[Thrawn Trilogy] - 01(19)

“That being … ?”

Thrawn smiled. “All in good time, Master C’baoth. And only after we’ve had a chance to examine the Emperor’s storehouse in Mount Tantiss.”

C’baoth’s lip twisted. “So the mountain is all you really want.”

“I need the mountain, certainly,” Thrawn acknowledged. “Or rather, what I hope to find within it.”

“And that is … ?”

Thrawn studied him for a moment. “There were rumors, just before the Battle of Endor, that the Emperor’s researchers had finally developed a genuinely practical cloaking shield. I want it. Also,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “another small-almost trivial-bit of technology.”

“And you think to find one of these cloaking shields in the mountain?”

“I expect to find either a working model or at least a complete set of schematics,” Thrawn said. “One of the Emperor’s purposes in setting up this storehouse was to make sure that interesting and potentially useful technology didn’t get lost.”

“That, and collecting endless mementos of his glorious conquests.” C’baoth snorted. “There are rooms and rooms of that sort of cackling self-congratulation.”

Pellaeon sat up a bit straighter. “You’ve been inside the mountain?” he asked. Somehow, he’d expected the storehouse to be sealed with all sorts of locks and barriers.

C’baoth sent him a scornfully patient look. “Of course I’ve been inside. I killed the Guardian, remember?” He looked back at Thrawn. “So. You want the Emperor’s little toys; and now you know you can just walk into the mountain, with or without my help. Why are you still sitting here?”

“Because the mountain is only part of what I need,” Thrawn told him. “I also require the partnership of a Jedi Master like yourself.”

C’baoth settled back into his cushion, a cynical smile showing through his beard. “Ah, we finally get down to it. This, I take it, is where you offer me all the power even a Jedi Master could desire?”

Thrawn smiled back. “It is indeed. Tell me, Master C’baoth: are you familiar with the Imperial Fleet’s disastrous defeat at the Battle of Endor five years ago?”

“I’ve heard rumors. One of the offworlders who came here spoke about it.” C’baoth’s gaze drifted to the window, to the palace/crypt visible across the square. “Though only briefly.”

Pellaeon swallowed. Thrawn himself didn’t seem to notice the implication. “Then you must have wondered how a few dozen Rebel ships could possibly rout an Imperial force that outgunned it by at least ten to one.”

“I didn’t spend much time with such wonderings,” C’baoth said dryly. “I assumed that the Rebels were simply better warriors.”

“In a sense, that’s true,” Thrawn agreed. “The Rebels did indeed fight better, but not because of any special abilities or training. They fought better than the Fleet because the Emperor was dead.”

He turned to look at Pellaeon. “You were there, Captain-you must have noticed it. The sudden loss of coordination between crew members and ships; the loss of efficiency and discipline. The loss, in short, of that elusive quality we call fighting spirit.”

“There was some confusion, yes,” Pellaeon said stiffly. He was starting to see where Thrawn was going with this, and he didn’t like it a bit. “But nothing that can’t be explained by the normal stresses of battle.”

One blue-black eyebrow went up, just slightly. “Really? The loss of the Executor-the sudden, last-minute TIE fighter incompetence that brought about the destruction of the Death Star itself-the loss of six other Star Destroyers in engagements that none of them should have had trouble with? All of that nothing but normal battle stress?”

“The Emperor was not directing the battle,” Pellaeon snapped with a fire that startled him. “Not in any way. I was there, Admiral-I know.”

“Yes, Captain, you were there,” Thrawn said, his voice abruptly hard. “And it’s time you gave up your blindfold and faced the truth, no matter how bitter you find it. You had no real fighting spirit of your own anymore-none of you in the Imperial Fleet did. It was the Emperor’s will that drove you; the Emperor’s mind that provided you with strength and resolve and efficiency. You were as dependent on that presence as if you were all borg-implanted into a combat computer.”

“That’s not true,” Pellaeon shot back, stomach twisting painfully within him. “It can’t be. We fought on after his death.”