Alliances (Star Wars: Thrawn, #2)(4)
She had the scowl safely tucked away by the time the other came to a crisp halt in front of her. “Commodore Faro,” he greeted her with the stiff formality she’d come to expect from stormtrooper officers. “I’m—”
“Yes; Commander Kimmund,” she interrupted with equal formality.
He didn’t twitch, and of course any flicker of surprise would be hidden by his helmet faceplate. But Faro had no doubt the surprise was there. The white-on-white unit and rank designations were nearly impossible to see without stormtrooper optical enhancements, but Faro had long since mastered the technique. “What can I do for you?” she continued.
“I need to talk to you about the positioning and priority placement of our transport,” Kimmund said. There wasn’t any surprise in his voice, either. Quick on the recovery. “Your chief hangar master is having trouble obeying orders.”
Mentally, Faro shook her head. Yes, that sounded like Senior Lieutenant Xoxtin. The woman had her precise, idiosyncratic way of doing things, and it often took a figurative loadlifter to budge her.
Unfortunately, her family was one of the Coruscant elite, and was furthermore close friends with the Emperor’s senior adviser on Mid Rim affairs. Xoxtin got away with doing things her own way simply because few naval officers had the nerve to bring the necessary pressure to bear.
Luckily for Kimmund, Faro was one of those few.
“I’ll speak to her personally,” she promised Kimmund. “Where exactly do you want your transport positioned?”
“Lord Vader’s Lambda should of course be in Number One,” Kimmund said. “The Darkhawk should be in Number Two.”
Which would leave Admiral Thrawn’s own personal Lambda no higher than the Number Three slot. A clear violation of proper navy protocol, and Kimmund surely knew that.
Still, Thrawn had instructed his officers to cooperate with their guests—that was his word—as much as possible. And it wasn’t like a ship in Number Three couldn’t get into space as quickly as a ship in Number One. It was just farther from the prep room and therefore a bit more of a walk. Thrawn would probably be okay with that.
Actually, having the Darkhawk in there would go nicely with the other nondescript freighter currently sitting in Number Four, the civilian ship Thrawn had liberated from pirates a couple of years ago and used whenever he felt the need for anonymity. The First Legion’s transport was of much the same flavor: an old, Clone Wars–era Separatist freighter that looked decrepit on the outside but had been refitted with all the best weaponry, shielding, and sensor-evasion systems that Imperial technology could provide. For all of Lord Vader’s menace and flash, to say nothing of his instantly recognizable appearance, he clearly also understood the uses of subtlety.
Either that or he liked having a captured Separatist ship around to remind everyone which side had won.
“Very well,” she said to Kimmund. “I’ll make it happen.”
“Thank you, Commodore,” Kimmund said. Coming briefly to full attention, he turned and strode back down the command walkway.
Faro watched him go, feeling the swirl of calculations that was a frustrating part of an Imperial officer’s life. Xoxtin’s family was powerful; but Kimmund was the head of the First Legion, the elite unit that Lord Vader had drawn from the equally renowned 501st to serve as his personal stormtrooper force. Theoretically, the Emperor’s right-hand man trumped all the rest of the tangled political web.
But only if, when things went to meltdown, Vader deigned to intervene on Faro’s behalf. Unfortunately, he was notorious for staying out of political squabbles, and there was no guarantee he would even remember Faro’s minor assistance here. Xoxtin, on the other hand, would almost certainly hold a grudge.
There was never a good time for such a balancing act. But this particular time was especially bad. Faro had been promoted to commodore just six weeks ago, with the assurance that Task Force 231 would be hers as soon as its current commander was moved up the ladder to one of the larger fleets.
But that promise, and her task force, had yet to materialize. And with Commander Eli Vanto’s unexplained disappearance from the Seventh Fleet still fueling the rumor mill, Faro was no longer sure where her future lay. Annoying Xoxtin and her family at this juncture could prove fatal.
Still, she’d promised Kimmund. More important, letting a subordinate get away with ignoring orders, even a subordinate as well connected as Xoxtin, set a bad precedent.
She was staring out the viewport, mentally walking through her confrontational options, when the mottled sky of hyperspace abruptly changed to starlines and collapsed into stars.
The Chimaera had arrived.
Only it hadn’t arrived at its planned destination. It had, instead, arrived in the literal middle of nowhere.
* * *
—
The stars shone through the viewport, their positions matching those on the nav display and confirming Commodore Faro’s calculations.
Lord Vader stands just out of sight, motionless, only his labored breathing marking his position. His breathing displays some variance. His body stance likewise holds a muted range of thought and emotion. But there is little there to read. Little to understand. Little to anticipate.
Faro stepped into view. “The hyperdrive has been checked twice, Admiral,” she said. Her facial muscles are tight. Her voice holds a higher degree of anxiety than usual. “The techs thought it might be the alluvial dampers, but they’ve been cleared. I’ve ordered a second check, but so far everything’s showing full green.” Her eyes remain correctly on her admiral as she speaks, but her muscles hold a tension that indicates she battles an urge to turn her attention and her speech to Lord Vader. She does not wish his presence on the command walkway, but her expression holds recognition that she has no choice in the matter.