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plantsgottapen · 10 months

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“So Artistically Done; a canon take on the ending of The Last Command”

All beings begin their lives with hopes and aspirations. Among these aspirations is the desire that there will be a straight path to those goals. It is seldom so.

Eli awoke to the low, dull roar of turbolaser fire. He came to his senses quickly, the memories of what he’d been working on returning to him. He had been working on the final logistical details for the upcoming defense of Bilbringi. Moving around shipping schedules, mostly, though he had been invited to help organize the defense force itself. From the sounds echoing through the ship, Eli noted dutifully, the battle had already begun.

Eli sat up from his slouched position, rubbing the portion of his neck which was now aching. Given his general state, he must have fallen asleep at his desk, though given the ringing in his head it clearly hadn’t been a very restful sojourn. Gradually, as his eyes blinked through the grogginess, the room around him came into view. For a moment, he didn’t recognize where he was. Confusion threw his senses into full overdrive, bringing him to reality. He was an executive suite, far nicer yet far colder than anywhere he was used to staying. Every surface was covered in amenities, all in matching warship grey. There was a non-bunk bed to his left; a full kitchen to his right; at least a dozen portraits of old, grizzled admirals and generals.

His eyes flashed to the all-too-familiar vertical lights, embedded into every wall. Then they went to the icons adorning every uniform he had been given: a three headed beast, defiantly lashing out towards whatever unknown threat stood before it. And then, of course, they went to the empty bottle, cast lazily next to a holoprojector and ID cylinder. For a moment his mind flashed back ten years, back to where he had been. With the same haste, it flashed back forwards, to where he was trapped now.

One whose path has taken a new turn is initially disoriented. But as time passes, and the path continues steadily in its new direction, there is a tendency to believe that it will remain so forever, with no further turns. Nothing is further from the truth.

Memories–real ones, not the ones his scrambled mind wanted him to pretend were true–came back to him. Two decades ago, he had joined the Empire, only for it to be all thrown off the path by a single man, discovered rotting away on some forgotten world. As it turned out, that man was something… special. He had eyes that could bore through a soul, a voice which could command any group, and a mind that could solve any problem.

Thrawn.

A decade ago, his life had been thrown off the path, again. Thrawn, again, was at the center of its new trajectory. Seeming him too valuable, too useful for the corrupt and tyrannical rule of the Empire, Thrawn did what he thought best: send Eli, a man who once believed he’d be resigned to the depths of a cargo freighter, to serve with his people, far away from any person or any connection he had. With the Chiss, Eli–or, as the Chiss had come to call him, Ivant–had done a great many things. He fought an enemy whose favorite pastime was kidnapping children. He reunited with people he had known from the years before. He even learned a thing or two about Thrawn; he had not, in fact, been left to rot away on a forgotten world. He’d been sent into the galaxy to find allies for his people, to ensure their existence for millennia on. Sending Eli and others like him had just been another part of that.

Yet, months ago now, everything was uprooted once more. Unsurprisingly, Thrawn–missing for years with little explanation of how or why he returned–was the cause of it. Walking in the ashes of the Empire, the Grand Admiral had pulled together what scraps remained and began a new conquest, one which would defeat the Rebellion–Now the New Republic–once and for all.

When the rumors finally reached the Ascendency, Eli had known he had to leave. Perhaps it was the dream of serving under him again, returning to simpler days where it had just been him and Thrawn against the Galaxy. Perhaps it was something else. Regardless of what he was, he made the difficult choice.

But something was wrong. He had returned, found Thrawn, and been welcomed with open arms. Yet, even as he rejoined life in the Imperial fold, something felt off, about Thrawn, about the Chimaera, about everything. It should have been normal, there was no reason for it to feel any different. Thrawn was still Thrawn, still a tactical genius who cared for Eli like a brother. Eli, given a title and an office, had done his best to ignore it, work through the confusion, for months now.

Ignoring the problem hadn’t driven Eli to this horrid place. Neither had given into that itch, going behind his friend’s back to search for what felt so wrong.

Finding out what was wrong had.

A leader is responsible for those under his authority. That is the first rule of command. He is responsible for their safety, their provisions, their knowledge, and, ultimately, their lives. Failure to act always brings consequences.

What had driven him to investigation had been an incident; or rather, the aftermath of it. A crewmember had failed on some vital assignment, then tried to blame his superior when politely asked why. Thrawn hadn’t had him disciplined. He didn’t even remove him from staff altogether.

He had had him killed.

At the time, Eli had managed to rationalize it. The man—Pieterson, if Eli remembered correctly—must have already had some issues, right? Maybe he was a spy, or he’d failed on purpose, or something, anything. Listen, Eli hadn’t known exactly why, but he wasn’t the Grand Admiral, was he? Kriffing hell he hadn’t been part of the Empire for ten years, so perhaps he wasn't the best to judge something like this. Yet, still, the moment lingered in his mind, driving him to begin his search.

Eli threw his head back, letting out what was best described as a mix between a stressed chuckle and a sob. When he and Thrawn had first met, navigating a very foreign and hostile world together, they’d spend nights together in their cabin, doing anything but sleeping. Hypotheticals came up often; how they’d rule, be it a planet or the Galaxy, was the fake world they tended to visit the most.

Eli remembered their conversations well. They flooded back as easily as water. They’d abolish slavery. Conscription would be done away with, as—according to Thrawn—the only good warrior was the one willingly fighting. The xenophobia and deceptive practices which the Empire had made policy would be ended. Most of all—and this was something Thrawn had preached from day one, not that Eli in any way needed convincing—there would be no senseless harm and bloodshed, towards the innocent or the guilty alike.

On Ukio, on Pantolomin, and on so many other worlds caught up in Thrawn’s war, he’d tricked them into signing away practically everything. The operations were almost painfully simple: once the imperial forces were on the ground, they’d take guard around whatever they deemed important before letting the ISB run wild. Soon enough, the current regime would fall, and a puppet would find its place atop a throne of corpses.

Speaking of Ukio, the man who’d let them conquer it gave Eli just as much trepidation. C’baoth, a “Jedi” found alone in the Wayland System, was a madman. The man made his entire being crawl. Something about the insane glint in his eyes, the manic fits of rage, the way he would dominate every being who wasn’t Thrawn himself. Even before he started—and this really had him freaked out—taking full command of people’s minds, Eli knew that working with him was just plain wrong. Yes, he was imprisoned now and had a squad of Noghri en-route to end the partnership once and for all, but that didn’t exactly absolve Thrawn from allying with him in the first place.

And then, of course, there was the Noghri and their home, Honoghr. Under the old regime, the Noghri had been tricked, believing their sick world was being healed when in reality it was being poisoned more. So, what did Thrawn do when took the reins of the Empire for himself? Did he reveal the deception to the Noghri, forever indebting the world to him and his cause?

No. He continued on with the deceit, and now rumors were spreading that they were in full rebellion.

What confused—and honestly hurt—Eli the most was that, for all of these sins, there were other options. Ukio could have been negotiated with, just like any other world. C’baoth’s tricks were far from essential. Kriffing hell, even if the Noghri refused to believe Thrawn, there were countless, countless warrior and assassin cultures which they could have brought under the Imperial banner as a replacement.

Yet he didn’t. So Eli began trying to figure out why. Did he simply not see these alternatives? That was impossible, Thrawn couldn’t have simply “not seen” these paths. Were there other factors at play? Maybe, but Eli sure as hell couldn’t find them. But they had to be there, right? Right? Maybe Ukio had some underground movement he didn’t know about. Maybe C’baoth’s insanity was just an elaborate illusion, or the Noghri’s plight was all artificial, meant to keep the world’s low profile. Thrawn had to have an angle, he had to be playing some kind of 4D Dejarik that no one else understood.

But there was one possible solution, explaining every question. One Eli refused to even let himself consider. He would rather drink, reduce himself to a mindless mess, even spend another thousand hours searching for clues, than actually consider it.

A recording, dropped off in the middle of the night, forced him to believe it in the span of a few seconds.

Alliances are useful in some situations. In others, they are absolutely vital, but they must always be approached with caution. A day may come when one ally sees new benefits to be gained in betraying another.

Thrawn was a monster. Maybe back when Eli met him he wasn’t. He hadn’t been the type to kill his crew for uncertain reasons. He hadn’t been the type who would spark rebellions on capitulated worlds, or work arm in arm with a force-supremacist maniac.

Eli let his head down, letting his eyes fall to his desk, where the recording still stood frozen.

Maybe he hadn’t been the type to bombard a city to slag.

But now he was.

Eli let out a shaky breath, throwing his hands into his head. Part of his mind still tried to grapple with the idea that it was all false. It must be some kind of ruse, or trick. But for every one of those toxic throughs, a chastising voice came back, dispelling theory and theory with ease. Besides, denying the truth, blinding himself, was exhausting. He hadn’t realized how tired and drained this entire campaign had made him until just now.

What do you do when one of your only friends turns into a monster? He couldn’t just leave for the Chiss again, nor could he just vanish into stardust. That would be temporary, at best, if Thrawn was the one hunting him. He could defect, which would surely slow the relocation efforts down. Then again, given how the New Republic seemed on the brink of total collapse, how much would that really delay things.

The New Republic. It had been, what, six months since Thrawn began his campaign? Now, above Bilbringi, if all went to plan, they’d be done for.

A thought struck Eli, turning his half sardonic half agonized grin to a despondent sneer. In just a few months, it would be all over. Thrawn would crown himself Emperor, or Patriarch Supreme, or whatever title he chose. He would be atop the galactic throne, with nothing to stop him from toying with the galaxy however he wished.

All warriors understand the need to face and defeat the enemy.

Eli’s eyes went wide as a horrible, truly unthinkable idea crossed his mind.

No. No, he couldn’t.

Thrawn had done awful things, but to do anything to him, with his own hands? He could never-

He could never bring himself to do it to his one true friend.

He was standing now, paranoidly scanning the room as if it was full as assailants. His mind was a mess, swirling with conflict and agony. Images and phrases from the Thrawn he knew and the one now commanding him fought for dominance in his head. The voice of morality sang a tune of what he needed to do, what seemed clear, while his own self pleaded, begged for some other option.

There had to be some alternative, any alternative. Surely he could reason with him, get him a psych eval, hell maybe he could work with someone like Ar’alani to have him brought to justice. But no, none of those would work. He was too clever, and everyone else was far too naive to even have a chance against him.

He was blacking out now, memories of what he was doing and what he wanted done blurring in painful fashion. At some point, he had pulled out the old holo journal Thrawn had gifted him before leaving for the Ascendency. And he’d smashed it, throwing it against the wall to spark and spitter until its inevitable death.

Then suddenly, everything came back to reality. With trepidation, tears blurring his vision, he looked over to the smashed remains of Thrawn's journal.

The journal, with some pained effort, was projecting an image of Thrawn from who knows how many years ago, speaking an old quote he had thought up after dealing with some rebellion, or another.

That one quote, the one Thrawn seemed to live his life by from the first day he walked onto the bridge of a warship.

That one quote, which had convinced Eli to abandon everything and join a foreign and strange land far away.

That one quote, which silenced the dissent and the hesitancy, and spurred Eli to act.

He moved silently and unthinkingly. He grabbed a clean officer’s uniform. He holstered his blaster and straightened his rank plaque. He dried his tears, cleared his choked throat, and brought himself as straight and proper as an arrow.

Without a word, he exited his room.

Sometimes, all the universe may hang in the balance.

The two Rebel Assault Frigates broke to either side of the beleaguered Golan-II, delivering massive broadsides as they veered off. A section of the battle station flared and went dark; and against its darkened bulk another wave of Rebel starfighters could be seen slipping past it to the shipyards beyond.

Captain Pellaeon was no longer smiling.

“Don’t panic, Captain,” Thrawn said. But he, too, was starting to sound grim. “We’re not defeated yet. Not by a long shot.”

The door behind them opened. Thrawn looked back, a smile briefly taking over his face. “Ah, Liaison Vanto. Please, come in.” He gestured towards the viewport, the battle raging before them. “Join us, and witness the beginning of the end.”

Pellaeon’s board pinged. He looked at it. “Sir, we have a priority message coming in from Wayland,” he told Thrawn, his stomach twisting with a sudden horrible premonition. Wayland. The cloning facility.

“Read it, Captain,” Thrawn said, his voice deadly quiet.

“Decrypt is coming in now, sir,” Pellaeon replied, tapping the board impatiently as the message slowly began to come up. It was exactly as he'd feared. "The mountain is under attack, sir," he told Thrawn. “Two different forces of natives, plus some Rebel saboteurs-" He broke off, frowning in disbelief.

"Aided by a group of Noghri and Chiss—“

He never got to read any more of the report. Abruptly, a blast hit him, just barely catching him on the shoulder. He gasped, falling limply to the floor, his whole body instantly paralyzed.

“There are things in the universe that are simply and purely evil,” a quiet, painfully reluctant voice whispered from behind him. “A warrior does not seek to understand them, or to compromise with them.”

The voice paused, and he could swear he heard a muffled sob. “He seeks only to obliterate them.”

There was a second blaster shot. A whisper of movement flashed before him, and the attacker was gone. Still gasping, struggling against the throb of his stunned muscles, Pellaeon fought to get a hand up to his command board. With one final effort he made it, trying twice before he was able to hit the emergency alert.

And as the wailing of the alarm cut through the noise of a Star Destroyer at battle, he finally managed to turn his head.

Thrawn was sitting upright in his chair, his face strangely calm. In the middle of his chest, a dark red stain was spreading across the spotless white of his Grand Admiral's uniform.

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

The smile faded. The glow in his eyes did likewise… and Thrawn, the last hope for the Empire, was gone.

"Captain Pellaeon?" the comm officer called urgently as the medic team arrived—too late —to the Grand Admiral's chair. "The Nemesis and Stormhawk are requesting orders. What shall I tell them?"

Pellaeon looked up at the viewports. At the chaos that had erupted behind the defenses of the supposedly secure shipyards; at the unexpected need to split his forces to its defense; at the Rebel fleet taking full advantage of the diversion. In the blink of an eye, the universe had suddenly turned against them.

Thrawn could still have pulled an Imperial victory out of it. But he, Pellaeon, was not Thrawn.

“Signal to all ships" he rasped. The words ached in his throat in a way that had nothing to do with the throbbing pain of the stunning attack. "Prepare to retreat.”

All strive for victory. But not all understand what it truly is. Sometimes the victory is greater than the warrior could ever hope for. Sometimes it is more than he is able to bear.

The stars stretched into oblivion, and soon the shuttle Eli had commandeered was in hyperspace. The adrenaline wore off. Slowly, with shaking hands, he managed to plug in the coordinates for Naporar.

With that final obligation done, he slumped back in his seat. That was all he really had the energy to do.

The work can also be found here

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