"Captain Pellaeon!" The commander of the Chimera inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes momentarily as Lieutenant Tshel's voice echoed across the bridge of the Imperial Star Destroyer. "Captain Pellaeon!"
This was the problem with the current generation of Imperial officers—so many of them were fresh out of the academies and training centers, barely seasoned, yet now entrusted with the operation of a battleship.
Gilad mentally counted to ten—the precise amount of time it took the young lieutenant to traverse the distance from the communications console to the central platform of the bridge. When Tshel finally stood before him, the captain, whose temples bore the marks of age in the form of gray hair, fixed him with a stern gaze. It was of little use—Tshel looked every bit the part of an overconfident novice and remained so. Ah, but Thrawn—Thrawn had a presence that alone could instill a sense of discipline, compelling the crew to reach deep within themselves for the proper regulations of the Charter.
"What did I say about shouting on the bridge?" the captain inquired, adding a note of durasteel to his voice.
"This is not a livestock market; this is the bridge of a Star Destroyer, where raised voices are not tolerated," the lieutenant parroted back, clearly recalling their previous conversation following the escape from Obroa-skai. "Apologies, sir..."
"Two shifts in the officer's latrine should suffice for your penance," Pellaeon promised, inwardly savoring the way the boy bit his lip. Proud, is he? Well, well, let him reflect on that. "Now, what is it, Lieutenant?"
"The course to Myrkr has been set, all systems are functioning normally," Tshel reported, not missing a beat. "We'll arrive faster than a Jedi could scale a mountain..."
"Three shifts," Pellaeon corrected, his tone sharp. "Lieutenant, you are in the military. Leave the jokes to civilians."
"Yes, sir," the officer responded promptly. "Shall I inform the Grand Admiral of our estimated arrival time at Myrkr?"
"Why are you asking me about following orders from the senior naval officer?" Pellaeon frowned.
"It's just..." Lieutenant Tshel hesitated.
"It's just that even Gungans don't fight like this," Pellaeon quipped, echoing a phrase from the Clone Wars era. "Essentially."
"The Grand Admiral left no instructions," the lieutenant confessed, a note of unease creeping into his voice. "It's unusual because..."
"He usually insists on being kept informed of every development," Pellaeon finished for him. "Dismissed, Lieutenant. I'll handle the report myself."
From the very first day Thrawn set foot aboard the Chimera, he had established a set of unyielding rules—chief among them was the requirement that he be informed immediately upon the execution of his orders. For a year, he had patiently drilled this into the crew's minds, yet now... he had neglected to remind them of what he considered a cornerstone of shipboard discipline—keeping the senior officer fully informed?
Or was this a test?
Or had something happened to the Grand Admiral?
Pellaeon strained to recall when Thrawn's behavior began to change...
Today. Yes, it was today. When he entered Thrawn's quarters to report the success of the reconnaissance mission to Obroa-skai, the Grand Admiral had remained silent for an uncomfortably long time, sitting with his eyes closed. And when he finally opened them, his reaction was completely out of character.
Thrawn was never one to shy away from battle—he engaged in them with ease and consistently emerged victorious. Yet for some reason, he had ordered the Chimera to retreat without firing a single shot. Yes, the crew was young and inexperienced. Yes, they were facing four New Republic Nebulon-B frigates and a squadron of X-wings... But the enemy didn't have a single interdictor cruiser! They could have fought and given the New Republic a real challenge... But Thrawn chose to retreat.
Now he had forgotten his own standing order—since the ship had entered hyperspace, he should have received a report from the watch commander...
And they were en route to some obscure planet, about which there was so little information in the ship's database—apart from the galactic coordinates and a few scant details about the local atmosphere's suitability for breathing...
What's going on?!
Gilad ran a hand over his mustache, a gesture of impatience. It was entirely unlike Thrawn to issue orders, demand their immediate execution, and then be the first to disregard them. No, of course, he was the commander here, but...
The middle-aged captain removed his uniform cap and smoothed his hair.
There's no use in wearing oneself out, trying to decipher what's happening.
Thrawn is impossible to predict—just when you think you understand him, he changes course. And you're left feeling like a fool all over again.
All one could do was hope that in Grand Admiral Thrawn's unfolding campaign, it would be the rebels who were left out in the cold, rather than them celebrating their usual victories.