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Diamond Dove
I was feeling restless. I was feeling bored. I was feeling in need of a cuddle. I knew where I needed to go. What steps needed to be taken. The journey would be long, but not perilous. Merely annoying. The source of most of the annoyance was in this very room. The furry faced one, the egg stealer. I knew what he had told the other one. The tall one. The one I sought. He said he was going over reports. The only thing he was doing was going over REM cycles. He was asleep. I, unfortunately, needed him to open the door.
I began a volley of scratches. Of rustlings. Of gesticulations. The egg stealer threw his pillow. I was not amused. I was also slightly startled. I would not let that deter me.
I removed myself from my humble perch and joined the egg stealer on the bed.
"Yuck, get off!"
I was given a shove.
That was not kind or called for. I resumed my place on the bed. This time I stayed away from the hands. Yes, up by the face would do nicely. I was out of time and patience with this one. I released my oil glands. Quite a handy evolutionary adaptation, keeps the coat sleek. The tall one agreed. This one made a sound of disgust, this was expected. It opened the door, definitely expected.
“Get out!"
I would, thank you.
That had been simple. The next part was not as much. To get the main door open, but how? I suppose the egg stealers fabric top wrap hung by the door. It would be regrettable to mar it with holes. Even one so insufferable warranted some boundaries.
However, needs must…
The main hallway now, the easy part. I was witness to many noises of surprise. Some less surprised than others. This was not my first journey after all. But more importantly, the door was always opened for me. The lift held. I hoped I would not need to ride it up and down until my desired floor was selected.
"Hey little guy, I know where you're going, here you go."
Excellent, this tall one was one of the exceptional ones.
Then the right floor, only a few more steps.
These big doors were never opened for long. But there, follow the gray wrapped one with the rectangle up to its face.
I'm in! A few more meters and there. I scurried up to the tall ones boots. Then, a firm shoulder. A cool finger against my freshly oiled fur. Bliss.
BeeBee76
This is all on you , Thrawn. You forced me back on Active Duty Status. You ignored my expertise. You returned the fucking egg.
This isn’t the report that’s going to get written, but it’s the story of what really happened. Long after I’m dead and incinerated, someone’s going to figure it out, and then they’re coming for you, Thrawn.
///
He showed up - excuse the pun - out of the blue, to inform me that I had been pressed back into service. My job, my life - the world that I built over the last three years - all went out the window. Thrawn had orders that I was to report to the Chimaera, immediately.
Without fanfare or ceremony, I was ushered from the Chimaera to a waiting shuttle bound for some backwater planet called Laantos. Just the two of us, at Thrawn’s insistence. Apparently, my expertise on flora and fauna was being called upon to track some mythical creature - one that had a spotless record for hunting and killing those who tracked it. Great. I should have resigned my commission when I had a chance.
The argument was heated and to the point: since I had worked my ass off to track the creature (which ultimately led to finding the egg) I wanted Thrawn to leave said egg on the shuttle with me, when he went outside to hand his life over to it. The minute he stepped foot off the shuttle, I knew the egg was good as gone.
Of course, Thrawn returned to the shuttle empty-handed. Apparently he grew a conscience on the spot (for whatever reason) and handed the egg over to the creature. I made the decision right there: while Thrawn took in his good night’s sleep as a reward for his spontaneous moral act, I would go out and right this wrong.
I would go out and retrieve the damn egg.
I tracked it to a cave. The whole operation went south. A brief encounter (I guessed it was brief?) with the iridescent, scaled creature with glittering yellow eyes resulted in a momentary psychic connection of sorts. We both “watched” as I carefully dissected the egg scrupulously cataloguing its contents. It was over in a moment. I opened my eyes just in time to see - feel - it’s talons sink deep into my flesh, and injecting…something.
I woke up in my quarters laid out on my cot - wounds patched with bacta. I can only conclude that Thrawn must have tracked and retrieved me.
I thought I was lucky.
It didn’t take long for the changes to begin. First it was the intense itching, followed by a loss of hair and fingernails (of all things!) A cursory examination in the refresher mirror revealed more: skin was quickly being supplanted by iridescent scales. I was being transformed into something that would no longer be recognizable as human at an alarming rate.
The door was locked. I could not leave my quarters. Where was Thrawn? I could feel his presence, but since I could no longer talk, it was futile to try to yell. He had not attempted any communication since I awoke two cycles ago. Food was pushed under the door, and all movements were monitored by a camera, but there was no sign of Thrawn.
There was only a minute patch of human flesh remaining, the rest had been overtaken, transformed into scales. Fingernails were replaced by talons, and my eyes could no longer take the light - my glittering, yellow eyes. The internal pain had grown so intense that the desire to eat had long escaped me. My body could not withstand much more. My sanity was slipping at an astonishing rate.
It would not be long, now
I’m iNsurTinG thiS sacuRe file deep iN mi DatAPad in hopz thT s -one will FinD it…
///
Afterward: Grand Admiral Thrawn returned to the Chimaera with deepest regrets that Dr. Dueape was KIA - body unable to be retrieved. An alien specimen was collected, dissected, analyzed, and catalogued for further study.
The mission was declared a success and the planet was deemed hostile & uninhabitable.
Draculard
I met him nearly twenty years ago, on the Hoth Expedition. You remember the Hoth Expedition, I’m sure. Yes, the Frostbite Murders. It might surprise you to learn I was there, dear reader, but so was he.
He stood out from the crowd of travelers, not just for his blue skin and red eyes but also for his lack of winter gear. He wore only a light jacket and he had eschewed both hat and gloves, allowing the breeze to ruffle his hair as we set out across the drifts of snow.
This, of course, was a breeze that would have frozen the ears and nose off any human, but Thrawn didn’t seem to mind. As I later learned, he could endure any conditions where a mystery was involved. He preferred a clear mind and an empty stomach. He needed only…
“I’m sorry, what did you call me?” I asked.
“A Watson,” he said, not looking up from his datapad.
I cleared my throat. “It’s Pellaeon, actually.”
“A literary reference, Mr. Pellaeon,” he assured me.
“A literary reference meaning…?”
Still absorbed in his datapad, he muttered “aha!” to himself and stood without another word. He’d caught some clue; in the flurry of action -- cloaks fastened, boots laced, more cold-weather gear utterly ignored -- I forgot to ask again. By this point the first murder had occurred and we had separated from the main party. I knew it was foolish to peel off from the human group; yet when Thrawn sneaked into my insulated tent that night and whispered an invitation to me, something in my heart called for me to go. It was a lucky coincidence that he knew the limitations of a human body and saw to me quite nicely during our private expedition, indeed our quest to find the murderer. He commandeered a heated shuttle for the journey and, for someone who so easily became lost in the puzzles around him, he was always diligent about timing my breaks so as to avoid hypothermia.
At 1600, when night on Hoth began to fall, we examined the second corpse.
“Poison,” Thrawn declared. “And quite artfully done.”
His appreciation made me queasy.
“It looks like frostbite to me,” I said.
“You were trained as a combat medic, yes?” Thrawn asked, crouching down to pluck at the corpse’s frozen sleeve. I looked at him, surprised.
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
He ignored the question. “Take a look at the webbing between his fingers, please.”
I eased down at Thrawn’s side. Body heat rolled off his skin, warming me even through my heavy clothes. The corpse’s hands were splayed open and rigid with ice, but between his index and middle finger, there was something amiss. A ring of red amidst all the purple bruising. A bloodless dent in his skin.
“A needle-mark,” I breathed. When I met Thrawn’s gaze, he was smiling faintly, and those red eyes were glowing brighter than ever.
“As I said … poison.”
I looked back at the body. I couldn’t help but admire it a little. In its own way, it truly was artistic. The blooms of purple across the frozen corpse; the ice in its hair, the expression preserved for all eternity in its eyes. The corpse was a former Rebel; all of them were, and the murderer as well, when he caught him. Like Thrawn, I could see the appeal of such a victim, and such a death. .
That was the first murder. It wasn’t the last. All things told, our expedition on Hoth lasted a full month -- forty-six Corellian days of long hikes, our muscles burning as we pushed through the snow; and forty-six days of Thrawn warming my hands in his during our shuttle breaks; and forty-six days of shared cups of tea and nonstop chatter as Thrawn bounced his theories off me when I was too tired to speak.
“You keep up nicely,” he said once, a hint of approval in his voice.
“I’m a soldier,” I panted, cheeks warm from the snow. “How are you keeping up so well?”
His only response was a laugh. I knew little about him: except that his fingers were callused and marked by bandages where he’d covered chemical burns and tiny cuts from his experiments, and though I didn’t know his full name or where he came from, by then I knew the pattern of his breathing both as he slept and when he was awake; I knew the music he hummed and the way he tapped his fingers when he was deep in thought; I knew he kept a holo of a strange furry lizard in his pocket, but had no photos of his family at all.
And of course, I knew that he liked puzzles, and that murder was his favorite puzzle of all. Not for noble reasons, I suspected: only because he could justify the total destruction of his target if destruction became necessary. He would do anything to solve his puzzles; worse, I began to suspect I would do anything to stay by his side, even when I disapproved.
One body became five. In Hoth, a rescuer expends so much energy merely reaching the bodies that removal is not an option. The dead become landmarks: bright parkas peek out through the snow banks, marking every death. Those who die naturally are typically removed by the native wildlife before their bodies freeze; for obvious reasons, the Frostbite Murder victims could not be eaten. They’re on Hoth still, if you know where to look; and the murderer can be found there too, in pieces, in bones, in the stomachs of a dozen different beasts. He died with Thrawn’s hands pinching ‘round his wrists; it was my old Imperial blaster that silenced him.
Of course, when Thrawn invited me to share digs with him after that, I couldn’t say no. Whether in war or in the civilian world, death bonds two men together better than any glue.
We’ve solved countless puzzles since then.
Just don’t ask me where the murderers are.
AlricAlani
The crew always gets nervous when we leave Ascendancy space. They don’t say anything, but there’s a perceivable shift in their demeanor as soon as we leave the boundaries of the Ascendancy and head out into the Chaos itself. Backs are stiffer, voices more clipped, eyes alert for any danger - none of which is particularly detrimental, just noticeable. We’re back now, however, after having kissed the outer edges of Lesser Space and everyone is smiling easier and relaxing, except for two of us.
Neither Ivant nor myself have much to smile about, and I suspect that we’re uneasy for vastly different reasons, even if the source is the same. He does his job, however, and works through his pain without faltering, and it is all too clear to me why Thrawn favors him - he saw himself, or rather, the self he wanted to be, reflected in the human. I also suspect that reflection is precisely why he sent him away. The Ascendancy needs him, and Ivant is the version they always should have had.
For one of the most brilliant minds in the Galaxy, Thrawn could always be incredibly obtuse.
Ivant misses his home - not where he was born, but the home he’d found at Thrawn’s side, among his own kind, and he had to leave it all behind for a second time. Had to leave Thrawn for a second time. It’s obvious he loves him; he speaks highly of him, in reverent tones usually reserved for the love-struck and the heartsick, and he’s told me about their work together. Each anecdote drove a spike into my heart, despite my smile, because I realized that the young man is in love with a monster.
Harsh words, but now that I've seen him with my own eyes, heard his voice, and seen the changes in him, I know them to be true.
He looked harder, his voice holding a harsher edge that was mirrored in his eyes, so different from the soft spoken young man I all but grew up with. I had hoped it was a mask, some character he affected to better blend in with the Imperial humans, but in private, the edge remained, even as he smiled at me and reached for my face.
His lips felt like a stranger’s.
Nothing is left of the Thrawn I knew - the idealistic boy who grew into a man who refused to compromise his principles, even in the face of exile. The man who fought for the safety and even lives of beings that few others cared to save.
Now he hunts down those who defy the law for their principles.
He displaces and kills those he once would have died to save.
So I grieve as we return from our expedition, because I know now that the man I loved died in Exile.
HobbitofHobbiton
I was awoken by the touch of sun on my face and at once hailed my thanks to Alhayaa for the blessing bestowed on my life. I had rested well under the leaves of the Kafa and had been granted another day to serve my community. The Jidhir trees were in bloom and I drank their sap with gratitude before making my way to the hub. I was greeted and greeted others in kind, Praise be! It is indeed a beautiful day.
Although I was only junior, a sighar, I still took my responsibilities seriously. One day, I could have been an a’wal and led others to ensure the survival of my race. For now, I carried metal canisters on my back to the Nahr River for drinking and cooking. The way was dense with thick vines and luminous fungi but the melodic sounds of the Mugharad overhead kept me industrious.
It was as things had always been and would continue to be, Alhayaa willing. Until suddenly, the chirping of the birds ceased and was drowned in this new, sharp and unnatural wail. Turning my gaze up, lifeless flying animals born of shiny scales and skin - ships, my a’wal had warned long ago, from a civilisation not like our own - invaded the lilac sky. In twos and threes they bombed to the ground before swooping high in exaltation. Yet, in their wake, thunderous booms and low rumblings assaulted the ground beneath my feet.
I heard the cries of my people and my legs moved quicker than my mind, which was frozen in bewilderment. Closer and closer came the crying until the clearing was met and my eyes beheld the utter devastation of my home. White armoured figures gunned down a fellow sighar. I had known her to sing a pretty tune in the eves. I saw the one I knew as Matar fall not far from where I stood, my feet rooted in the ground like the Dafae. He had wailed and asked the intruders why, why had they come to wreak havoc and destruction upon them?
Matar was trodden into the mud without an answer.
The ships returned, screaming their death rattle, beams of fire mercilessly aiming at our shelters, our cattle, our people. Alhayaa, people screamed, Alhayaa protect us.
The sharp odours of gunfire soured my tongue and burnt my nostrils. What could I do? I was not a warrior nor was gifted with natural strength for self-preservation. I became one with the shajara, our most rigid of trees.
The smoke thickened and blanketed the air. It billowed out, rippling with the ardent marching of these faceless invaders staining my face until my eyes wept. It is the end, a bodiless voice carried through the smog, and I had no reason to dispute them.
From the gloom flashes of white and red, another shot and another and another. I could not even reel and shiver, my mind fortifying against the insanity that was now my reality.
God is here, someone cried. God is here and he walks among us.
How could I believe it? As Alhayaa was my witness, how could I believe that our God would come to us from the foul stenching mouth of smoke and fire? How could I believe, against scripture and what the prophecies foretold, that God would rain abundant spawns of fire and carnage on those who worshipped at their altar?
But I, too, saw God through the mud and smoke and no, he bore no cloak of night nor tolled the bell beckoning the fresh souls of this pitiful and pointless slaughter. He wore a suit of white, taintless and untouched by blood or dust, as bright as a star in this hellish abyss once my home. His skin was blue like a thumping, day-old bruise and his eyes were fiery beacons, lighting the path of his soldier's destruction.
Somehow, amidst the chaos, those eyes befell me. They were empty, bottomless pits and I couldn’t help but wonder whether the light would extinguish if I threw liquid in his face. Would smoke rise from the craters in his skull where they once shone? Or would they reignite? Immortal in their vacantness.
An armoured hand grabbed my arm. The figure in white turned away and trod further into the smoke of where my family, my friends, my home once stood. God cared for no one. I felt myself being led away.
“This territory has been claimed in the name of the Empire. Do not obstruct the progress of this expedition and you will remain unharmed. Move along.”
Bextia
I stopped paying attention to the news a long time ago. Things did not change that much with the victory of the rebellion and the arrival of the New Republic. Except in high places, the same people remained in power. Perhaps what changed is that they no longer ruled so much with their backs to the people. The elites retained their share of power. As always. No matter what government replaced the previous one… Nepotism and favoritism reached previously unseen heights: virtually everyone who had fought in the rebel alliance got a promotion, or was placed in positions for which they had little - or no - preparation. Many of them with high ideals but no real experience... and that brought them face to face with reality when they failed in their task.
I missed much of that anyway.
I was in the Chiss Ascendancy during that time.
When I returned to the galaxy - lesser space as the Chiss call it - there was very little left of the life I had left behind.
Thrawn was dead, the Ascendancy was about to fall into civil war and the Empire had been defeated. I no longer had anything to do with any of that.
So I started a new life.
I returned to Lysatra, and took over my parents' shipping company. "Vanto Shipping Co. had new management. Things went well, I had learned about some useful routes around wild space and could even get some supply contracts with the chiss. My company ships are the only human ships allowed on their frontiers.
I met someone, got married, and had children: Lambert - as my wife's father -, Gilad, and the twins Karyn and Thysa.
I have never told the children about my past. They don't know that their father enlisted in the glorious Imperial navy - where I reached the rank of lieutenant commander, despite having pursued a career as a supply officer -, that I had been the aide to a Grand Admiral of the Empire - the only alien officer in the entire navy -, that I had been only human to be part of the chiss navy - perhaps the only person who can speak cheunh in the whole galaxy -. They only know loose stories. Little made-up accounts of the adventures I had with Thrawn.
In these stories, Thrawn is called Ray, and he was the captain of my ship. I was his second officer, which is sort of true, even if it is a lie. And we traveled around the galaxy delivering our goods and getting into one mess after another.
Like when we participated in the delivery of a shipment of Tibanna gas and were assaulted by Nightswan’s pìrate gang. The story of how Ray managed to get us away using an old modified combat droid always makes their eyes sparkle.
Or when Ray had ended up being held accountable in court for his handling of a naval blockade caused by pirates. The kids would laugh their heads off listening to the arguments Ray had used to explain his actions, making the members of the tribunal look like idiots.
Another story the children loved was the one about the incident in Cyphari, when we had been caught up in a spice smuggling plot with smugglers who were causing trouble for the natives.
There are also sad stories, but necessary for the children to understand the nature of the galaxy in which they lived, where we had had run-ins with slavers. When I tell them these I always avoid the gory details, but they get the message, especially Gilad. I think out of all of them, it will be Gilad who becomes the next pilot in the family.
But their favorite of all was the one about how we met. They never get tired of this one. Ray's ship had crashed on an unnamed planet, and he had been living in the jungle for months. At the time I was working for a long-range transport company, and we had gone down to the planet to collect water. Ray tried to get us to take him with him, and man.. did he succeed. He sabotaged our supply expedition so badly that we had to abort the mission. And the next thing we knew... he was on board.
I only told them once about Ray's death: purrgils crashed on his ship and he was never heard from again. From that day on, Karyn made sure that the candle representing Ray is always lit in the small family pantheon, along with my parent's ones and his other grandfather's.
I feel sad sometimes not being able to tell them the truth. But I’m happy with the kids carrying Ray in their hearts, even if they never met him.
I should start writing all of this, so they will get to read it someday when I am not there. And they will be amazed at the real dimension of the adventures his father had when he was young.
Owl Party
The Grand Admiral takes me with him everywhere he goes; we’ve traveled the stars, fought pirates, visited countless worlds. I sit and wait patiently as he works at his desk - I know that eventually he’ll turn to me, with that look on his face, and give me his undivided attention. I have to wait until he wants me - he is a very important man, and has a lot of other things he needs to do other than look at me all day. I can’t be his priority all the time, but that’s fine - I know he would pick me over almost all his other responsibilities if he could. I’m very important to him; I let him experience one of his few passions in life.
My patience pays off - he calls for the lights to dim in his soft, silken voice. He reaches out one cool finger and lays it against me; I’m turned on immediately. He could order me to show him what he wants - I always follow his spoken commands without hesitation - but he keeps his hand on me this time, slight pressure here, now there, until he has me just how he wants me. He leans back in his chair and studies what he’s pulled forth from me. I’m on display before him, and I love it.
He’ll sit there in the dark, glowing red eyes crawling over me for hours and hours if we’re not interrupted. Sometimes he shifts in his seat, or laces his fingers, or rubs his chin as I show him something that he’s especially interested in.
Sometimes he has me in the same position the whole session. Sometimes his fingers run over me, searching for exactly what he wants at the moment, capricious, mercurial. I hate when I disappoint him.
But I live for the self-assured smiles he gives me when he finds what he wants, his eyes flashing; he exhales in a rush, and I know he’s satisfied. He’ll reach out then, his finger brushing over me a final time; I go to sleep, secure in the knowledge that it’s only a matter of time before he'll turn me on and we do it all over again, no matter where in the galaxy we go.