Thrawn (Star Wars: Thrawn, #1)
Timothy Zahn
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….
All beings begin their lives with hopes and aspirations. Among these aspirations is the desire that there will be a straight path to those goals.
It is seldom so. Perhaps never.
Sometimes the turns are of one’s own volition, as one’s thoughts and goals change over time. But more often the turns are mandated by outside forces.
It was so with me. The memory is vivid, unsullied by age: the five admirals rising from their chairs as I am escorted into the chamber. The decision of the Ascendancy has been made, and they are here to deliver it.
None of them is happy with the decision. I can read that in their faces. But they are officers and servants of the Chiss, and they will carry out their orders. Protocol alone demands that.
The word is as I expected.
Exile.
The planet has already been chosen. The Aristocra will assemble the equipment necessary to ensure that solitude does not quickly become death from predators or the elements.
I am led away. Once again, my path has turned.
Where it will lead, I cannot say.
—
The hut was small, apparently made from local materials, situated in the center of the forest clearing. Surrounding it were eight tall, rectangular boxes with two distinct sets of markings. “So this,” Captain Voss Parck said, “is what you brought me all the way down from the Strikefast to see?”
“Yes, Captain, I did,” Colonel Mosh Barris said sourly. “Turns out we may have a problem. You see those markings?”
“Of course,” Parck said. “Bogolan script, isn’t it?”
“It’s Bogolan script, but not Bogolanese,” Barris said. “The translator droids can’t make top or bottom of it. And the two power generators behind the hut don’t match any Imperial designs.”
Standing to the side, watching his captain and the Strikefast’s senior troop commander discuss the mysterious settlement they’d found on this unnamed world, Cadet First Class Eli Vanto tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
And wondered what he was doing here.
None of the other ten Myomar Academy cadets had been ordered down with Parck’s shuttle. Eli didn’t have any particular expertise in unknown artifacts or tech. It wasn’t like he needed planetside experience, anyway—he was on track to become a supply officer. There was no reason he could think of why he’d been singled out this way.
“Cadet Vanto?” Barris said.
Eli wrenched his mind back from his musings. “Yes, Colonel?”
“The droids said there are half a dozen trade languages out here that use Bogolan script. You’re our expert on obscure local languages.” He gestured to the crates. “So?”
Eli moved closer, wincing a little. So that was why he was here. He’d grown up on the planet Lysatra in this part of Wild Space, pressed up against the so-called Unknown Regions. His family’s shipping company worked mostly in and around their homeworld, but they did enough business in the Unknown Regions that Eli had picked up proficiency in several of the local trade languages.
But that hardly made him an expert.
“It could be a variant of Sy Bisti, sir,” he said. “Some of the words are familiar, and the syntax is right. But it’s not standard.”
Barris snorted. “Hard to imagine a standard for a language so obscure that even the droids don’t bother with it.”
Eli held his tongue. Sy Bisti was actually a perfectly well-defined and eminently useful language. It was the people who still used it, and the worlds they lived on, that were obscure.
“You said you can read some of it?” Parck prompted.
“Yes, sir,” Eli said. “It seems to be mostly tracking information and the name of the company that supplied the contents. Also a short bit proclaiming the grandeur and honor of that company.”
“What, they engrave promotionals right on their shipping crates?” Barris asked.
“Yes, sir. A lot of small business out here do that.”
“You don’t recognize the business name, I assume?” Parck asked.
“No, sir. I believe it’s Red Bype or Redder Bype. Possibly the owner’s name.”
Parck nodded. “We can see if there’s anything in our records. What about the second script?”
“Sorry, sir,” Eli said. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Terrific,” Barris muttered. “So whether it’s a smuggler base or the survival camp from a shipwreck, it still comes under UA protocols.”
Eli winced. The Unknown Alien protocols were a relic from the glory days of the Republic, when a new species was being discovered every other week and the Senate wanted every one of them contacted and studied. The modern Imperial Navy had no business handling such chores, and even less interest in doing so, and the High Command had repeatedly said so.
Rumor at the Academy was that Emperor Palpatine was working to revoke the protocols. But for the moment they were still standard orders, and far too many of the senators supported them.
Which was going to put a crimp in the Strikefast’s schedule. The ship’s officers and crew weren’t exactly thrilled at having a bunch of cadets underfoot anyway, and Eli could tell they were looking forward to dumping them back on Myomar. This was going to delay that happy send-off for at least a couple of extra days.
“Agreed,” Parck said. “Very well. Have your troops make themselves comfortable while I have a tech analysis team sent down. Keep an eye out in case your smuggler or castaway comes back.”
“Yes, sir.” Barris’s comlink signaled, and the colonel pulled it out. “Barris.”
“This is Major Wyan at the crash site, Colonel,” a taut voice came. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you’d better come see this.”
Eli frowned. He hadn’t heard anything about a crash. “There was a crash, sir?” he asked.
“One of the V-wing starfighters went down,” Parck said, nodding across the clearing where distant lights could be seen flickering through the tendrils of evening mist wafting through the trees.
Eli nodded silently. He’d noticed the lights earlier, but had assumed they were just more of Barris’s survey team.
“I’ll be right there,” Barris said. “With your permission, Captain?”
“Go ahead,” Parck said. “I’ll stay here with Cadet Vanto and see what else he can tell us about the writing on these crates.”
Eli had gone through nearly all of it when Barris and a black-uniformed, black-helmeted navy trooper returned carrying a V-wing pilot’s flight suit.
A flight suit stuffed with grass, leaves, and strange-smelling red berries.
“What is this?” Parck demanded.
“This is what we found near the crash site,” Barris said grimly as they set the suit on the ground in front of the captain. “The body’s gone. Nothing left but this—this—” He waved a hand.
“Scarecrow,” Eli murmured.
Parck sent him a sharp look. “Is this something you people do out here?”
“Some farmers still use scarecrows to keep birds out of their crops,” Eli said, his face warming. You people. Parck was letting his Core World prejudices peek out. “They’re also used in festivals and parades.”
Parck looked back at Barris. “Have you looked for the pilot?”
“Not yet, sir,” Barris said. “I’ve ordered a troop perimeter set up around the settlement, and I’m having another platoon of troopers sent down.”
“Good,” Parck said. “Once they’re here, expand your search and find the body.”
“Yes, sir,” Barris said. “We might want to wait until morning, though.”
“Your soldiers afraid of the dark?”
“No, sir,” Barris said stiffly. “It’s just that we also found the V-wing’s survival pack. The blaster, spare power packs, and concussion grenades are missing.”
Parck’s lip twitched. “Primitives with weapons. Wonderful. Very well. Search until dark, then resume in the morning.”