“What guarantee do we have that you won’t take the information and turn us over to Tarkin anyway?”
“I offer my word,” Thrawn said. “I also offer simple logic. You three are too young to have been any of Q’anah’s original pirates. Tarkin’s lingering vengeance will not therefore be directed specifically toward you. More important, I know Tarkin. He will take extra pleasure in the fact that Angel will know you were freed as a reward for betraying him.”
“You can’t know Tarkin very well if you think he ever shows mercy. To anyone.”
“Precisely,” Thrawn said. “His reputation does not permit such actions. That is why I will release you on my own initiative. He will thus be able to take full pleasure in delivering the news to Angel without the need to make the decision himself.”
He paused. The pirates did not speak.
“That is my offer,” Thrawn said. “I will wait while you discuss it among yourselves.”
He touched the intercom switch again, and the indicator lights went out.
The pirates weren’t fooled. They had probably been interrogated in such places before, and knew that the intercom remained live despite the evidence of the indicators.
Thrawn had played all his cards. But the pirates had a card of their own to play. Leaning close, they began speaking softly together.
In a language they would have learned growing up in Wild Space. A language that was used only there and in the Unknown Regions. A language that had never been programmed into Republic or Imperial translators or protocol droids. A language they could reasonably expect no Imperial had ever even heard of.
Sy Bisti.
“What do you think?” the spokesman asked the others. “You think we can trust him?”
“He’s an Imperial,” the second scoffed. “Of course not.”
“Who cares?” the third retorted. “You heard him. Tarkin’s coming.”
The spokesman snorts. “You listen too much to Angel’s ghost stories. Even Tarkin can’t be that bad.”
“No? Then how come Angel keeps telling the stories? I tell you, Tarkin’s pure evil.”
“Speaking of evil,” the second man said, “what do you think Angel’s going to do if he finds out we sold him to Blueface?”
“Good point,” the spokesman said. “But maybe we can have this both ways. Let’s take the offer, spin Blueface some froth, then hightail it to the Trapo and warn Angel. If we’re fast enough, we should be able to get there before Tarkin or even Blueface can chase us down.”
“Unless they’ve already cracked the static-lock,” the third man warned. “Then we’d get there just in time for our ship to fall apart and leave us stuck until Tarkin catches up with us.”
“You think they’re going to find an ub-dub squalsh who can do slice-work like that?” the spokesman countered, his voice heavy with contempt. “Not a chance. Angel’s going to have to bring in someone from outside.”
“Maybe Cygni already did.”
“Cygni was supposed to get the static-lock off before we ever came aboard,” the spokesman said. “Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of time to get there.”
“Then let’s take the offer,” the second man said. “Give him—I don’t know; give him something—and get the hell out of here.”
“Before Tarkin gets here?” the spokesman suggested.
“Go ahead and laugh,” the third man growled. “I’m not.”
“Fine.” The spokesman looked up at Thrawn and lifted his hand. “Hey,” he called in Basic. “You—Imperial.”
Thrawn tapped the intercom switch. “Have you made a decision?”
“We’ll take your offer,” the spokesman said. “Angel and Cygni went to Cartherston on a planet named Keitum. You need coordinates?”
“Thank you, we can find it,” Thrawn assured him. “Anything else?”
“Just that you’d better hurry if you’re going to catch them,” the spokesman warned. “They won’t be there any longer than they have to.”
“I agree,” Thrawn said. “Thank you for your cooperation. The guards waiting outside will escort you to your new transport.”
“And the rest of the crew?” the spokesman asked.
“Your companions are already on their way,” Thrawn said. “One more thing. You have been given a second chance. I suggest you use it to remake your lives for the better.”
“No need to preach, brother,” the spokesman said as they rose from their chairs. “Trust me—you’ll never hear from us again.”
They filed out. Thrawn watched them leave, and as the door closed behind them he stood and faced the door exiting his side of the room. It slid open to reveal Vanto and Admiral Wiskovis. “Admiral.”
“Lieutenant,” Wiskovis nodded in return. “That was about as impressive a performance as I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you, sir,” Thrawn said. “Do we have it?”
“We do,” Vanto said with satisfaction. “Uba, in Barsa sector. It’s a nice quiet place to park a freighter for a while, it’s the right distance from where they nabbed the Dromedar, and the insulting slang term for it is ub-dub. Squalsh is also the local slang term for the inhabitants, who are not generally considered technological geniuses.” He smiled tightly. “And there are a bunch of major merchant centers on the northern continent, which local slang refers to as trading posts. Or, for short, trapos.”
“We have it, all right,” Wiskovis agreed. “Not that I have the slightest idea why we have it. How did you know this group used to work with Q’anah?”
“I did not know for certain,” Thrawn said. “It was only a guess, based on their name.”
“What name?” Vanto asked. He frowns in confusion. “Angel?”
“Culoss,” Thrawn said. “The name Angel gave their group. I heard that as Q-less, or a group without a Q. After we arrived, while we were waiting for Captain Rossi to return, I did a search of known criminal groups. There were a number that included a Q reference, but Q’anah’s Marauders seemed the most likely to have the resources, the history, and the contacts to deal with stolen tibanna gas.”
“Seems like kind of a long shot.”
“It was,” Thrawn agreed. “But Q’anah used to sign her thefts with a coded reference to her name. It seemed reasonable that the remnant of her gang would also enjoy leaving such clues.”
“Still a long shot.” Wiskovis shakes his head. “What if you’d been wrong?”
“There would have been no loss,” Thrawn said. “The ISB interrogator would have arrived, and the questioning would have proceeded on schedule. All would have been as if I had not made an attempt.”
“Except you wouldn’t have left yourself wide open to a court-martial,” Wiskovis said. His voice is grim. “I should at least release the transport myself.”
“I cannot allow you to do that,” Thrawn said.
“Excuse me?” Wiskovis draws himself up stiffly. His expression hardens, his throat muscles tightening. Vanto’s expression holds sudden discomfort. “You can’t let me do that?”
“I think what Lieutenant Thrawn meant, sir, is that he strongly urges you to remain as far outside the situation as possible,” Vanto put in quickly. “I believe his goal is to bring any blowback on himself, leaving everyone else out of it.”
“Very noble,” Wiskovis said. His expression is still stiff and angry. “And if I choose to do otherwise? This is my base, Lieutenant. What happens here is ultimately my responsibility.”
“True,” Thrawn acknowledged. “But there is still much that can go wrong, and the balance of success and failure is still undetermined. I would not wish you to bear any blame for my plan and actions.”
“Or accept any acclaim for its success?”
Vanto winces. “I don’t think that’s what Lieutenant Thrawn meant, sir,” he said.
“Well, then, maybe I should hear that from the lieutenant himself,” Wiskovis said.
“If this succeeds, I would of course freely acknowledge your support,” Thrawn said. “But if it fails, be advised that when I am brought before court-martial, Ensign Vanto will testify that I acted alone.”