“Your analysis holds several logical flaws,” Thrawn said. “First, the Nine Families don’t dictate military assignments. Second, Mid Captain Samakro has no reason to wish command of the Springhawk. With his experience and capabilities, he’ll surely be offered a more prestigious ship than a mere heavy cruiser.”
“The Springhawk is pretty prestigious,” Thalias told him. “Maybe more than you realize. But even if it wasn’t, the Ufsa family would still want it back. It got taken away from them, and they’re notorious for resenting anything they see as a political backslide.”
“I see,” Thrawn said.
Thalias peered closely at him in the dim light. From the slight frown around his eyes, it was clear that he didn’t see at all. “But to answer your question, no, the Mitth didn’t send me,” she said, picking her words carefully. “In fact, the family fought me the whole way. I was just lucky that I was able to join the ship as a caregiver instead of a family observer.”
“Interesting,” Thrawn said. “Did they give a reason for not wanting you as an observer?”
“They didn’t actually say anything, one way or the other,” Thalias said. “They just kept throwing barriers in my way. New forms I suddenly needed to fill out, new people I had to chase down to approve my request, new people on Csilla or Naporar who had to be brought into the loop. That sort of thing.”
“Perhaps they didn’t think you were qualified to observe,” Thrawn suggested. “Or perhaps there was interference from other families.”
“If there were other families in the mix, I never saw them,” Thalias said sourly. “As for qualifications, I’ve got the full complement of eyes, ears, and brains. What else do I need?”
“That would be a question for the family,” Thrawn said. “But it leads to yet another question. If the family didn’t initiate your arrival, it was your doing. Why?”
Thalias braced herself. She’d hoped to avoid that question completely, but down deep she’d known it would eventually rise up to slap her in the face.
She’d come up with a couple of plausible-sounding lies, and for a moment she was tempted to use one of them. But sitting here, listening to his measured voice, she knew it would be useless. “It’s going to sound stupid,” she warned.
“Noted. Continue.”
She braced herself. “I just wanted to see you again,” she said. “You changed my life, and I…I wanted to see you again, that’s all.”
He frowned at her. “Really. How exactly did I change your life?”
“We met once before,” she said, feeling even more ridiculous. Of course he wouldn’t remember such a minor interaction. “It was a long time ago, when I was finishing my last trip as a sky-walker.”
“Ah, yes,” Thrawn said, still frowning. “Aboard the Tomra, when I was a cadet.”
“That’s right,” Thalias said, breathing a little easier. So he did remember her. That eased at least a little of the awkwardness she was feeling. “Captain Vorlip came in, you talked—”
“And she spun me around to see if I could really feel the ship as I’d claimed.”
“Yes,” Thalias said. “And you impressed her.”
“Did I?”
“Of course,” Thalias said. “She told me afterward that—”
“Because she also sent fifty downmarks ahead of me to Taharim.”
Thalias felt her eyes widen. “She did what? Why?”
“For unauthorized intrusion into the Tomra’s command area,” Thrawn said. “I was three months working them off.”
“But—” Thalias sputtered. “But she was impressed by you.”
“Perhaps as a person she was impressed,” Thrawn said. “Perhaps even as a spacefarer. But as an officer of the Chiss Ascendancy, she had a duty to enforce regulations.”
“But it was an honest mistake.”
“Intent and motivations are irrelevant,” Thrawn said. “Judgment can focus only on actions.”
“I suppose,” Thalias murmured, her gut twisting inside her. So his memory of her would always be linked to an unpleasant episode in his career. Wonderful.
“How exactly did our meeting change your life?”
Thalias sighed. The last thing she wanted was to keep talking about it. But she’d decided to tell the truth, and there was no way out of it now. “You gave me hope,” she said. The words sounded a lot sillier when she said them aloud than they had when they were just bouncing around inside her head. “I mean…I was thirteen. I thought my life was over. You told me I’d find a new path, and that I could choose how things worked out.”
“Yes,” Thrawn said, his voice thoughtful. Not sympathetic, not encouraging, not even really responsive. Just thoughtful.
Thalias had thought about this moment for a long time. She’d wondered what he would say, what she would say, and if it would open up new vistas for her life and her future.
And now nothing. He was thoughtful. Just thoughtful.
She closed her eyes, wishing she was anywhere else in the galaxy. She should never, never have started down this path in the first place.
“I had an older sister,” Thrawn said, his voice almost too soft for her to hear. “She was five when she disappeared. My parents would never tell me where she went.”
Thalias opened her eyes again. He was still sitting there in the gloom, still looking thoughtful.
But now there was something new in his eyes. A distant, well-hidden, but lingering pain. “How old were you?” she asked.
“Three,” Thrawn said. “For a long time I assumed she’d died, and that I would never see her again. It wasn’t until I reached bridge officer rank that I was finally told about the sky-walkers, and realized what must have happened to her.” He gave her a small smile, tinged with the same distant sadness. “And I’ll still never see her again.”
“You might,” Thalias said, moved by an obscure desire to comfort him. “There have to be records somewhere.”
“I’m sure there are,” Thrawn said. “But most sky-walkers want to disappear into obscurity after they finish their service, and the Ascendancy’s long had a practice of honoring those wishes.” He lifted a hand. “We all have regrets, however, just as we have hopes that will never be fulfilled. The key to a satisfying life is to accept those things that cannot be changed, and make a positive difference with those that can.”