Thurfian stared at the closed hatch for a few moments before dropping heavily in the chair at his desk. One of his hands rose to cradle the throbbing pain in his temples.

Maybe Zistalmu was right. Maybe he really was losing it.

Another weight settled itself over his chest, this one heavier and more foreboding than the rest. The last few weeks had been a bigger blow than he cared to admit. And with Zistalmu’s news of Ba’kif and his envoys being on the move again, he felt the need to act tighten around him like an invisible noose.

Reaching for the questis on his desk, he grit his teeth against the oncoming headache, and began keying in the different commands. Zistalmu had blamed it all on Thrawn yet Thurfian couldn’t help but wonder if repeatedly bringing up the name of a dead man wasn’t a sign of their own growing paranoia. But it didn’t matter in the end.

Thurfian had one duty that stood above them all and that was his duty to his people. And he would perform that duty, he thought grimly, no matter how weary or disillusioned with them he was.

And no matter what lows he had to stoop to in order to do it…

Chapter Text

It took three days for Eli’s string-pulling to bear any fruit. On the fourth, he finally boarded a small freighter headed for Rhoar to pick up a cargo meant for the capital. Their transport didn’t have a skywalker and the journey took the better part of two days but the crew were friendly enough and treated him with the proper respect for his rank.

The small market town he and Ar’alani had traveled to to meet with Ronan’s informant was as busy as he remembered it, although at the time he had only seen the crowds from space. Wrestling with them proved to be much more of a hassle. After a quick consultation with the cooperative if politely cool security force of the planet, he received confirmation that the man’s ship had recently been logged as docked at the city’s port and was pointed to a few local bars where people of his kind were known to loiter.

The first two days of his search yielded no success. Eli was beginning to doubt if this whole thing wasn’t a fool’s errand when his efforts were finally rewarded on the third day as he was staking out one of the city’s rundown bars. The man emerged into the dank alley flanked by two others and Eli stood back and waited for him to spot him. When he did, Eli made note of the quick succession of surprise, dread and finally annoyance (that one he took personally) that flashed across his face.

“We need to talk,” he said as he pushed off the wall and approached the tall Eishi. The man eyed him warily before letting out a small breath.

“Yeah, it’s always that with you people.” He glared at Eli before jabbing a finger in the direction his friends had scampered the moment they’d glimpsed Eli’s uniform. “You ever think what these little meetings might be doing to my reputation?”

Eli forced down the flash of guilt.

“I understand but this is important,” he said carefully. “Have you been in contact with Secretary Lyron recently?”

The alien frowned.

“On and off. Why?”

“Was there anything off about him the last time you spoke?”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that. What do you care anyway?”

Eli clenched his fists at his sides. Just like the last time he’d tried to get any information from the man, the Eishi was determined to be difficult. Whether this was because he didn’t like Eli or because he was hiding something was hard to tell but Eli didn’t have the time to figure it out.

He narrowed his eyes at the man. Ronan had helped him and his people get retribution for the Xizazzi’s crimes. If cooperating for cooperation’s sake wasn’t the way to go, then maybe some latent gratitude would do.

“Because I think he’s in danger,” Eli said in earnest and watched a subtle change occur in the other.

“In danger?” the alien echoed and Eli watched the way his arms unfurled a bit from where he’d crossed them over his chest.

“In danger of doing something irreversible, yes.” Eli nodded. “So I need to know if he was acting strange the last time you heard from him.”

It was just a guess, of course. There was no guarantee that Ronan’s quarrel with Ba’kif would push him into doing something reckless yet. But it was a possibility and it was the worst case scenario Eli was trying to prevent.

The alien chewed on his lip, glancing to the side a few times.

“He’s still working for the blueskins, right?” he asked and Eli reeled back a bit.

“Yes, why?”

“The last time we spoke… I was told to forward a message.”

The knot in Eli’s stomach formed so quickly he wondered if he hadn’t managed to pull something in the process.

“What message?” he asked harshly then listened with mounting disbelief as the alien recounted receiving a transmission he was instructed to send out on a general frequency and doing so thinking it was another task commissioned by the EDF.

“Do you have any idea what that message was?” Eli pressed, his mind racing suddenly. Ba’kif hadn’t mentioned anything about a message. Eli wasn’t supposed to know about whatever he and Ronan collaborated on as part of Ronan’s work in the Ascendancy but the timing of it all was disturbing and Eli’s instincts were going haywire telling him there was something troubling there.

“I only forwarded what I was given.” The alien shrugged, looking somewhat chagrined. “I figured it would be encrypted anyway.”

“What about logs?” Eli said.

“It wasn’t sent from Rhoar. I used the triad at one of the nearby refueling stations.”

“Do they keep records?”

“Yes, but not for long. Comm traffic’s too high for that. They wipe their logs every few days to prevent them from clogging.”

“Just our kriffing luck,” Eli muttered under his breath then all but jumped out of his skin as his own comm began to screech with the shrill tone of an urgent incoming call. His face paled as he saw it was from Ar’alani.

“Ma’am?” He answered, thanking the stars he’d decided to report this trip to her before leaving. His response at the time had been an ominous silence but Eli knew from experience that Ar’alani’s most potent anger tended to manifest itself immediately. If she’d found him on Rhoar without any prior notice, that anger would have been sure to unleash itself now.

“Mid-Commander,” Ar’alani’s voice came through the speaker, sounding stiff but not necessarily pointed. “You’re on Rhoar?”

“Yes, ma’am. I sent you a message –”

“Stay where you are,” she cut him off brusquely. “The Steadfast has been pulled out of resupply and is heading your way.”

Eli’s mouth made a few fish-like movements before he found his voice again.

“May I ask what’s going on, ma’am?”

“What’s going on, Mid-Commander,” she said through what Eli imagined were gritted teeth, “is that your friend has just been snatched up by the Grysks.”

Eli was familiar with Ar’alani’s moods by now. They tended to fall somewhere between restrained cynicism and thunderous focus whenever there was a crisis at hand. This one fell smack dab in the middle and Eli could detect a note of dry humor in it.

“They were intercepted shortly after they left Csilla. The Grysks used a grav well projector to pull them out of their jump and caught the crew by surprise while they tried to destroy it. They sent their distress signal shortly after which was picked up by the Fortunate.”

Eli dug his thumbnail into the frame of his questis. The bridge around them was abuzz with activity as the different officers made their checks and prepped the ship for combat. Ar’alani had apparently wrenched her ship directly out of supply dock while it was still undergoing some of its maintenance checks and the crew were scrambling to get them done on the go.

Be careful what you wish for, Eli reminded himself as he looked around the ship he’d been hoping to fly in again as soon as possible.

“And by that time, the Grysks had already taken Ronan aboard their ship,” he surmised grimly. Then shook his head. “Besides the fact that the rest of the crew managed to get away unscathed, I don’t see how this could get any worse.”

A political envoy in Grysk hands. One with thorough insight into both chiss and Imperial affairs and politics. Eli frowned to himself. For all they knew, Krennic might have been careless enough to supply his senior staff with knowledge of how the Death Star operated as well.

“Actually, it can get worse,” Ar’alani said next to him and Eli stiffened.

“It can?”

“Can and does,” the admiral said dryly. “Apparently the Secretary was travelling on a Mitth ship.”

The static-y silence that fell over Eli’s thoughts reminded him of a comm device with its connection cut.

“What was he doing on a Mitth ship?” he asked incredulously, watching as Ar’alani shook her head.

“My guess is as good as yours. I haven’t been able to get any information from General Ba’kif. He’s similarly only just been informed that Lyron boarded the wrong transport, he was unavailable for contact when it happened. What we know is that Lyron was supposed to get on an Expansionary Defense Fleet shuttle but left Csilla on the Mitth ship instead.”

“Well, in any case he’s not oblivious to Thurfian’s hostility,” Eli said. “If he thought there was any danger, he wouldn’t have boarded the ship.”

“That’s true.” Ar’alani sent him a sharp glance. “But only if he knew it was a Mitth ship.”

Eli swallowed. The subtle design differences between family ships were hard to spot even for someone with his training and experience. That wasn’t even considering the fact that someone could mess with the markings if they wanted to. If Ba’kif was out of reach at the time of the departure, it would have been even easier for foul play to take place. Maybe that’s exactly why they’d made their move when they did.

“You said General Ba’kif was unavailable when the change happened?”

“Yes,” Ar’alani said. “He could have been at an emergency Council meeting or at the UAG or at any other facility where contact with the outside is limited. He didn’t say and in the end it doesn’t really matter.”

“There’s a way to circumvent that if it’s an emergency though, right?”

“There is. But a last minute transport change for a minor emissary doesn’t really count as an emergency. Not enough to interfere with a General’s official business.”

Eli nodded in understanding. And if the choice was between leaving on a different transport even in dubious circumstances or not leaving at all, Eli had a feeling he knew which option Ronan would pick. He’d already made that kind of choice once, after all, when he’d come to the Ascendancy.

“Damn,” Eli muttered under his breath. He could see it now. Ronan approached at the takeoff platform by a pilot with a false ID and told that there was a change in plans, either because of a malfunction on his original ship or something else. The pilot then taking him to a different shuttle, with its family markings temporarily obscured and Ronan boarding it without any way to contact Ba’kif and confirm if the switch was legitimate.

Was Thurfian capable of it, Eli wondered anxiously. He had certainly gone to great lengths to get Thrawn exiled, according to Ar’alani. If he’d decided to be more heavy-handed in getting rid of Thrawn’s envoys… The most sinister part, he reflected, was that that if they never found Ronan, the Mitth ship’s crew would be the only witnesses to the case. Another convenient circumstance along with Ba’kif’s timely unavailability.

“Do you think it’s possible the Mitth were aware of Ba’kif’s absence?” he asked.

“More than possible,” Ar’alani said. “The higher tiers of the military are supposedly scrubbed clean of family politics but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still crawling with officers who are loyal to their families and report any scrap of information back to them.”

“But they couldn’t possibly time that absence to coincide with the takeoff, right?”

The look on Ar’alani’s face made his stomach drop.

“It would be difficult,” she said slowly, the words coming out with obvious reluctance. “But theoretically not unfeasible.” He watched her swallow. “If the Syndicure was to, say, make a big enough fuss over something to force a Council meeting…”

Eli felt his blood freeze.

“They can do that?”

“They can. Even if they’re working off fabricated evidence.”

Eli cursed under his breath. This whole thing was careening towards suspicious at the speed of an armed missile.

There was movement at the navigation console and one of the Steadfast’s caregivers shuffled up to them to suggest their sky-walker be relieved by a replacement soon. Ar’alani approved the suggestion with a nod and Eli could see her anticipation increase at the prospect of receiving more news as they dropped out of hyperspace.

Sure enough, the Steadfast was hailed the moment the view outside its viewport collapsed into stars and Commodore Tro’owmis’ voice carried over the speakers as Ar’alani ordered the comms officer to let the transmission through.

“Admiral,” Tro’owmis greeted, sounding chipper despite the circumstances. Overt cheerfulness usually rubbed Ar’alani the wrong way in crisis situations but apparently she and Tro’owmis had worked together long enough that she made an exception for it.

“What do you have for me, Commodore?”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” the Commodore said, just as cheerfully. “But it just got worse.”

Eli winced. Commodore Tro’owmis and the Fortunate were the on-sight force investigating the attack and any new information from her came directly from the source.

“It got worse?” Ar’alani hissed next to him. “How in the hell could this get any worse?”

“We just got word from my people questioning the ship’s crew. They say the Secretary boarded the Grysk ship willingly.”

The quiet that fell over them was even worse than the static-y silence Eli had been contemplating earlier.

“Are you saying we’re dealing with treason, Commodore?” Ar’alani’s voice was deadly soft.

“I can’t say for sure, ma’am.” There was a pause where Eli envisioned the Commodore giving a small shrug. “But if you’ll allow me, I think I can also offer some information that might lift your mood a bit.”

“Go on.”

“Apparently, Ba’kif sent him to Kinoss with an escort,” Tro’owmis said. “We didn’t find that escort on the ship. The crew don’t know where they went either and there are no bodies.”

One of Ar’alani’s fingers tapped at the tactical screen under her palm. “You’re thinking they may have found a way to sneak onto the Grysk ship?”

“If they were facing a losing battle, that would be the most prudent thing to do. Hunker down and wait for an opportunity to call backup.”

“Do you think Lyron knew about it and was trying to divert the Grysks’ attention?” Eli said quietly to the admiral. Not quietly enough it seemed as it was Tro’owmis who answered him.

“It’s unlikely. The pilots say he was in the cockpit when the attack began and they didn’t see him communicate with his guards.”

Eli grimaced. The Mitth pilots, he wanted to counter, the ones that shouldn’t have been there in the first place and who were most definitely not trustworthy.

“So he had no way to arrange for it before he surrendered,” Ar’alani concluded.

“Surrendered or double-crossed us, ma’am?” Tro’owmis said glibly, the hint of a scoff entering her voice. Eli held his tongue. It was a given that the chiss didn’t trust them fully yet, especially someone like Tro’owmis who hadn’t worked with either him or Ronan.

Not that Eli could make any case for it with the way things were starting to look. He gave the bridge around them a quick inspection. All the officers were dutifully busied at their stations but Eli thought he could feel a subdued strain radiating from them. Privately, he wished Ar’alani had transferred the call to her command chair instead of having it broadcasted to the whole bridge.

“Fact is,” Ar’alani said after a sober pause, “We still don’t know how the Grysks knew where to intercept them. Or how they even knew there was such a voyage taking place.”

Eli swallowed heavily. The message Ildavo had told him about jumped to the forefront of his mind. Telling Ar’alani and Tro’owmis about it would all but seal Ronan’s fate. And undermine any existing trust the chiss had built in him by extension, he thought with something of a nascent grudge.

But staying silent about it now and letting them head into a situation where they didn’t know what to expect was tantamount to sabotage as far as he was concerned. The truth would eventually come to light if they managed to capture Ronan. If they didn’t, Eli’s silence would either not matter to him or be entirely underserved.

Eli looked at his feet, feeling a sigh build in his chest. He knew what he needed to do here. As much as he hated having to do it.

“There is one way that could have happened, ma’am,” he said finally and felt touch of her own dry humor at the pattern he was about to set up. “I’m sorry but it gets worse…”

Chapter Text

Eli had expected a curse. Some growled invective. Maybe even one of those hissing vocalizations the chiss were capable of that had caught Eli completely off guard the first time he’d heard it. Instead Ar’alani had gone completely still for a moment before turning back to her conversation with Tro’owmis with the only sign that she’d heard something upsetting that of the set of her shoulders and the rigid tone of her voice.

Seeing that, Eli decided that maybe he had to revise his understanding of the admiral’s moods, if only to add this particular one the set. Although a part of him couldn’t help but find something disturbing in her reaction. As though she knew something he didn’t, he thought uncomfortably, fidgeting as she and Tro’owmis brought their call to a close and she ordered the Steadfast back into hyperspace.

The scene of their investigation wasn’t that dissimilar to that of the still fresh Xizazzi case. A sizable chiss ship floating in space with a smaller craft docked at its side, although this time the docked ship was what looked to be a small yacht, similar to those Eli had seen chiss dignitaries use when they travelled between the more well-secured worlds of the Ascendancy, and the bulkier vessel it was attached to, a warship only slightly smaller in size than the Steadfast which Eli recognized as the Fortunate.

Commodore Tro’owmis welcomed them to her ‘nifty little crime scene’ and Eli made a point of scrutinizing the yacht as the Steadfast floated closer to it. The taste in his mouth soured as he noted the Mitth crest, only vaguely etched into the side of the ship. He leaned down to ask Ar’alani whether they knew if there was the same etching on the other side of the hull and got a shake of her head in response.

Not long after they were in one of the Fotunate’s conference rooms, where the jittery Mitth pilots were being questioned. Both of them displayed obvious signs of distress but with civilians that had just seen a combat situation that could only tell them so much, Eli concluded ruefully.

“The old girl didn’t live up to her name this time,” Tro’owmis had said only half-joking later. They had dropped in just in time to save the attacked ship and scare the enemy into fleeing but the yacht had been in the way of their plasma spheres and the Grysks had disengaged, abandoned their grav projector and slipped away to hyperspace before she could do anything else.

From the look on her face, Eli could tell it pained her to admit that in front of Ar’alani. In his personal opinion, there was little they could have done differently to change the outcome but his rank didn’t put him in a position to say so to the Commodore and Ar’alani was too preoccupied to offer any reassurance. All that was left now was to hope that Ronan’s escort team were still alive and would find a way to contact them and lead them to the Grysks’ location.

Eli had asked to question the Mitth pilots again. Ar’alani had waved him away, saying they were merely following orders and wouldn’t know anything beyond that. Her mood only seemed to plummet as she tried to contact Ba’kif, only to be told that the General was once again unavailable.

“That’s the best we could do, ma’am,” Eli muttered, handing Ar’alani the questis and trying to keep the grimace off his face. They were back on the Steadfast and he’d worked with the Fortunate’s officers to calculate a possible vector for the Grysks’ ship but almost everyone onboard knew that the Grysks could have dropped out of hyperspace and changed their course at any point.

The footage from the Fortunate showed that the enemy’s ship hadn’t wasted any time adjusting its position after disengaging from its prey which meant it had probably jumped without much care for its destination. And even then, the Grysks weren’t foolish enough to stop at any known or habitable locations which left the vast swathe of empty space for them to reemerge in. As good a hiding place as one could ask for, Eli thought with some irritation.

Ar’alani at least seemed unconcerned. More than likely because she hadn’t had any hopes of finding the Grysks to begin with.

“Thank you, Mid-Commander,” she said as she took the questis from him. “That’ll be all.”

Of course that would be all, Eli thought to himself. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing else any of them could do but wait, for that matter.

“Mid-Commander?” Eli paused on his way to the comms console, where he’d been heading in hopes of being one of the first to know if the escort team contacted them, and turned around to look at Ar’alani. He watched her chest rise and then fall slowly.

“Here, Mid-Commander,” she tapped the armrest of her command chair, signaling him to come closer.

“You’ve served the fleet more than admirably since you were sent to us,” she began once he was there. “I’m aware some officers’ attitude might imply otherwise but I’m not one to trust opinion when there are facts to say otherwise.”

Eli felt something in his chest tighten, holding his breath in place.

“You shouldn’t forget that no matter what happens.” she continued meaningfully. “And while your relationship with Secretary Lyron has clearly been on the decline recently, I felt that you have the right to know this.”

The tension in Eli’s chest twisted itself into dread. “Know what, ma’am?”

Her mouth contracted into a thin line. “When Thrawn handed your Assistant Director to us, he did so with the caveat that we may be forced to make arrangements for his potential disloyalty someday.”

The stiff language, paired with the way she refused to meet his eyes, made a chill run down his spine.

“Make arrangements for it in what way?”

“By supplying him with false information and letting him fall into Grysk hands at our own discretion.”

Eli stood there for a while, processing the words. The half-focused murmurs of the bridge ebbed and flowed as the realization sank in.

“I understand, ma’am,” he said at length, ignoring the way his whole body had gone stiff.

Ar’alani spared him a glance. “Good. In that case, you’re dismissed.”

Eli nodded and made his way to the comms console, as he’d intended to do originally. The minutes trickled by with no news and the comms officer’s fingers drifting over the console in a lazy learned rhythm. It took about half an hour for the numbness of the realization to wash away and be replaced with acceptance.

By that point, he was fully prepared for the eventuality of coming face to face with Ronan again. A traitor by all likelihoods and perhaps someone who had been primed to be one from the very start.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, flexing his shoulders under his uniform. Thrawn had never been cruel to Eli’s knowledge. He had exercised a great degree of leniency towards their enemies whenever possible, in fact. Leniency that some had even called a weakness. But one thing he had also been was prudent, and that meant taking all possibilities into account and preparing for them.

Ronan and Ba’kif had fallen out. Ronan was wont to act rashly and overstep his boundaries. He had also all but made himself a thorn in the Mitth’s and particularly Thurfian’s side with his success in the Mediation Bureau. It could be disloyalty, Eli revised his thinking tentatively, or it could be that he had simply become a liability. Either way, if Ba’kif was as thorough as Thrawn, then maybe there had never been a ship meant to get to Kinoss.

Their mindless drifting continued for the next couple of hours or so. Then finally, the comms officer at his side twitched and announced an incoming transmission.

“Encryption?” Ar’alani barked from her chair.

“EDF encryption code, ma’am. We have coordinates and confirmation of a successful infiltration.”

“Transfer coordinates to helm and signal the Fortunate.” Ar’alani straightened in her chair. The gloom was gone from her voice, replaced with full battle readiness. “I want us there with all possible speed.”

There was a flurry of confirmations, including a more high-pitched response from their on-duty skywalker and before Eli knew it, he was at Ar’alani’s side, watching as the stars stretched and melted into the blue slush of hyperspace.

“Any chance we’re heading into a trap, ma’am?”

“Always a chance for that with the Grysks, Mid-Commander. Does that disturb you?”

“Not at all.” He shrugged. “Just makes things more interesting.”

He thought he saw a smile flash across Ar’alani’s face. “You sound more like Commodore Tro’owmis than you probably realize…”

The officer at the helm announced an ETA of forty minutes and Eli frowned to himself. Apparently the Grysks had been eager to deliver their catch and had chosen a rendezvous that was barely a stone’s throw away in space travel terms. The question now was whether the hours that had passed since the attack had been spent in waiting for another Grysk ship to take over or had been fully utilized as the escort team had waited for an opportunity to make their move. Eli didn’t dare get his hopes up.

At the very least, they would finally have an opportunity to get their hands dirty instead of sitting on them and for once, his hopes were rewarded as they exited the jump to find a Grysk warship – a StoneCrusher-class Eli identified – suspended in the darkness of space. Ar’alani waited just long enough to gather enough sensor data and locate the smaller Grysk shuttle attached to one of the warship’s hatches before ordering the Steadfast out of stealth mode and advancing on the enemy.

“Full plasma barrage, followed by breachers,” Ar’alani ordered, following the elongated trails of their spectrum lasers as they lanced at the enemy, meant more to confuse than damage. “Aim for their bow and weapon clusters, steer clear of the shuttle. Khafrimu, do we have contact with Ba’kif’s men?”

“Connection established, ma’am. They have eyes on the target and are moving in for extraction.”

“Good. Give them some space,” she reminded her weapons officer. “What’s the status on those spheres?”

“Two spheres made contact before they put up their barrier. Weapons clusters disabled on that side but our breaches were intercepted.”

“I can see that much,” Ar’alani muttered darkly. “Let them think they have the upper hand for now. Fire more breachers and angle us twenty degrees to bring our port lasers to bear.”

The ship rumbled then shook as the breachers shot toward their target at the same time as a laser salvo from the Grysk ship slammed into the Steadfast’s rotating flank, the enemy mirroring the maneuver as they turned their injured side away. They had been caught off guard, Eli noted, but they were waking up fast.

“The UAG’s new cloaking device?” Eli leaned to ask Ar’alani, after they had received another update from the infiltration team.

“Most likely.” Ar’alani nodded. “Ba’kif’s men always get the best toys first.” They were interrupted as another officer announced that their barrier was down to eighty percent.

“Forty degrees to port and maintain forward motion.” Ar’alani ordered. “Let’s spread out the damage a bit.”

This time the Grysks didn’t mirror their maneuver, seemingly content to show them their intact flank while hammering away at the Steadfast’s barrier. Their commander must have noticed their forward motion but didn’t seem to think much of it and held his ground to see what Ar’alani had in mind with it.

Most chiss attack patterns included closing with the enemy. In ninety percent of cases it was for the sake of achieving optimal distance for their breachers and ensuring that those, along with their plasma spheres, would be more difficult to intercept.

If the Grysk commander had known who he was up against, Eli thought, he would have probably reconsidered his assumption that Ar’alani’s maneuvers were that easily explained. That complacence, more than anything, reassured Eli that he must be none the wiser to the infiltration taking place on his ship.

“Khafrimu, how are we looking?”

The ground under their feet jolted as one of the Grysks missiles managed to slip between the laser crews’ aim.

“Almost there, ma’am…” the comms officer replied nervously, flicking a glance at the close-up screens where the smaller Grysk shuttle was shown still clinging to the warship’s side.

“They’re clear!” he announced suddenly and Ar’alani shot up in her seat as she turned to her weapons officer.

“Fire lasers,” she said, her voice a calm contrast to the sharp focus in her eyes. “Follow with spheres.” In a flash, all of the Steadfast’s port laser batteries lit up simultaneously and converged on a single spot above the hatch where the shuttle had been docked, causing the Grysks’ barrier to waver and eliciting a small explosion as the salvo found one of the ship’s missile ports.

The attack cost the Steadfast a few brutal impacts as the Grysk missiles were ignored in favor of the convergent assault. But the resulting explosion was strong enough to make it look like the shuttle had detached as a result of it rather than of its own volition.

A moment later, the sphere barrage hit exactly where the shuttle had drifted after its detachment.

“Activate tractor beams,” Ar’alani ordered. A few lines appeared on the tactical screens scattered around the bridge.

The Grysk ship ignored them completely at first. Instead, it continued to focus its attention on the Steadfast, confident that it had the bigger ship cornered after damaging its barrier so badly with those missiles. Eli could imagine the Grysk commander’s arrogant calm as he waited for the shuttle to self-destruct, already used to his men’s willingness to die rather than fall into chiss hands.

That calm seemed to quickly turn into panic when the seconds slipped by and no explosion occurred. But it was too late by then.

“Mid-Commander?”

“Signal sent, Admiral,” Eli replied quietly, lowering his questis.

He’d expected at least a second of delay. Maybe two. But Tro’owmis’ men were well trained and microjumps only took a fraction of that and he had the satisfaction of watching as the formerly cloaked Fortunate emerged directly behind the enemy and began hammering its unrecovered flank before the Grysk commander could so much as think of aiming his lasers at the rogue shuttle.

That satisfaction must have been double in Tro’owmis herself judging by the viciousness of her attack and Eli guessed there was a good deal of gratification to be had in pummeling an enemy that had escaped their clutches once.

“Shuttle powering back up,” someone announced and Eli focused back on the smaller craft. With the battle taking a violent turn, the shuttle had jumped into action as soon as it had shaken off the Steadfast’s low-powered spheres, meant only as a show for the Grysks. It now made good speed toward them, bolstered by the tractor beams still reeling it in.

And not a moment too soon as not long after, the Grysk man-of-war behind it disintegrated into a brilliant ball of flames. Eli heard someone at their console station mutter low impressed curse.

“Shuttle status?” Ar’alani said next to him.

“No casualties, ma’am. They report that the target is secured,” Khafrimu replied. “The Fortunate signals no damage as well and Commodore Tro’owmis sends the Mid-Commander her compliments for his calculations.”

At that, the tension in Eli’s chest lifted a bit. Being entrusted with the Fortunate’s timing and jump coordinates had been a daunting task but the Commodore’s acknowledgement was a welcome bonus. It was a short-lived feeling as the moment the shuttle was safely secured in the Steadfast’s hangar, Ar’alani nearly bowled over him as she shot out of her command chair and made her way off the bridge and toward the brig where their prisoner was similarly headed.

Eli swallowed the down the dread in his throat and followed after her.

All of the anger that had been suspiciously absent from her seemed to unfurl itself now and Eli had to break into an awkward half-run to keep up with her strides. His mind, in the meantime, rewound to the few seconds of footage he’d glimpsed on the bridge, right before she’d stormed off.

The image had been grainy and taken from a distance. But it had clearly shown Ronan being forcefully dragged away by the four chiss that had marched him off the shuttle.

Which could only mean one thing.

Furtively, he sent Ar’alani a few looks to try and gauge her emotional state. Ronan had served on her ship. She’d been the one to bring him to the Ascendancy and agree to share their people’s secrets with him. Eli didn’t want to imagine the responsibility she felt for this.

They walked in silence all the way to the brig where the guards moved swiftly to the side to let them through. Ronan’s cell was the one closest to the brig’s entrance and Ar’alani ordered the second pair of sentries and the four agents milling in front of the hatch away before keying in the access code with uncharacteristic coolness.

The hiss of the hatch was drowned under her thunderous steps as she moved into the cell, Eli hurrying in behind her.

And there was Ronan.

Disheveled and fidgeting with one of his sleeves which looked like it had been torn at the shoulder by the force of the agents’ grip. Eli had just a moment to watch him turn and backpedal, his eyes widening in alarm as Ar’alani advanced on him.

“You wretched creature – ”

“Calm, Admiral, there’s no need for hostilities.”

The two of them froze, turning to look at the section of bulkhead next to the hatch. For the first time since setting foot on the Steadfast, Eli saw Ar’alani’s mouth drop open in surprise.

“General?”

Chapter Text

“No.”

It was a single word. But the effect was worse than a slap. Slowly, the shock fluttered down to the pit of Ronan’s stomach before curdling and rising up again, this time as anger.

Months. He’d spent months in this place. He’d tolerated the chiss’ sneers and xenophobia, he’d toiled diligently away at Ba’kif’s Bureau, he’d been away while the Empire literally threatened to crumble in on itself. He’d abandoned his life. He’d nearly been assassinated. And all Ba’kif could offer him was a single ‘no’?

He felt the burn of his anger creep up his throat as he readied himself to lash out when the old general raised a hand in that familiar way of his.

“Or rather not yet,” Ba’kif amended in a soothing tone, motioning for Ronan to sit back down. Ronan sucked in a few harsh breaths, not even realizing that he’d gone to get up from his chair. “I’m afraid the Syndicure won’t stand for such an organization.”

The mass of anger in him twisted this way and that but he managed to push it down long enough to listen to what Ba’kif was saying.

“Then what do you mean not yet?” he barked. Not yet? They had every reason to ride the wave of their recent success. That’s why Ronan had pitched this thing to begin with. Ildavo was the starting point around which they could start building if anything was to come out of this idea and there was no guarantee he would still want to do business with them if they put him on the backburner for too long.

“I’m saying that right now we have nothing to persuade them with,” Ba’kif said. “We need proof that a concept like this has merit. Both in terms of gathering and implanting information. And that you can be trusted enough to spearhead it.” Ronan opened his mouth to reply before Ba’kif cut him off firmly. “Think about it, what do we have so far? Something we can use.”

He frowned and reclined back into his seat.

“We have the Eishi’s information on the radioactive dust,” he said.

“Good. If we can successfully implement that, we have evidence that gathering intelligence from friendly agents is viable.”

Ronan followed along with Ba’kif’s logic. So they had information from Ildavo’s people, now they had to find a way to plant some, and there was also the matter of proving his loyalty…

He blinked. Did Ba’kif mean…?

He looked up to see that the chiss’ expression had taken on a hard edge.

“Thrawn once told Ar’alani something,” Ba’kif said quietly. “Something to convince her to get you on board the Steadfast. Judging by your reaction, you’ve already figured it out.”

Ronan released a breath. Oddly enough, the realization left him calmer than he’d been at any point since entering Ba’kif’s office that morning.

“Yes, I think I have.”

“You seem relatively unfazed.”

He thought about it and gave a small huff.

“It’s what I would have done.”

It’s what Director Krennic would have done for sure at least, Ronan thought with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia. Planting Tarkin’s spies with misinformation had been the name of the game since the day he’d been promoted to his rank. Even if it constituted the smallest share of his combined duties.

So yes, Ronan was very much familiar with the tactic.

“Fair enough,” Ba’kif said carefully. He didn’t seem convinced and looked like Ronan would get up and bolt any moment. “I need you to understand that if we’re to do this, the risk involved would be far greater than anything you’ve undertaken for us so far,” he added sternly.

Ronan considered the words. Risk. Normally he would be averse to it, if he could afford it. Working on Stardust hadn’t been without its risks though those had been more in the realm of the political and the hazards related to working on such a massive construction site. But risk was still risk and he wouldn’t be half as far as he was today without it.

“Not just the risk,” he said. “We’ll also need a good deal of sand to throw in people’s eyes. This will only work if it’s believable enough to the right parties.”

Ba’kif was quiet for a moment, contemplating him. Then his lips twitched and Ronan saw a gleam appear in his eyes under the red glow that was already there.

“Then we have a lot of work to do.”

In hindsight, Ronan was still in disbelief that the whole thing had played out as well as it had, he decided as he wiped the dust off his sleeve, feeling the steady vibrations of the Steadfast through the bulkhead at his back. The cell’s only amenity was a metal bench at the far wall that reminded him of his accommodations after Rhoar but he was still grateful for something to sit on.

“You could have told us, sir,” Ar’alani said sullenly from her place against the wall on his left, her arms crossed over her chest and Vanto standing next to her, looking just as sullen.

“I could have, yes,” Ba’kif confirmed from beside the entry hatch. In the dim light of the cell, his white uniform with its gold insignia looked even more out of place than the pout on Ar’alani’s face. “But if there’s one thing Thrawn has taught me –”

“It’s that a genuine response makes for the best ruse, yes,” she finished tartly. Ronan thought he saw Vanto’s face crumple into a grimace as though responding to a distant memory. “And the alien?”

“The Eishi? He was in on it, of course.” Ba’kif said. Quite gleefully so too, Ronan thought. Same for Rhiuh’vek. He watched Vanto scowl and mutter something about fancy acting skills before going back to his sulking.

“I still think you should have told us.” Ar’alani shook her head. “If we’d known you were on board, we’d have been much more careful. We can’t afford to put you in harm’s way like that.”

Ba’kif gave her a stern, almost patronizing look. “I didn’t join the fleet to stay out of harm’s way, Admiral. And besides, my men had already established that the Grysks’ ship was well within the Steadfast’s and your capabilities to handle.”

Ar’alani grimaced. Fleetingly, Ronan thought it was comforting to know he wasn’t the only one whose sanity was put to the test by Ba’kif’s scheming.

“In any case, I needed to be close at hand in case things went awry. I couldn’t risk losing track of the battle or being unable to reach you if they jammed your comms.”

Ar’alani raised a sharp eyebrow. “So you asked your techs to modify my ship?”

“Your ship.” Ba’kif held up a finger. “But also a ship of my fleet,” he reminded her with a smile. Ar’alani grumbled something under her breath.

“The only thing I still don’t understand is what the Mitth had to do with any of this,” Vanto joined in from beside her.

At that, Ba’kif’s smile faded into something darker. “We were simply offered a helping hand when our plan was threatened by intervention.” He shrugged. “That’s all I can say on that. I’m sure you’ll all learn the ugly details soon enough.”

Ronan watched Ar’alani sigh and push herself off the wall. “Probably too soon. I think that’s all the answers I can handle for now.”

With that, she turned and marched out of the cell, Vanto following behind her and leaving Ronan and Ba’kif on their own. Ronan leaned back into the bulkhead at his back. There was a dull throb in his shoulder where his sleeve had been torn but the exhaustion coursing through his body was of the gratified sort.

“You know,” he said to Ba’kif, eyeing his sleeve again. “Your men could have been more civil. I made a show of surrendering and all and they still dragged me here like a sack of dirt.”

Ba’kif watched him from the other side of the cell, the same contentment showing in the slant of his shoulders.

“If they were truly apprehending a traitor, they would have been even less polite about it,” he said with a small shrug. “I know we prepared for this but I feel the need to remind you that you’ll have to remain in a high security facility for the time being. Until this whole thing is over.”

Ronan snorted. “My memory is quite intact, General. I’m able to bear any discomfort necessary if it serves a higher purpose.”

“One wouldn’t think so immediately but I believe you.”

Ronan narrowed his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The chiss had the audacity to chuckle.

“You managed to tell them everything?”

“Yes. And some of the useless scraps we agreed on.”

“Good. In that case, perhaps this calls for a celebration.”

Ronan frowned and opened his mouth to ask but Ba’kif was already turning and leaning into the small niche craved into the bulkhead next to the hatch. The one that had been built there by his techs to create a blind spot for the cell’s cams and was equipped with a questis attached directly to the ship’s bridge computer. And, as it so happened, the main reason the Steadfast had been whisked off to a resupply dock on Naporar besides allowing Ba’kif to slip on board unnoticed.

Ronan watched him rummage around for a bit and felt his mouth drop open as he pulled back.

“You’re serious?” He gaped as Ba’kif unwrapped the bottle of wine – an expensive vintage by the looks of it – and the two glasses it had been packed with.

“Don’t be so quick to turn me down,” Ba’kif admonished as he removed the sealant wrap from the top of the bottle. “I went through quite the trouble to get this on board.”

Ronan felt lips move as he swallowed his protests. It wasn’t that their success didn’t warrant a celebration. Or that he hadn’t gone through hell to achieve it – his fingers still tingled with the dread and adrenaline of facing the Grysks up close – but the idea still made him squirm.

“It’s just,” he fumbled. “Shouldn’t we wait for the battle to pass to celebrate?”

“Perhaps we can celebrate then as well. But I can think of a few reasons why we can do so now.” One of Ba’kif’s gloved fingers pointed up.

“Firstly, we’ve been putting it off.” He counted off and Ronan’s mind automatically flashed back to the day they’d arrested his assassin and the small exchange he’d had with the general. “Secondly, you’ve done a good job, regardless of the outcome. And thirdly, you won’t be seeing much of this during your detention on Csilla.”

That made Ronan wince. Alright, he supposed that was fair.

“I can also think of a fourth reason. You managed to get out of this alive.”

“That’s still not funny.”

Tentatively, he accepted one of the glasses from Ba’kif, holding it out while the chiss poured a small amount of wine in it. The liquid was fragrant and richly colored and Ronan eyed it thoughtfully while Ba’kif moved to pour his own share.

“And you’re sure I’ve told them what I was supposed to tell them?” he asked at length, raising his eyes from the wine to Ba’kif. “That I haven’t told them anything they can use against you.”

“Do you have a reason for it?”

“Do you have a reason to trust me?”

Ba’kif held his stare for a while, almost like a challenge, before something in his expression softened.

“Some would argue I don’t. But I choose to do so nonetheless,” he said.

Ronan’s breath hitched and he felt himself still. The feeling of contentment in his chest swelled, shifted and settled into something more solid and steadying, and for the first time since coming to the Ascendancy he recognized it as something familiar. He curled his hands around the glass, fingers still unsteady from the Grysks’ interrogation.

“Thank you.”

They took turns sipping at their wine and making small talk. After a while, Ba’kif let out a quiet chuckle that had Ronan glancing in his direction.

“I’m merely thinking that Thrawn managed to get the better of us once again,” the chiss said, twirling the wine in his glass. The hum of the ship’s engines was barely perceptible indicating that they’d jumped to hyperspace and the only other sound was the occasional thrum of the guards’ footsteps outside.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m referring to your recruitment. Did you know that we never had clear instructions on what to do with you when he first sent you to us?”

Ronan thought back to his own talk with Thrawn, to the one he’d had with Vanto and finally to what Ba’kif had told him about Ar’alani. “All I know is that he gave anyone who asked a different version.” He shrugged.

“And yet, he managed to be right in all of them.” Ba’kif pointed at him with the hand holding his wine. “He gave Vanto what he needed to hear, he gave Admiral Ar’alani an alternative, he gave you a compliment.” A pause in which the corner of his mouth twitched up. “And he gave me a mystery. And he didn’t lie once.”

Ronan’s own mouth twisted into a scowl. He went to argue the point then broke off and felt the familiar old irritation raise its head.

“I can’t put into words how frustrating it is to deal with this man,” he growled through his teeth.

Ba’kif threw his head back and laughed.

“You’re sure I can’t get you anything, Your Venerante?”

Thurfian stared at the near distance, focusing on the outline of the window at the far end of his office. Thivik’s voice was tentative, a tendril of sympathy sneaking into his tone that wasn’t usually there. Thurfian glanced at the old man. It was rare for his aide to drop his impeccable professionalism and Thurfian felt a stab of irony at what had finally brought it on.

“No, thank you, Thivik. You’re dismissed.”

The aide hovered in the doorway another moment before slumping away with a look of pity. The hand at Thurfian’s brow pressed slightly before releasing. He considered the bowl of fruit on the table but found no appetite for it.

You got yourself here, a voice in his mind reminded sarcastically. With a dry swallow, he found himself thinking back to the conversation that had summarily sealed his fate.

“You’re saying that they’re not actually planning to let him go?” Ba’kif’s eyes burned into him. Thurfian shook his head. His voice was steady but his hands were clammy with sweat.

“They only gave the appearance of agreeing to it. They knew that if they opposed or halted it outright you might try to do it behind their backs or find some roundabout way to make it happen. This is their best chance to catch you off guard.”

Ba’kif scowled behind his desk.

He and Thrawn had certainly used that tactic plenty of times before, Thurfian mused. Giving Thrawn surface orders that appeased the Syndicure only for news of some miraculous battle or discovery to descend on them weeks later. It would hardly do if the Syndicure hadn’t learned their lesson after all those years.

“I’m obligated to tell you that you won’t be able to escape the consequences if you do this,” Ba’kif warned. “You will be seen as an accomplice.”

Thurfian swallowed the bile that rose up his throat. It wasn’t too late to turn back. But he knew he wasn’t going to.

“And I’m obligated to remind you that the future of the Ascendancy comes before that of any individual family,” he said. “I am also perfectly aware of the fact that in times of war, an experienced General is far more valuable to us than a single Patriarch.”

Ba’kif contemplated him for what felt like an eternity. Then gave the smallest of nods. “I see.”

Thurfian wanted to laugh looking back at it. Even now it felt like insanity. He was only stopped by a shuffling at the hatch as Thivik slipped back into the room. His expression was grim.

“They’re here, Your Venerante,” he said quietly and Thurfian made an effort not to let the despair show on his face. Pushing himself off the couch, he tried to smooth the wrinkles in his robe. He’d taken off his symbols of office to save himself the shame of being stripped of them and his shoulders felt strangely light without them.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, rising to his feet.

“If I may, would you like to take a call before you go? I’m sure they’ll permit it.”

His exasperation found its way into his voice. “Tell Zistalmu I don’t want to hear his rebukes.”

“It’s not him, Your Venerante. It’s from Supreme General Ba’kif.”

He paused at that, caught off guard for a moment. Was there anything else Ba’kif wanted from him? Or had something in their plan already gone awry? Thurfian swallowed his dread. “Very well… put him through.”

Thivik had already left by the time Ba’kif’s image resolved on the screen, his image grainy but clear as though experiencing some form of long-distance interference.

“I’m calling to tell you that everything went smoothly,” he said. “With some luck, this whole operation will meet with resounding success.”

Thurfian gave a stiff nod from his place on the couch, taking pains not to show his relief. “I should hope for it. And the Syndicure?”

“They haven’t managed to find any proof to incriminate us.” Ba’kif shrugged. “As far as they’re aware, we were caught unawares and the Secretary improvised. They’ve nothing to point to any for foul play or prior planning.”

They had no proof of foul play, Thurfian echoed in his mind, yet they couldn’t forgive Thurfian for going against them. At the very least he would take the fall on his own. Had his actions led to the ruin of the entire family, he would have had to live with the stain of it forever.

“That’s good to hear.” He nodded. “Would that be all, General?”

“Actually, I was also hoping to ask you something,” Ba’kif said in that deliberately casual tone of his that always preceded something Thurfian didn’t like. “Why did you do it?”

The question was a barb and Thurfian swallowed through the unwillingness suddenly clogging his throat. Officers colluding with their enemies. High-ranking officials engaging in double dealings with alien criminals. Foreign agents proving to be more reliable than their own people.

“I’ve lost more faith in our people in recent years than I care to admit,” he said quietly, too tired to disguise the truth for once.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Your Venerante. The chiss have not lost their honor because of the actions of a few.”

“Can we really claim to have that honor if so many have betrayed it?”

“Does a family live in disgrace because of the actions of a single member?” Ba’kif said. “Or does it strive to rehabilitate them and repair its honor if their redemption is not possible?”

Thurfian frowned to himself. In most cases, a family would simply cast off those that stained its reputation. Everything that Ba’kif was suggesting went against the established practices of their people. Which, Thurfian supposed, spoke volumes of what he thought of them.

Either way it was clear that the disgraced in that example was not Thrawn. Nor did it refer to the recent betrayal that had cost Thurfian his position. And yet despite it all, there Ba’kif was, advocating for acceptance and forgiveness.

“I thought you of all people would be happy to see me banished from my post,” he said with a sneer.

“I don’t think an error of judgement warrants contempt.” Ba’kif stared back intently. “Only the willingness to perpetuate it when the chance to correct oneself is available.”

Thurfian felt another wave of cynicism. All these metaphors were bringing back his headache.

“Thank you for your honesty, General.”

“Of course, Your Venerante. Would Your Venerante permit me to say that what you’ve done requires a great deal of strength. And that few would have the will to do it.”

Thurfian smiled wryly. What a lovely way to describe political suicide.

“Say that when we’ve won, General.” The screen flickered as he reached forward to cut the connection.

The breeze coming in from the open hatch was refreshing and Ronan wrapped his robe tighter around himself, enjoying the feel of it on his face. For as long as he could, anyway. The shuttle that had ferried him down to Csilla was quiet as he waited for his guards to come and fetch him and take him to his cell – an unfortunate downside to their plan that he would have to endure for the sake of appearances.

Despite himself, he found his mind drifting back to his conversation with Ba’kif as he turned away from the hatch. If Ba’kif was right, then Thrawn really had managed to pull off another stroke of tactical genius. It was ludicrous to contemplate that this had all been orchestrated but nothing was ever really impossible with Thrawn.

“Secretary Lyron?”

He all but jumped out of his skin at the sound. Turning around sharply, he blinked in the direction of the hatch where an elderly chiss stood smiling at him, a gold pin bearing an unfamiliar crest on the lapel of his jacket and his grayed hair styled in the cut of an Aristocra. Ronan stared at the man.

He looked no more impressive than a mid-ranking administrator but his eyes had a keen quality to them that couldn’t fool Ronan.

“Would you mind if we spoke for a moment?” the chiss said in that same soft voice that Ronan was pretty sure was a facade.

Ronan stared at him for a few more seconds then at the rest of the shuttle, conspicuously devoid of any bystanders, before letting out a huff and gesturing at the bench across from him. “Go ahead. You’d be surprised how often this happens to me.”

The man chuckled and came forward, taking a seat opposite Ronan. His robes rustled as he arranged them around his feet.

“I really doubt there’s anything that could surprise us.” He smiled.