Chapitre 48: ...to each according to his need (I)
Nine years, five months and seven days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-fourth year, five months and seven days after the Great Resynchronization.
"In fifteen minutes, we will enter the Tangren system, Grand Admiral," Captain Pellaeon informed me as he approached.
Seated in a chair on the Chimera's bridge, I watched the white and blue lights of hyperspace flicker and dance before my eyes, gently stroking the Ysalamiri that was nestled comfortably in my arms.
"I understand, Captain," I replied calmly. "Have we received any communication from the Red Dragon?"
"No, sir," Pellaeon answered.
"Is that so?" I raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. "Curious. And from the commanders of the other ships?"
"None at all, sir," Gilad confirmed. "Our requests are being completely ignored. We've also received no response from the Moff of the Morshdine sector."
"Maintain the current yellow alert status," I ordered. "And send someone to summon our esteemed Jedi Master to the bridge."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon acknowledged.
And so, here we are—advancing forward, pleased with ourselves despite our battle scars, with a caravan of trophies trailing behind, yet uncertain of what lies ahead. It's a dangerous combination, especially with me leading this 'company of interests.' A man in a Chiss body, doing my utmost, but far from embodying the legendary aura of Grand Admiral Thrawn.
We can only hope for one of two outcomes. Scenario Number One: The Ubiqtorate won't attempt to crush us to assert their authority. Imperial Intelligence and other intelligence agencies within the Empire are not fools; they won't risk a public conflict over my demands concerning their fleet's ships. The Ubiqtorate has always prioritized the Empire's well-being, and they won't instigate an inter-Imperial confrontation. That's what I was counting on when I instructed Pellaeon to summon the ships from Tangren. The Ubiqtorate is unlikely to risk open confrontation. They'll probably send someone more senior than a mere coordinator to negotiate.
Scenario Number Two: We arrive in Tangren's orbit, and the fleet, along with everything else they have, is already there, waiting for us. And then, the battle begins. Given my current lack of experience in space fleet operations and the enemy's numerical superiority, our only trump card is the notorious C'baoth. Rukh reported half an hour ago that the master was seen wandering the living quarters of the Chimera. So, the old man has come to his senses. If necessary, he can provide us with all possible support. In a contest between a 'battered fleet with trophies supported by the Battle Meditation of a mad Jedi clone' and 'top-tier Imperial military on ships with experienced crews,' I'd say our chances are at least equal. At most, I'm confident events will unfold according to Scenario Number One.
"I am not your obedient puppet, Grand Admiral," came the loud, slightly shrill voice of the aforementioned Jedi Master, who had just emerged from the Chimera's turbolift. "And I don't have to appear at your beck and call like some wayward padawan!"
The control room fell silent. The blatant defiance from the clone could not go unnoticed. I need C'baoth to coordinate the troops, whose professionalism has waned. But I must not let him overstep his bounds—especially in front of my subordinates. This would first and foremost undermine my authority. And that is unacceptable.
I turned my chair towards C'baoth as he approached me, fixing my gaze on his eyes—ordinary human eyes alight with madness. I noticed Rukh tense up, crouching a few meters away from me, hidden in the shadows of the bulkhead.
"Master C'baoth," I greeted the "esteemed guest." "I'm glad you accepted my invitation to join me on the bridge. However, I must point out that you've been rather hot-headed lately."
The clone loomed over me, as if trying to impose his authority through his decrepit figure.
"Where is my Jedi, Grand Admiral?" he hissed, like a venomous serpent. "I aided you in the Dufilvian sector! Where. Is. My. Jedi?"
"There's no need to use that commanding tone on me, Master," I calmly remarked. "I'm not your student, and you're not my master. We are partners, and I suggest you remember that. If you ever attempt to undermine my authority with such inappropriate intonations again..."
"And what will you do, Admiral?" the Jedi Master sneered. "I've been inside the minds of your people. One thought, and I could seize control of your entire crew!"
This was intolerable.
"Go ahead, Jedi Master," I replied coolly, my voice steady despite the icy prospect of such a scenario. "Your control requires stillness, along with immense physical and mental strength, leaving you vulnerable. In the time it would take you to enter your meditative trance, Captain Pellaeon," Gilad, standing beside my chair, swallowed nervously, "would have ample time to retrieve his service weapon from the nearest arsenal and shoot you like an old bantha. But he won't kill you—instead, he'll shoot your arms and legs, ensuring the pain prevents you from further disrupting my plans. And after that, we'll jettison you from the nearest emergency airlock."
"Captain Pellaeon," I continued, turning to the Chimera's commander, "what do you suppose happens to someone who finds themselves outside a spaceship in hyperspace?"
"We can't be certain, sir," Gilad replied without missing a beat, "but I imagine their suffering would be far worse than if they had simply ventured into a vacuum without a spacesuit."
C'baoth's defiance evaporated instantly. The old man clearly panicked, fumbling for the talisman hanging around his neck. Only after he clutched it did the clone seem to regain a semblance of composure.
"You wouldn't dare," he declared with forced confidence. "You need me to coordinate your inept crew! Without me, your grand plans to restore the Empire will crumble."
"You're mistaken, C'baoth," I said firmly. "Without you, my plans would only be slightly delayed by the need to conduct more training exercises with the crews. But you won't derail them. This is my ship, under my command, and you will not behave arrogantly towards any of my subordinates. So, you have a choice—either control yourself and act like an ally, or it's the airlock, the vacuum, and some rather unpleasant experiences for your cooling body in interstellar space."
The old man remained silent, gnawing at his lips furiously, fully aware that he had just been given an ultimatum. His behavior was unacceptable, and it had been made clear to him.
"Very well," he finally conceded. "I'm not a fool, Admiral. I understand your words."
"If you were a fool, you wouldn't," I replied. "Let's assume you still remember good manners and will act accordingly. After all, you are the leader of the future Jedi Order. The galaxy will judge the new defenders of peace by your actions. Shall I remind you what happened to the arrogant snobs who showed respect to no one but themselves?"
Of course, I was exaggerating. The public's opinion of the Jedi, shaped by Imperial propaganda over the past quarter-century, was so distorted that it even made me feel a bit nauseous. No, I respected the Jedi. The Jedi of the past. Yes, they made mistakes, but overall, they were decent people. Mostly. But somehow, this particular individual had survived.
"I remember the Jedi Order's history well," C'baoth sneered. Judging by the contempt in his voice when he spoke of "his" brothers, his mind was clearly poisoned by Imperial propaganda. Or perhaps he held such views even before his cloning. "So why do you need me?"
"First, to inform you that my plan concerning Corran Horn has been set in motion. Our spies report that he, along with Rogue Squadron, is heading to the Dufilvian sector to investigate recent events there."
This information was obtained through Source Delta's efforts, along with several other crucial details that no one else needs to know but me.
"Excellent," C'baoth grinned. "So you'll deliver him to me soon?"
"Patience, my dear ally," I urged. "First, we need to weave the right web of clues to lead Horn straight to you."
"Then why am I here?" the Jedi Master asked, his tone edged with irritation.
"We're approaching the Tangren system," I explained. "It seems the local command might be gearing up for a confrontation. If things escalate, I'd like your assistance in coordinating our forces."
"Are you starting a small civil war, Grand Admiral?" The Jedi clone's eyes gleamed with intensity.
"I intend to avoid that at all costs," I replied. "But if they leave me no choice..."
"I see," he said, surveying the control room. "Is there somewhere I can sit comfortably? The last time I used Battle Meditation, it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience."
"Of course," I replied. "Captain Pellaeon, find a more suitable chair for our esteemed ally."
"Yes, sir," the Chimera's commander responded with a hint of cheerfulness.
After being provided with a comfortable chair, the Jedi Master settled into it, adjusting himself to get comfortable. Then, folding his arms across his chest, he appeared to drift into a light sleep.
"Sir," Pellaeon whispered as he leaned closer to me. "Are you certain this... ally will continue to uphold our agreement?"
"Nothing is certain in this galaxy," I replied. "Especially when it comes to a dark Jedi."
Stroking the ysalamiri in my arms, I continued, confident that C'baoth couldn't overhear due to the Force-blocking creature:
"We need him—for now. After that, we'll dispose of him and move on without any further delays."
"As you command, sir," Pellaeon replied. "Thirty seconds until we exit hyperspace."
"Good," I responded. "Ensure everything is ready to greet our dear allies."
As the hyperspace tunnel disintegrated into streaks of light and the stars came back into view, I realized I had been holding my breath. Only after hearing Pellaeon's report did I allow myself to exhale cautiously. It seemed the Ubiqtorate had chosen a third option that I hadn't anticipated—they had fled, abandoning Tangren.
I listened calmly to the Chimera's commander's report.
"The jump is complete. All ships in the fleet have arrived in the system, no losses or stragglers," he stated. Despite thousands of years of using hyperdrives, ships still occasionally go off course due to navigation failures or hyperdrive malfunctions. But today, we reached our destination—all of us, intact. "A Victory I-class Star Destroyer, the Crusader, is in orbit. Captain I-Gor sent us a greeting and congratulated us on our victory in the Dufilvian sector."
"Is that so?" I thought, intrigued.
"Contact Captain I-Gor," I ordered. "I expect him on board the Chimera in three hours. Also, invite the Moff to a meeting in two hours." I quickly calculated the time needed to organize matters and gather intelligence on what had transpired here.
Not a single ship remained, save for a few insignificant orbital boats—easily outrun by even an armed freighter. Where had all the 'wealth' I had anticipated gone?
"They're transmitting a message from the shipyard, saying they're ready to accept damaged ships," Pellaeon continued with the reports.
"Arrange it," I commanded. "Dock only those ships we cannot repair on our own. The rest will remain on orbital patrol. Send spy droids throughout the Tangren system and its nearest sectors. We need complete control over everything happening here."
"Sir," Pellaeon said cautiously, "the Ubiqtorate may not understand our actions..."
"The Ubiqtorate won't interfere with what we're doing in Tangren," I said, voicing my assumptions. "Don't you see, Captain? The fleet left orbit—likely right after I demanded their participation in our operations."
"And that means..." Pellaeon began to piece it together.
"It means Imperial Intelligence has made their move," I sighed. "Rejoice, Captain. One less headache."
The expression on the Chimera commander's face read: "Or is it?"
"Sir," Lieutenant Tschel approached Pellaeon, "a Lambda-class shuttle is approaching the Chimera. They're transmitting Imperial Intelligence identification codes. The codes are valid. What are your orders?"
Pellaeon looked at me expectantly.
"Allow them to land," I ordered. "Clear the hangar of all personnel and station a company of stormtroopers there. Disarm the guests and place them under guard. The mission leader is to be brought to the flight crew briefing room. Execute the orders, Lieutenant Tschel!"
"Yes, sir!" the young officer responded with enthusiasm and rushed to the console to relay my commands.
"Let's go, Captain," I instructed. "Let's see what these Imperial Intelligence renegades want to discuss."
Rising from my chair with the ysalamiri in my arms, I headed toward the exit. As I passed C'baoth, still sitting in the same position, I couldn't help but chuckle internally.
The old clone was fast asleep in the chair, a blissful smile on his face.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone