Many of those skilled in technological warfare believe that physical training and discipline are unnecessary. With turbolasers, hyperdrives, armor plating, and the mental resources to direct them, muscular strength and agility are thought to be merely conceits.

They are wrong. The mind and body are linked together in a meshwork of oxygen, nutrients, hormones, and neuron health. Physical exercise drives that meshwork, stimulating the brain and freeing one’s intellect. Simulated combat has the additional virtue of training the eye to spot small errors and exploit them.

A change in focus can also allow the subconscious mind to focus on unresolved questions. Simulated combat often ends with the warrior discovering that one or more of those questions has been unexpectedly solved.

And occasionally, such exercise can serve other purposes.

—

“I do not understand,” Thrawn said, his usually impassive face troubled as he gazed at the datapad report. If Thrawn were a lesser being, Eli reflected, he would almost say the Chiss was confused.

“What’s there to understand?” Eli asked. “It’s the result everyone expected.”

The glowing red eyes bored into Eli’s. “Everyone?”

“Mostly,” Eli hedged. Yes, that was definitely what he might characterize as confusion. “Really, it’s just navy politics as usual.”

“But it violates all tactical reason,” Thrawn objected. “Commander Cheno acquitted himself well, and the actions of his ship won the battle and saved many lives. How does High Command conclude that he must be relieved of duty?”

“They didn’t relieve him, exactly,” Eli pointed out. “The communication stated that he’d been permitted to retire.”

“Is there a difference in the result?”

“Not really,” Eli admitted. “You’re right, letting him retire is mostly just a sweet-shell. As I say, politics. Gendling’s well connected, and his delicate little pride got bruised, so he’s taking it out on Cheno.”

Thrawn looked again at the datapad. “It is a foolish waste of resources.”

“Agreed,” Eli said. “But it could have been worse.”

“How so?”

“Really?” Eli asked, frowning. Was it really not obvious to him? “You were the one Gendling really wanted to nail to the bulkhead. Cheno might have been able to save himself if he’d told the panel you’d overreached your authority. But he didn’t. Since they had nothing on you, they threw him to the wolves instead.”

Thrawn was silent another three steps. “A foolish waste,” he murmured again.

Eli sighed. “You might as well get used to it.”

Again, the glowing red eyes turned on him. “What do you mean?”

Eli hesitated. It really wasn’t his place to say this. But if he didn’t, who else would? And for all Thrawn’s military skill and insight, he seemed incapable of seeing this one on his own. “I mean, sir, there’s a good chance that you’re going to leave a trail of damaged careers in your wake. In fact, you already have: Commander Cheno, Admiral Wiskovis, Commandant Deenlark—all of them have had official feathers ruffled in their direction.”

“There was no such intent on my part.”

“I know that,” Eli said. “It’s not because of anything you’ve done. It’s just the political reaction to—well, to you.”

“That was never my intent in accepting the Emperor’s service.”

“Intent isn’t the point,” Eli said patiently. “The problem is that you don’t fit into the neat little box navy officers are supposed to fill. You’re not human; worse, you’re not from the Core Worlds.”

“Neither are you or many others.”

“But the rest of us Wild Space yokels aren’t flying rings around all the politically connected elite who think they’re such flaming-hot stuff,” Eli pointed out. “You’re showing them up, and they resent you for it. And if they can’t take you down, they’ll go after the people they think helped make you who you are.”

“People like you?”

Eli let his gaze drift away. Yes, people like him. People who still had the lowly rank they’d graduated the Academy with while everyone else was energetically climbing the ladder.

But this conversation wasn’t about him. This conversation and warning were about Thrawn. “They’d probably come after me if they thought I was worth the effort,” he said, sidestepping the question.

“Do you suggest I try to be less capable?”

“Of course not,” Eli said firmly. “You do that and more people will die and more bad guys get away. I’m just pointing out that you need to be aware that you’re in the political crosshairs.”

“I understand,” Thrawn said. “I will endeavor to learn the rules and tactics of this form of warfare. In the meantime, is there anything we can do for Commander Cheno?”

“Just wish him well, I guess,” Eli said. “Even if you could persuade someone to listen to an appeal, he’d never command a ship again. This way, at least he got to go out on a high note.”

“Except that we know it was only a partial victory.”

“We suspect,” Eli corrected, lowering his voice. “We don’t know that’s what Nightswan was going for.” He pointed to the door ahead, the door with the simple gold IMPERIAL SECURITY BUREAU plaque above the smaller COLONEL WULLF YULAREN nameplate. “Maybe this is where we’ll get those answers.”

Colonel Yularen was waiting behind his desk when they arrived. “Welcome, Captain Thrawn; Ensign Vanto,” he greeted them. “Sit down.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Thrawn said. “I trust you have news for us?”

“Yes, but not the news you want,” Yularen said sourly. “Speaking of news, I just heard that your Commander Cheno got stabbed in the back by the court-martial panel. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Thrawn said. “He was a good officer.”

“So I’ve heard,” Yularen said. “Not great, but he didn’t deserve to get bounced out that way.” His eyes narrowed. “Any blowback toward you? Either of you?” he added, looking at Eli.

“Not that we’ve heard, sir,” Eli said.

“Good,” Yularen said. “They may not especially like you at High Command, Thrawn, but they can’t ignore the fact that you get results.” He scowled. “Unfortunately, our results aren’t quite up to your standards. We’ve done a complete search of every document ISB can get its hands on. The name Nightswan has cropped up on everything from metal smuggling to antiques purchases to the organization of protests and unrest. But we still don’t have the slightest idea who he really is.”

“Interesting,” Thrawn said. “You said he organized protests. Protests against whom?”

“Pretty much everyone,” Yularen said. “Mostly government—local and Imperial both—but also corporations, manufacturing interests, even shipping companies.” His eyes flicked back and forth as he read from his computer display. “We haven’t found anything in common among his various targets, either. Maybe he just likes making trouble.”

“May I have a list of all activities he is associated with?” Thrawn asked.

“Of course.” Yularen picked up a data card and handed it across the desk. “What are you hoping to find?”

“A pattern,” Thrawn said. “You say his targets appear random, but I believe we will find something connecting the locations, timing, or personnel involved. Many of his schemes involve the theft of doonium or other precious metals. Is there a chance he is driven by what he considers theft or—” He looked at Eli. “Gubudalu?”

Eli frowned. Gubudalu? What in the world was that one? Quickly, he ran the Sy Bisti root and modifiers—

Ah. “Usurpation,” he said.

“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “Could he be driven by the theft or usurpation of some personal or family mining interests?”

“Interesting thought,” Yularen said. “Your typical smugglers, pirates, and thieves don’t like to draw attention to themselves. But Nightswan slaps his name all over the place.” He pursed his lips. “Could be he’s planning some major operation and wants to get everyone looking somewhere else. I remember a group of arms smugglers during the Clone Wars who liked to set fires on one side of a city to draw the police and firefighters there, then hit a weapons depot on the other side.”

“Indeed,” Thrawn said. “What about Coruscant? Is there unrest here?”

“You must be joking,” Yularen said with a snort. “Go down two thousand levels and you’ll find all the unrest you could ever want. Go down four thousand and you might as well be in Wild Space.”

“So this would be a fertile ground for anti-Imperial protests?”

“It would,” Yularen agreed. “Except that all the centers of power are up here, and we’ve got the best police, military, and private defense forces anywhere in the galaxy. Hell, we’ve got combat dojos that do nothing but train Senate and ministry bodyguards. Nightswan could agitate from here until Ascension Week without making a single dent in anything that matters.”

“One would think Nubia equally immune to such threats.” Thrawn indicated an entry on his datapad. “Yet this protest at the Circle Bay mayor’s office seems to have been quite effective.”

“That was a unique case,” Yularen growled. “The perpetrators managed to get the entire kitchen staff fired, then infiltrated the new staff with their own people. Once you’ve got someone on the inside, you can pull off almost anything.”

“Exactly,” Thrawn said. “You said there were dojos that specifically work with Senate bodyguards?”

“Yes,” Yularen murmured, frowning with sudden interest. “Yes, I see where you’re going. But most of the bodyguards who train at those places are already employed. I doubt a senator would go to one of the dojos to hire replacements or extra staff. He or she would probably get those from an accredited agency.”

Yularen stood up. “Still, it’s been a long time since ISB looked at any of those places. Might be worth taking a tour of the Federal District’s combat subculture. Either of you care to join us?”

—

“Welcome to the Yinchom Dojo.” The boy seated cross-legged on the floor to the right of the door rises to his feet. His voice has the clearness of youth, with cheerfulness beneath the solemnity. He bows at the waist toward Colonel Yularen, then repeats the gesture to each of the other four of the group. “Abandon the tedium and cares of life, all who enter, and prepare your minds and bodies for the rigors and joys of combat.”

“We will,” Yularen said. His voice is calm and official, but there is a hint of humor beneath it, as well as appreciation for the boy’s performance. “I’m Colonel Yularen. I wish to speak to the owner of this place. Can you go and bring her to us?”

“I can,” the boy acknowledged. He bows again to Yularen. “Please; come inside.”

The group filed into the dojo. The boy waited until all five were standing against the wall, then headed off around the edge of the training room.

“Not nearly as impressive as the last one, sir,” Vanto murmured.

“No,” Thrawn agreed.

“A little small, and a little too far from sunlight to be considered top-line,” Yularen agreed. He looks slowly across the training area, his eyes flicking back and forth, taking in the details. A sparring duo works in each of the central mat’s corners: one duo empty hand, the second empty hand against blade, the third and fourth stick against stick. A young human female circles the center of the mat, calling occasional instructions and corrections to each of the pairs.

“On the other hand, thirty senators have sent one or more of their bodyguards here for updated training or sparring over the past five years,” Yularen continued, “so the place must have something going for it. Owner’s a Togorian named H’sishi.”

The boy, continuing around the room, passes a woman seated on a bench against the wall.

“Sir?” Vanto said suddenly. He nods toward the woman. “That woman. We’ve seen her someplace before.”

The boy passes the woman, and she stands and makes her way around the edge of the mat. An overly wide round kick comes near. She leans gracefully out of its path. An indication of moderate proficiency and skill. She reaches the Imperials and inclines her head. “Welcome to the Yinchom Dojo, Captain Thrawn,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the clash of combat sticks. “I’m Arihnda Pryce. You probably won’t remember, but we met once at an Ascension Week reception in the Alisandre Hotel, back when you were a senior lieutenant.”

“Certainly I remember you, Ms. Pryce,” Thrawn said. “You are an aide to Senator Domus Renking.”

“You have a remarkable memory, Captain,” Pryce said. “I’m no longer with Senator Renking’s office, though. I work now for an advocacy group.”

“I see,” Thrawn said. “May I reintroduce my companions, Colonel Yularen and Ensign Vanto.”

“I remember you both,” Pryce said. She nods a greeting to each of them. Her eyes shift briefly to the two ISB agents standing silent watch behind them. “How may I assist you?”

“We wish to speak to the owner,” Yularen said. “The boy’s gone to get her.”

“Who is the woman overseeing the sparring?” Thrawn asked.

“That’s Juahir Madras, one of the instructors,” Pryce said.

“Are you here for a class?” Yularen asked.

“No,” Pryce said. “My boss thought I might be able to establish a few contacts with some of the high-level bodyguards who train here, so I’ve been hanging around for the past few days chatting with people. Ah—here’s H’sishi now.”

A large, feline being appears in one of the doorways leading from the side of the main room. She is covered in short brown-white fur and dressed in a combination kilt and bandolier. Her yellow eyes focus on each of the visitors in turn. She looks at each of the sparring duos, then at Instructor Madras. “Cease!” she called.

Instantly the sparring halted. In the silence, H’sishi strode across the mat, moving with grace on her back-jointed legs. She passed Instructor Madras without a glance and came to a halt beside Pryce. “Good day to you, officers of the Empire,” she said. Her voice is sibilant but clear. “I am H’sishi, master of the Yinchom Dojo. How may I serve you?”

The sparring duos stand facing the visitors, their facial heat intense from heavy exercise. Instructor Madras’s expression and stance show uneasiness. Her gaze is on Yularen’s chest, not his face.

“I’m Colonel Yularen,” Yularen said. “This is Captain Thrawn; Ensign Vanto; Officers Roenton and Brook. We’re doing a routine spot-check of the dojos in the Federal District, with particular interest in government contracts and bodyguard training. I presume you have full records of both?”

“Of course,” H’sishi said. “I will get them for you.”

“Before you do,” Thrawn said, “we are also interested in trainers for a possible new urban combat unit. Do you teach advanced stick fighting?”

“We do,” H’sishi confirmed. “Have you had training in that art?”

“I have had the basics,” Thrawn said. “I would like to observe your best technique firsthand.”

“Certainly,” H’sishi said. “Instructor Madras and I will offer you a demonstration.”

“There is no need to involve any others,” Thrawn said. “Instructor Madras, please bring the sticks. Instructor H’sishi and I will spar.”

“Sir?” Vanto asked. His voice is surprised and wary. But there is no understanding in it. He doesn’t see the patterns; nor has he woven together the facts and possibilities.

Madras walks to the center of the mat, the fighting sticks in her hands. Her body stance holds uneasiness.

“Ms. Pryce, please walk alongside me,” Thrawn said. “There is a question I wish to ask.”

“Of course.” Pryce moved to his side.

Thrawn, Pryce, and H’sishi walked to the center of the mat. “You said you worked for an advocacy group,” Thrawn said. “Which one?”

“It’s called the Higher Skies Group,” Pryce said.

“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “Stand clear, now. Instructor H’sishi, let us begin.”

Pryce and Madras stepped away. “The timer is for three minutes,” H’sishi said. She crossed her sticks in salute. Thrawn mirrored the gesture.

They began.

H’sishi is a good fighter. But her focus is solely on the combat, with no thought for other matters. She does not notice as the relative positions are slowly altered until Pryce and Madras are within view.

Both watch the combat, neither speaking to the other, though a quick conversation could have occurred before they were fully in view.

Their expressions are inconclusive. Both women are fascinated by the combat, with all fears, concerns, and thoughts submerged.

With H’sishi herself there are no longer doubts.

The three minutes end. H’sishi steps back and again crosses her sticks.

“Excellent, Captain,” she said. “Your style is unknown to me, but you have clearly been well trained.”

“Thank you, Instructor,” Thrawn said. He crossed his own sticks and then offered them to Madras. She walks forward and takes them, her eyes avoiding his gaze. “Perhaps the next time I have duty on Coruscant you will teach me some of your style. It is of your species?”

“Yes, a Togorian form,” she said. “I hope you will find the time. I would welcome you as both student and teacher. And now, Colonel Yularen, I will retrieve the records you requested.”

They waited while she went to her office and returned with a data card. Yularen accepted it, then led the group back outside. “Well, that was interesting,” Yularen commented as they walked toward their aircar. “I assume, Captain, that you didn’t simply feel the need for a little exercise?”

“Indeed,” Thrawn said. “I presume you noted that Instructor Madras did not stop the sparring when we first entered?”

“She didn’t stop when Pryce came over to talk, either,” Yularen said. His tone conveys thoughtfulness. “And that despite the fact that the noise made conversation difficult.”

“They didn’t stop until H’sishi ordered them to,” Vanto added.

“I assume you think it wasn’t just rudeness?” Yularen asked.

“I think she knows who I am,” Thrawn said. “She certainly knows who you are, Colonel. And so she stalled our meeting, wishing additional time to prepare herself.”

“Interesting,” Yularen said. “Unfortunately, it’s a reaction ISB agents see all the time. Everyone has dirty secrets.”

“But not everyone has secrets concerning Higher Skies,” Thrawn said.

“The advocacy group?” Yularen asked.

“Yes,” Thrawn said. “It is the one with which Ms. Pryce works. I asked about it before the sparring, and watched Instructor Madras as Ms. Pryce supplied me with the name. She reacted with discomfort.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Thrawn said. “For one reason or another, the group bears investigation.”

“So once you had the name and Madras’s reaction, why did you go ahead with the fight?” Vanto asked.

“I have developed a certain skill for reading human emotions,” Thrawn said. “I do not have such a baseline for Togorians. I wished to know if H’sishi, too, was concerned that I know of Ms. Pryce’s connection with Higher Skies.”

“So you gave her the chance to take you out,” Vanto said slowly. His tone holds growing understanding. “You were the only one of us who’d heard the name. So if she’d wanted to, she could knock you down, claim it was an accident, and buy herself and the group some time.”

“Correct,” Thrawn said. “To be more precise, I offered what looked like opportunities to injure me. They were, of course, illusory.”

“Of course,” Vanto said. His tone is properly respectful, but also holds irony. “So when you were attacked at Royal Imperial Academy…?”

“I wished to study the attackers’ capabilities,” Thrawn said. “I would have protected you from serious harm, as indeed I protected myself.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about that one sometime, Captain.” Yularen pulls out his comlink. “I’ll get ISB started on Higher Skies and see what we can dig up.”

“I would caution that the investigation be careful and low-key,” Thrawn said. “They will be alert now to such a probe, and we do not wish to drive them away.”

“Yes, we do know how to handle investigations, thank you.”

“I meant no offense,” Thrawn said. “I would also consider it a favor if you would allow me to observe your progress.”

“Sorry, but that won’t be possible,” Yularen said. “New orders came in while you were batting sticks with H’sishi. Ensign Vanto picked them up.” He gestures to Vanto. “Ensign?”

“Yes, sir,” Vanto said. His voice holds hidden frustration. “For the next four weeks, while the Thunder Wasp undergoes repairs, you’ll be at the Palace with Emperor Palpatine. Once the repairs are complete, it’ll return to Mid Rim and Outer Rim patrol duties.” He pauses, his frustration growing deeper. “Under the authority of its newly appointed captain, Commander Thrawn.”

“Congratulations, Commander,” Yularen murmured.

“Thank you,” Thrawn said. He had been promoted. Yet Vanto had not?

That wasn’t as it should be. Vanto had held the rank of ensign a full year longer than was customary. Yet there was nothing Vanto had done or failed to do that should have delayed his promotion.

“Impressive achievement,” Yularen continued. His gaze switches between Thrawn and Vanto. He, too, recognizes something is amiss. “Usually a captain warms that position for at least six years.”

“I understand that during the Clone War promotions occurred more quickly.”

“Wartime will do that,” Yularen said. His voice holds grim memories. “Good luck with your new assignment, and your new command. And don’t worry about Higher Skies. Whatever’s there, we’ll find it.”