Thrawn Ascendancy Book 3: Lesser Evil
- Автор: Зан Тимоти
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Random House
- ISBN: 9781473596580
- Жанр: Боевая фантастика
Электронная книга - «Thrawn Ascendancy Book 3: Lesser Evil». Краткое содержание книги:
“And what question would that be?” Jixtus asked.
“The most critical one of all,” Thrawn said. “Are you ready to surrender?”
“Are you ready to surrender?”
For a few seconds the comm was silent. Ar’alani’s eyes flicked around the Vigilant’s bridge, looking at the dark displays and the lines of red status lights, wondering if Jixtus’s mouth was hanging open in surprise at the sheer brashness of Thrawn’s question. Wondering, too, what Grysks looked like so she’d know if an openmouthed stare was even physically possible for them.
She gazed out the viewport, her brief contemplation of Grysk physiology disappearing into more pressing issues. The Grysk warships currently spreading out among the drifting debris field were big and ugly, bringing back unpleasant memories of the one the Vigilant had tangled with over this same planet.
True, only the FateSpinner was as big as the warship she and Ziinda had eventually taken down. But at the time of its final defeat, the HopeBreaker had already taken serious damage from its earlier encounter with Ziinda and Thrawn. The FateSpinner, in contrast, looked to be in pristine condition.
As for the other ships of Jixtus’s fleet, the SkySweep, Armageddon, and Emery were at least somewhat smaller than the Vigilant. Unfortunately, they were still larger than the Springhawk and Grayshrike. The eleven BattleChiefs were only a little smaller than the Chiss heavy cruisers, and larger than the light cruisers and patrol cruisers that the Council and Ba’kif had sent. No matter how this worked out, it was likely to be bloody.
And in the end, the whole battle plan rested on the alien device hidden in the Paccian gunboat currently twisting out its corkscrew of black metallic smoke. A device that might or might not perform the way Thrawn claimed it would.
But these were the cards they were holding. Ar’alani’s job was to play them as cleanly and as cunningly as possible.
“Are you ready to surrender?”
Someone across the Grayshrike’s bridge let out a small half chuckle. Ziinda’s first impulse was to warn against unprofessional outbursts; her second was to recognize that releasing a little tension before battle was not just understandable but beneficial.
She shifted her attention from the blank tactical display she’d been contemplating to the viewport. In the distance, she could see the spiraling smoke that marked the Paccian gunboat where the alien device was being held in readiness.
And she wondered distantly if Mid Captain Apros, standing watch over that device, was chuckling away any of his own tension.
She hadn’t wanted him to take that duty. In fact, she’d fought strenuously against it, arguing that her first officer’s place was aboard his own ship. But Thrawn and Ar’alani had insisted in turn that the device couldn’t be simply left in Paccian hands and that a core group of Chiss needed to be aboard to operate it. Apros had volunteered to command the contingent, Thrawn had accepted, and the discussion had been over.
It had been a bold and honorable offer, Ziinda knew, given that if Apros hadn’t volunteered someone else would have had to take his place. It demonstrated the kind of courage and commitment that was supposed to be the hallmark of the Expansionary Defense Fleet.
But lurking in the back of her mind was the quiet conversation the two of them had had on the Grayshrike’s bridge, their discussion of family pride and personal recognition.
Had Apros asked to be caretaker of the alien device out of a desire to be remembered by his family and the Ascendancy?
Ziinda hoped not. That wasn’t how decisions were supposed to be made.
But there was no going back now. All she could do was fight the enemy to the best of her strength and ability, and leave the rest to the universe and warrior’s fortune.
And she would also make sure that, whatever happened, Mid Captain Csap’ro’strob would be remembered.
“Are you ready to surrender?”
For a long moment Jixtus didn’t speak. Qilori sent a furtive look at him, wondering what was going on behind the veil, whether the Grysk was surprised, amused, or outraged.
Was Thrawn trying to get himself summarily killed?
Qilori’s winglets flattened. Of course he was. The Magys and the Magysines were aboard the Aelos with him, and a quick, violent death at Jixtus’s hand would rob the Grysk of his prizes.
But Jixtus wouldn’t fall for it. He would hold back his anger until he was able to board the Aelos and either confirm the Magysines’ existence or establish that they weren’t there. Only when that task had been completed would Jixtus allow himself the pleasure of watching Thrawn die.
And then, as Jixtus presumably was still choosing his response, the Whetstone’s bridge speaker gave a clear, bright tone as a general broadcast from the Aelos came over the comm. Qilori twitched, his winglets twitching along with him. An alarm? A warning?
A signal?
And as he gazed out the viewport in horror, the dead Chiss fleet came back to life.
The drifting ships seemed to gather themselves together, their running lights reappearing, their slow, random rotations ceasing as they stabilized and rotated their weapons clusters toward the Grysk ships. Those surrounded by battle debris shook themselves free of the floating clouds, the tendrils of smoke or liquid ceasing their flow, the lingering fires vanishing. On the Whetstone’s displays Qilori saw the reactor power readings of the nearest ships surge smoothly upward. Laser capacitors ran to full charge; electrostatic barriers winked into existence along nyix-alloy hulls.
Barely fifteen seconds after the tone sounded, the Chiss fleet was ready.
And with the Grysk warships having split up their battle formation, each now found itself in the center of a group of enemies.
“Well, Jixtus?” Thrawn asked, his voice no longer tentative and broken. “I offer you one final chance.”
There was no response. Qilori tore his eyes away from the awakening enemy and looked at the command chair.
It was empty.
“Jixtus?” Qilori looked around frantically, turning his head to the starboard side of the bridge just in time to see the escape pod hatch on that side slam shut. “Jixtus!”
Too late. There was the muffled sound of the ejection thrusters, and Jixtus was gone.
Qilori looked around, his winglets quivering. When Nakirre had died, the vassals had all hunched over in their seats, remembering or mourning or perhaps gone catatonic. They were all still in that posture, apparently oblivious to both Jixtus’s exit and the threat rapidly forming in front of them. Their enlightened master was dead, and they had given up hope.
And Qilori was trapped in here with them.
“Everyone stay sharp,” Samakro warned, watching with grim satisfaction as the Springhawk came to full battle readiness. He and the others had practiced this crash ramp-up twice a day since the arrival of the rest of the Expansionary Defense Fleet ships, supposedly at Sunrise to arrest Thrawn, actually under Ba’kif’s private order to join his forces and place themselves under his command.
There’d been some grumbling about the whole mutual-destruction scenario Thrawn had proposed, Samakro knew. But even those who’d disagreed with him could see now that a field of supposedly wrecked warships had been the perfect way to split Jixtus’s warships apart and draw them into close-combat range.