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“Sir,” said Mak’ro’s second officer, pleading just a little. It was unbecoming, but in this situation, almost warranted. “Can’t you do something about… this?”
This was Mid Captain Ivant locked in a conference room, screens projected almost two-seventy degrees around his body. It was excessive for most, but as Mak’ro watched through the panelling in the door, the man turned and reached for the tabulated data on the edge of the projection, merging it with the sector map with a few efficient movements. He didn’t stop to look at it, scrolling through a different list of items with a possessed fervour.
Mak’ro looked at his chrono. They were reaching the eighteen hour mark. “It’s not serious till we’re past thirty,” he told his second officer, who wilted slightly.
At the thirty-seven hour mark, Mak’ro gave Ivant the choice of being physically locked in his quarters without his data, or being sedated by the medical team.
Ivant gave him a dirty look. “Don’t you want to know where the pirates are, sir?”
Mak’ro did want to know, but Ivant’s behaviour was annoyingly, infuriatingly, familiar, if Thrawn could have ever been called predictable. “You’ll give it to me anyway,” said Mak’ro. “And then you will take a shift off.”
“We can intercept their next rendezvous in five hours –”
“Did that sound like a suggestion, Mid Captain?” said Mak’ro.
Ivant, if anything, stiffened further, despite his obvious exhaustion. “No sir.”
Mak’ro said, “Good. Give me the coordinates and get out.”
And finally, Ivant drooped, just a little, enough for Mak’ro to know he knew, as if the last two days had not been enough of an indication. It was a mystery as to how he had found out; Tro’owmis’ fleet had only just picked him up out in the middle of nowhere, and any further information was highly classified as a matter of national security. But Ivant, thought Mak’ro dourly, had his ways, and his ways had clearly seen fit to inform him of this.
Unlike some other people, Mak’ro valued clear lines of communication. “He is alive. I hear he will make a full recovery from his… adventures.”
“Yes sir,” said Ivant, but he didn’t look enthused. One would have thought Ivant would have been happy to hear Mitth’raw’nuruodo had been found.
The sentiment seemed oddly mutual. There was a dearth of interaction, which set Mak’ro’s teeth on edge. Sure, there had been the recovery period in the military hospital, then the brief time under custody before the trial, and then the acquittal, with some caveats on Thrawn’s commission. Namely, that he was strictly under Ar’alani’s stern and watchful eye for the immediate future.
Mak’ro didn’t envy her, even if Thrawn in his entirety was at least seventy percent Ar’alani’s fault. The supreme commanders might swoon over her no-nonsense attitude but the woman was a born enabler.
With style. Mak’ro would admit that.
However. If Thrawn was going to send Humans to the Ascendancy, it seemed only right he take responsibility for them; their fates were irrevocably tied in the eyes of the CEDF. A polite tokenistic enquiry would more than suffice. But nothing came. Had Thrawn missed yet another political cue? As it was, Mak’ro was still stuck with Ivant and Thrawn had shown zero interest in re-staking his claim.
For some reason, that didn’t seem correct. Mak’ro felt strangely unaccustomed to dealing with Thrawn’s special brand of obfuscate. It had, supposed Mak’ro, been a while. He’d best get back into practice.
Thalias and Che’ri were way ahead of him, as usual. Mak’ro opened the door to find Thrawn sitting in the living room, successfully faking a relaxed nonchalance.
“We crossed paths on Csilla during my debrief,” Thrawn was saying to Thalias and Che’ri, eyes flicking to Mak’ro as he entered the room and busied himself in the kitchen. By crossed paths , Mak’ro was liable to believe they passed each other in the corridor. “Beyond that, I am with Ar’alani’s fleet and Ivant is with Mak’ro.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” said Mak’ro to nobody in particular, filling the teapot that Thalias liked best.
“What Mak’ro means to say,” said Thalias. “Is that —”
“He can’t fucking believe you two haven’t talked yet,” said Che’ri cheerfully. Mak’ro narrowed his eyes. Che’ri may have been old enough to drink, die for the Ascendancy, and pay taxes, but she sure as hell wasn’t old enough to swear.
“Well, yes,” conceded Thalias. “I can’t believe it either.”
“We have not had the opportunity,” Thrawn told her sincerely, except when Thrawn actually wanted something he blew up ships to get it. Che’ri snorted and disguised it as a cough. Thalias smothered her expression behind a tactful hand.
Considering the events that had taken place between their last, and by all accounts, brief interaction pre-purrgil, Mak’ro was unsurprised. Unsurprised, but unsympathetic. This, whatever this was, was causing untold havoc on his officer corps. Mak’ro carefully put the teapot down on the small side table.
“What is he to you?” demanded Mak’ro. “An investment? An asset?”
“They are not mutually exclusive,” began Thrawn, then stopped at the murderous look on Mak’ro’s face. He said finally, “A friend.” Or at least, he had been.
Leave it to Thrawn to find his kindred spirit, only to send them across a galaxy and a half with no guarantee of them ever meeting again. A friend.
Un-fucking-believable.
Mak’ro was, in no uncertain terms, forced to believe it. Years of working under Ar’alani’s omniscience and the threat of civil war had left lasting impressions: monitoring the sociopolitical mechanics of his flagship was a matter of course. Ivant was working himself towards a nervous breakdown, most likely an undramatic yet severe implosion that he would vehemently deny under oath or on his deathbed.
Mak’ro didn’t have time for that. Luckily, the pirates didn’t either. Nothing stopped Ivant on a rampage. By all measures of efficiency, the spiral was highly productive, if only Mak’ro’s crew would stop reporting Ivant as a health and safety liability.
ISSUE #41782: STATUS - OPEN. PRIORITY - MEDIUM. MID CAPTAIN IVANT HAS HAD ELEVEN CUPS OF CAF THIS SHIFT.
Someone had already pinged Ivant to resolve the issue. Where had they learnt this kind of insubordination? Mak’ro was forced to remind them the Mid Captain had done nothing to jeopardise their mission and closed it himself. He paused at the log ISSUE #41788: STATUS - OPEN. PRIORITY - HIGH. MID CAPTAIN IVANT MISSED HIS WEEKLY APPOINTMENT WITH THE NAVIGATORS.
Perhaps this breakdown was progressing faster than he anticipated. But before Ivant really lost the plot, Mak’ro was confident he would pull through. He sent Ivant some supply manifests from a trading post on the other side of the sector, spectral sensitivity readings of the captured pirate comm triads, and a report on electrical atmospheric storms.
He was right.
“Their base,” echoed Mak’ro. “We might need backup.”
Ivant barely looked at the live EDF projection before he said, “The Steadfast is approaching the predicted coordinates from the opposite trajectory of our attack vector.”
Ar’alani acquiesced easily enough. Mak’ro knew she liked blasting enemies of the Ascendancy into tiny pieces, but it was a little convenient. If Ivant didn’t think Mak’ro wouldn’t notice the Steadfast’s designated patrol route was being conducted in reverse, he was losing his touch. Still, there was no denying the Steadfast was the best choice in the vicinity.
For once, Thrawn didn’t get a single harebrained scheme in edgewise because Ivant had already set it up for them.
“You are sure?” Ar’alani asked Mak’ro. It was less a doubtful reconsideration and more a final confirmation.
“Yes,” said Mak’ro crisply. Inside, he was despairing. Was his entire career to be a front for the increasingly ridiculous stunts required to keep the borders of the Ascendancy safe?
“Acknowledged,” said Ar’alani. “Senior Captain Thrawn will take the left flank in. Mid Captain, over to you.”
“On my mark,” said Ivant, possibly the only words he had said to Thrawn in the last half decade. Never mind it was broadcast on open comms across two Ascendancy flagships. Mak’ro considered this progress.
The resultant stint in the repair docks gave Mak’ro more time to think about the manoeuvre. Ivant had checked himself out of medical as soon as he was able, possibly a bit before, and disappeared with Thalias. His crew were all on leave. Ivant could do whatever he wanted.
… Ah, fuck it. Mak’ro wasn’t fooling himself. This wasn’t over yet.
“Give them some time,” said Thalias upon her return, and she usually did not volunteer any commentary about their acquaintanceship. Things had to be dire. Dire was not good. They would be shipworthy in a few weeks, and to be perfectly honest the thought of returning to the bridge with Mid Captain Ivant was giving Mak’ro the shivers.
Hindsight, as they said, was brown-eyed and deceptively innocent-looking. It should have been clear from the start that Ivant was batshit insane, because no one otherwise would upend their lives on Thrawn’s word.
“I did,” said Thalias. “Well, kind of.”
“Me too,” said Che’ri, through half a mouthful of bread and jam. “Remember that time I got to pilot a ship in Lesser Space all by myself? That was pretty cool.”
Che’ri was definitely having him on. She flew ships for a living now. Thalias added, “Remember when you took the Springhawk back to the Ascendancy without him?”
Mak’ro glared. This is what he got for ranting out loud at breakfast time.
Thalias pointed out, “You picked Ivant.”
Trust Thalias to hit him while he was down. Yes, Mak’ro had snatched Ivant out of Ar’alani’s grasp when he had made admiral, despite the unconventional appointment of mid captain to flagship first officer. Ivant had been more than capable for the role; Mak’ro could admit to himself he had wanted to see the man who had declared for the Ascendancy on nothing more than Thrawn‘s conviction. And while Thrawn cared little for what others thought of him, he did nothing without careful and considerate calculation.
Something Mak’ro had always known, made clear now to even Thrawn’s most ardent supporters: Thrawn could be wrong. Hell, the whole fiasco of the last five years showed just how wrong he could be. But Thrawn had always gambled with only everything he had.
Ivant had not been spared, Mak’ro thought; Ivant was everything Thrawn had had.
Ivant was careful and considerate calculation, hidden under open expression and those dim but wide eyes; three hundred thoughts per second filtered to the top five plus contingencies. All the junior officers wanted his approval, whether or not they were willing to admit it. He knew exactly what would comfort his allies and unsettle enemies, even if he was still working on the finer points of execution.
Above all an uncanny strategist. Perhaps even beyond what Thrawn had ever envisioned. Mak’ro thought of Thrawn’s expression on the bridge of the Steadfast , watching with those sharp eyes what Mak’ro already knew. Flawlessly tracking the movements of their ships and weaponry before they happened.
This didn’t need the Sight. Three hundred thoughts, top five. Contingencies.
Mak’ro revised his estimates: Thrawn’s measly existence was sixty percent Ar’alani and forty percent Ba’kif.
But all of him belonged to Eli’van’to.
Thalias brushed a stray lock of hair out of his face. “You’ll give yourself an aneurysm, dear.”
Of course it was Tro’owmis who broke the proverbial pack-animal’s back.
Hey, you gonna do something about this?
It was a picture of Thrawn, brooding in the mess hall of the Naporar barracks.
What Ar’alani’s officers do in their own time is none of my concern, Mak’ro sent back. It was, technically, none of Tro’owmis’ concern either. Besides, Thrawn should not be in the barracks. He should be in the Mitth residences.
Mak’ro knew rather personally who was currently in the Mitth residences. Thalias had unofficially ceded her quarters to him when she had all but moved in with Mak’ro. They were still in her name, of course. Thurfian hated it. Mak’ro knew both Thalias and Ivant enjoyed this arrangement all the more for it.
Ivant held no other sway with the Mitth. Even if he should have, considering what he had done for them. But everyone knew Thurfian was an ungrateful bitch.
Speaking of which:
“This is for Ivant,” said Mak’ro.
“Why don’t you give it to him yourself?” asked Thrawn quizzically.
Mak’ro sighed bodily. “No. It’s from you. For Ivant.”
Thrawn’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you meddling with my affairs.”
Mak’ro had had enough. As if decorum had ever stopped Thrawn from meddling with literally any affairs he so wished to interfere with. “Alright. Thrawn. Let’s get this straight. They are no longer your affairs when they concern my first officer.”
Thrawn opened his mouth. Mak’ro wasn’t done. “No – no. No. You don’t get to come waltzing back in after your extended holiday in Lesser Space and cause upset in the ranks. You are going to talk to him and fix what you broke. Do I make myself clear?” He held out the bottle of wine. Menacingly.
Thrawn’s mouth snapped shut. “Crystal,” he said, taking the proffered item. “But you are mistaken. He doesn’t want any further association with me.”
Thrawn would have damaged Ivant’s reputation, certainly, if there had been anything to damage. As it was, Ivant had started from further down the dung heap than even the lowest-born of Chiss, and all of Ar’alani’s status and tough love could not protect him from the disdain of the foreign. His rise amongst the senior staff had already been discredited from every angle, and stood all the stronger for it.
At the same time, Ivant held close to himself a compassion all of the Syndicure’s demands could not wear down, and sometimes it showed: he was disinclined to impose.
Fortunately, Mak’ro had no such limitations.
“You’re wrong,” Mak’ro told him, and shut his door in Thrawn’s face. That was at least a little bit satisfying.
–
Thrawn said, with no other greeting, “Mak’ro is insistent that we speak. Humour me, and by extension, your admiral.”
Eli eyed him. “If you don’t want to, I’ll tell Mak’ro we spoke.” That wouldn’t fool him.
“That won’t fool him,” said Thrawn. “And despite or perhaps due to recent events, the air should be cleared.”
“Well,” said Eli. “What do you want to say?”
Thrawn was silent for a moment. “This is a Csillan vintage,” he said, holding up a bottle of wine. “Expensive, but not outrageous. A small local winery. Something Mak’ro would enjoy, but probably not go out of his way to purchase. The price range indicates the benefactor did not have excessive funds, but wanted something higher-end for Mak’ro to share with his guests. He would have received a few bottles but less than a full case, hence it was acceptable to pass one to me.”
Eli took the bottle from Thrawn’s hands, fingers brushing, and turned it slowly. “He cellared it.”
“He did,” agreed Thrawn. “I suspect this is the last of it. It was significant to him.” It was nice, but it wasn’t fancy enough to be cellared for more than sentimentality. And from his voice, Thrawn didn’t know why Mak’ro had given it to him.
Eli looked again at the vintage year, and lifted his gaze to Thrawn. “For sharing with his guests, or guest singular?” He said, in challenge, “Come on, Thrawn, who gave this to him?”
Thrawn could never resist a challenge. He reached for the wine, and Eli surrendered it back to his careful hands. He turned it, taking in the tag and the glasswork, fingers curled around the bottle where it widened from the neck. His fingers ran over the edge of the label. “Che’ri.”
He was silent for a moment, likely contemplating the passage of time that meant the former Navigator had been old enough to purchase expensive alcohol for her mentor. Friend. Family beyond house. Whoever Mak’ro was to her. Then he said, “It was for him and Thalias.”
Eli looked at him for a long moment. “It was,” he said, neutrally. “He was away often. There was trouble on the borders and within. Some questionable decisions. A court martial.” Thrawn blinked. “Yes, if you can believe it. And Thalias had just made Syndic for her work revitalising the sky-walker program.” His lips twitched at Thrawn’s micro-expression. “Thurfian hasn’t changed, let’s say. Che’ri…” He paused. “Che’ri was halfway through her cadetship. She knew they hadn’t had the time they wanted.”
“A cadet wouldn’t be able to afford this,” Thrawn told him seriously.
Eli laughed. “No, you’re right.” His eyes glinted.
“Her art.”
“Yes,” said Eli contemplatively. “Thalias keeps a lot of her earlier works in these quarters.” There was an unspoken question there.
Thrawn didn’t rise to the bait. “How do you know this?”
“Thalias told me, of course,” he said, smiling slightly. “She’s very fond of the story. I’ll leave the rest for her to tell. It was a bit of a cross-roads, for them. They could have parted ways then.”
Thrawn said, “Wine does not a solution make.”
“No,” said Eli. “But talking does. Or, well. It can.”
Thrawn considered the bottle of wine in his hands, then slowly slid his gaze up, and it had lost none of its intensity.
“Eli Vanto,” said Thrawn. “May I come in?”
–
Thrawn set a bottle of wine on his desk with unnecessary force.
“You had one job,” Mak’ro said waspishly, not looking up from his questis.
Thrawn inclined his head. “It is a different bottle of wine.”
Mak’ro moved his eyes up ever so slightly. Indeed it was. “Oh, thank fuck. Who chose it?”
“Eli did.”
“Eli, is it?” said Mak’ro. “Well, don’t interrupt me. I’m reviewing Eli’s request for transfer.”
Thrawn was instantly on alert. “Where to?”
Mak’ro said, “Where do you think?”
The look on Thrawn’s face was worth it. “Congratulations, Senior Captain,” said Mak’ro, standing to clap him on the shoulder. “Ar’alani has forwarded the details. Now get out of my sight.”
The ship was under Ar’alani’s fleet. They were both finally no longer Mak’ro’s problem. Mak’ro leaned back in his chair, checked Thalias’ schedule, and poured himself a glass of the wine.