The Last Command (Star Wars: The Thrawn Trilogy, #3)

by Timothy Zahn

Thrawn could so accurately learn the innermost secrets of a species from its artwork. But he’d seen that knowledge proved often enough to trust the Grand Admiral’s instincts on such things.

And for the first time in five years, Pellaeon finally knew in the deepest level of his being that the old Empire was gone. The new Empire, with Grand Admiral Thrawn at its head, had been born.

For the foreseeable future, at least, underestimating the Empire was not likely to be all that much of a problem.

A brand-new life, so fragile and yet so remarkably resilient.

“Okay. I love you, Han.” He gave her another lopsided smile. “I know,” he said, and left.

Somewhere deep within him he knew that this was the right thing to do; that this was where his path was leading him. As it had been with that final confrontation with Vader and the Emperor, somehow his destiny and Mara’s were joined together at this place in time.

“The whole Rebellion was a highly illegal action bordering on treason, sweetheart,” he reminded her. “When the rules don’t work, you break ’em.”

ghostly memories of the Empire’s defeat at Endor floating up before his eyes. The second Death Star had died there, along with Vader’s Super Star Destroyer Executor and far too many of the best and brightest of the Empire’s officer corps. If C’baoth’s interference precipitated a repetition of that debacle—if the Empire lost both Grand Admiral Thrawn and his core Star Destroyer force—it might never again recover.

“Nice landing,” Lando commented dryly, rubbing his shoulder beneath the restraint strap as Han shut down the repulsorlifts. “At least the sensor dish is still there,” Han said pointedly. Lando winced. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Han shrugged, keying in the life-form algorithms. Time to find out what was out there. “You said you wouldn’t get a scratch on her,” he reminded the other. “Fine,” Lando grumped. “Next time, I’ll destroy the energy field generator and you can fly her down the Death Star’s throat.”

For a moment Luke studied her face. Even in the fading light he could see the ache in her eyes; the bitter memories of the luxuriant life and glittering future that had been snatched away from her at Endor. But alongside the ache was an equally strong determination. However badly this might hurt, she truly did want to hear it. “The Emperor was trying to turn me to the dark side,” he told her, long-buried memories of his own surging painfully back again. It had nearly been him, not the Emperor, who’d died that day. “He almost succeeded. I’d taken one swing at him, and wound up fighting with Vader instead. I guess he thought that if I killed Vader in anger, I’d be opened to him through the dark side.”

“Obvious in hindsight, really—the pattern changes are far too fast to be anything but biochemical in origin. Anyway, those implanted tubes running up into the trunk continuously sample the chemicals and shunt the information back down to the module on the taproot. The module takes the chemical data, turns it back into pressure data, and from there back into speech. Some other module—maybe further down the taproot—sorts out the conversations and gets the whole thing ready for encrypting and transmission. That’s all there is to it.” “An organic microphone,” Bel Iblis nodded. “With no electronics anywhere in sight for a counterintelligence sweep to pick up.”

The Empire rules by force and threat; we rule instead by inspiration and leadership.

No white-hot rage, no fanatical hatred. Just a simple, icy determination. About as dangerous as you could get.

“You’re not the Jedi Master C’baoth. Not the original one, anyway. The proof is there in the Katana’s records. Jorus C’baoth died a long time ago during the Outbound Flight Project.”

Abruptly, the memory clicked. Dagobah—his Jedi training—the dark side cave Yoda had sent him into. His brief dreamlike battle with a vision of Darth Vader… Luke caught his breath, a horrible suspicion squeezing his heart. But no—the silent figure approaching him wasn’t tall enough to be Vader. But then who…? And then the figure stepped into the light…and, too late, Luke remembered how that dream battle in the dark side cave had ended. Vader’s mask had shattered, and the face behind it had been Luke’s own. As was the face that gazed emotionlessly up at him now. Luke felt himself moving back from the steps, his mind frozen with shock and the buzzing pressure growing against it. “Yes, Jedi Skywalker,” C’baoth said quietly from behind him. “He is you. Luuke Skywalker, created from the hand you left behind in the Cloud City on Bespin. Wielding the lightsaber you lost there.”

Thrawn caught his eye; and to Pellaeon’s astonishment, the Grand Admiral smiled. “But,” he whispered, “it was so artistically done.”