“Understood,” Vanto said, frustrated but recognizing the reality of the situation.
The shield shrinks again, this time opening the eastern shoreline. The escort ships alter their aim, directing a fresh attack against the ion cannon emplacements now exposed. It is much the same response Durril has already attempted several times.
But as anticipated, the island commander now changes tactics. No ion cannon blasts come. Instead, as the Imperial ships continue to fire, the shield shrinks again from the western shoreline, unnoticed by the preoccupied and battered Imperial ships. The escorts are still firing at the eastern emplacements when a new barrage of ion fire from the western emplacement silences their weapons.
“Odd,” Vanto said.
“Explain.”
“Our friend in the freighter,” Vanto said. “He’s far enough out to jump, but he hasn’t. I wonder if he’s having trouble with his hyperdrive.”
“Perhaps,” Thrawn said. “What other possibilities are there?”
“He could be waiting to see how the battle goes,” Vanto suggested. “Grabbing as much data as he can before jumping. Or he could be sending—or receiving—some last-minute instructions.”
The freighter abruptly flickered with pseudomotion and was gone. “I guess he got all he wanted,” Vanto said. “So now we follow?”
On the island, the shield once again shrinks to expose the insurgents’ turbolaser. But the Imperial ships are no longer in a position to respond in a sufficiently timely manner. As before, the Judicator is the target of the attack.
Neutralize, attack, feint, attack. It was an efficient pattern, carried out with expert timing. “You’re having doubts?”
“I don’t know,” Vanto said slowly. “He gave up those coordinates awfully easily. This could be a trap.”
“True,” Thrawn said. “On the other hand, I doubt he would be foolish enough to offer his base’s true location. More likely we have a rendezvous point where we can be studied more closely.”
“Not sure that sounds any better.”
“There are risks,” Thrawn said. “The outcome will depend on how eagerly they want new weapons. Allow me to suggest one other possible reason for him to have delayed his departure. Tell me, what are the other seven freighters doing?”
“The other—? Oh, right—the rest of the group.” Vanto readjusted the sensors. “Still heading for the continent. Only—interesting. Their vectors are diverging. They’re not headed for the same place anymore, but seem to be going to seven different spots.”
“If there were an Imperial observer watching, he would now be offered a choice,” Thrawn said. “He could attempt to follow the eighth freighter into space, or remain here and track the seven to the insurgents’ other strongpoints.”
“After the eighth drew all the attention to himself,” Vanto said. “Good chance he’s out there somewhere waiting to see how quickly we follow him.”
“Or if we follow him at all,” Thrawn said. “If you were in command, which would you choose: the one, or the seven?”
The island’s turbolaser blasts continue to batter the Judicator, tearing at its hull and weapons. The ion cannons have again opened fire, sending fresh barrages at the escort ships, preventing them from moving to assist.
“I’d probably go with—wait a minute,” Vanto said with sudden understanding. “I don’t have to choose, do I? You already guessed we’d need backup, which is why you detached the Shyrack from the Ninety-Sixth. I assume it’s lurking around here somewhere?”
“It is indeed,” Thrawn said. Excellent. “Captain Brento is observing the planet, including those seven freighters. We may therefore turn our attention to the eighth freighter.”
“Yes.” Vanto gave the sensor display one final look, clearly reluctant to leave the 103rd locked in desperate battle. “All right. Let’s do it.”
There are times in every commander’s life when he must yield the stick of authority to a subordinate.
Sometimes the reason is one of expertise, when the subordinate has skills the commander lacks. Sometimes it is positional, when the subordinate is in the right place at the right time and the commander is not. Often it is anticipated there will be loss of direct communication, which means the subordinate may be given general instructions but must then carry them out on his own initiative as the situation flows around him.
No commander enjoys those moments. Most subordinates fear them, as well. Those who do not fear already betray the overconfidence that nearly always leads to disaster.
But the moments must be faced. And all will learn from them, whether to satisfaction or to sorrow.
—
They reached the coordinates to find the freighter waiting for them.
“Took your sweet time about it,” the other growled. “Trouble?”
Eli took a deep breath. If there was one group he’d really gotten to know during his time in the navy it was smugglers, arms merchants, thieves, and general assorted scoundrels.
He knew how they behaved, talked, and thought. The trick was to make himself think and talk the same way.
He keyed the comm. “Weren’t planning on using the hyperdrive at all until you showed up. Didn’t think you’d get bored so easy.”
“Yeah. Ha-ha. Who are you?”
“Name’s Horatio Figg.”
“What were you doing at Batonn?”
“Trolling for bargains and customers,” Eli said. “I heard about your Scrim Island thing and thought I’d come see if you were interested in doing some business. Buying or selling—like I said, I do both.”
“Well, personally, I’d just as soon blow you into dust and be done with it,” the other said. “But the boss wants to see you, so I guess you get to live a little longer. Follow me.”
“Thanks,” Eli said, turning onto the freighter’s vector. “You won’t regret this.”
“I already do. And don’t try to run—I’m not the only one out here.”
The comm clicked off. “Now what?” he asked.
“Now we prepare,” Thrawn said, unstrapping and climbing out of his seat. “Stay with him and keep watch. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Ten minutes later, with their destination visible on the displays, he returned. “I see we’ve arrived.”
“Just about,” Eli said, frowning. Thrawn had his tunic draped over his arm with a small hold-out blaster in his other hand. “It looks like an old Clone Wars–era Nomad.”
“I’m not familiar with those.”
“They were a sort of traveling ship–repair shop that came into systems after the battles were over and the fleets left,” Eli explained. “Repair facilities were usually hit pretty hard, and these ships came in to pick up some of the slack for the locals. You realize taking off your tunic isn’t going to fool anyone, right?”
“It isn’t intended to,” Thrawn said. “Take off your tunic and put on this one.”
“Okay, but it won’t fit—whoa,” Eli interrupted himself as he spotted the fresh blaster burn in the tunic. “What’s that?”
“You took this tunic from an officer you killed,” Thrawn said. “That’s why it doesn’t fit. You wear it because it intimidates people.”
“Okay,” Eli said, frowning at the tunic as he quickly stripped off his own. Thrawn’s admiral insignia plaque, he saw, had been replaced by a lieutenant’s plaque.
A lieutenant’s plaque?
He sent Thrawn a sharp look. “Yes,” the admiral confirmed. “My old remote, modified for the current need. When the time comes, press the tile closest to the center of your chest.”
“That time being?”
“You’ll know. Here.” He offered Eli the hold-out blaster. “Hide it somewhere. They’ll take it from you, but it would look suspicious if you weren’t carrying a backup weapon.”
“So I keep this one, too?” Eli asked, nodding toward his blaster as he smoothed the sealing strip on Thrawn’s tunic. The garment was definitely two sizes too big for him.
“Yes,” Thrawn said. “It will be a sample of the merchandise you have for sale.”