Escape from Ta’charin

Greg slouched in the dim gloom of his Ta’charin drydock cell, his cybernetic eye pulsing as it probed for structural flaws, hungering for an escape. The faint hum of the station’s reactors vibrated through the cold metal walls, a relentless reminder of his captivity. Time had smeared into a haze since his squad’s daring hijack of a derelict destroyer at Saturn, where they’d caught the Nathal carriers flat-footed, a stunt that filled him with fierce satisfaction before an explosion snared his fighter, knocking him out cold as they fled. The URF’s triumph at Saturn was all he grasped; guards clammed up tight, their silence a wall he couldn’t breach. Why linger here, unshipped to some Imperial hell?

Two levels above, Sonya sat in her cramped quarters, methodically polishing her service blaster, her steady hands belying the storm brewing within. The faint hum of the Ta’charin drydock’s systems pulsed through the bulkhead, a reminder of the Nathal trap she braced for. Cryptic orders had arrived: pack for the XBC Red Thunder’s shakedown cruise, signed by Grand Admiral Thrawn in her precise script. No mission details—just a launch that was still days away while the crew tested Relentless. Her Wraith comrades had received similar summons, all Thrawn’s doing. The door chimed, sharp and insistent. She rose, stretching her taut, muscular frame, and opened it with a cautious glance. A young tech thrust a datapad into her hands. “Encoded transmission from Grand Admiral Thrawn.”

Sonya nodded, her hypervigilance spiking as she scanned his face. “Thanks, ensign…” He lingered, his gaze too steady. She narrowed her eyes. “Dismissed.”

The tech’s hand darted to a blaster pistol. “Sorry, ma’am, step inside.” His voice trembled, betraying nerves.

Sonya complied, a shiver of PTSD dragging her back to that dark cell—chained, beaten, violated—her breath catching. “Ensign, why the gun?” she rasped, masking the dread clawing at her mind.

“Read the datapad,” he ordered, sealing the door with a hiss.

She entered the decrypt code, her fingers steady despite the tension. “…aloud, please.”

“From Grand Admiral Thrawn to Lt. Sonya A. Blade…transfers underway, ensure belongings are aboard the Red Thunder. Code word: Scorpion.”

“What’s Scorpion mean, Lieutenant?” His blaster wavered, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

Sonya scowled, her tone sharp to bury her unease. “Just Thrawn’s verification, ensign. Or do you not trust the Grand Admiral?”

“Odd. Her usual messages skip verification, but today, Scorpion’s in several.”

She shrugged, feigning exasperation. “Track her better, and you’d know she’s sent me twenty-one messages in three weeks all with the verification codeword. Yesterday’s ordered my gear to the Red Thunder. Which I obeyed.”

“So, what’s it mean?” he pressed, stepping closer.

Sonya sighed, her voice edged with impatience. “Ask your superiors instead of waving that gun. It’s above your paygrade—I spill it, and they’ll shoot me faster than you.”

The tech bristled, his face flushing. “I’m secret police, Lieutenant. You can’t con me.”

“Fine, arrest me. If you’re wrong, I’m sure the Emperor’ll make his displeasure well known to you.” Her gaze locked on his, daring him to act.

He paled, the Emperor’s wrath a shadow over him. “Turn around, hands behind your head.”

Sonya rolled her eyes, complying with deliberate slowness. He holstered his blaster, pulling zipcuffs. She counted two heartbeats, then lashed out with a backward kick, snapping his thigh. He screamed as she spun, her roundhouse kick crushing his skull. The body slumped against the wall, a lifeless heap. Sonya stared, her breath hitching—if only she could have taken them all out in that cell. “Should’ve brought backup, idiot.”

She donned combat armor, holstering her blaster, and locked the door behind her, her pulse steady as she headed to the weapons locker below. In the lift, the doors slid open, and another tech stepped in, clutching a duffle bag and datacards. “Ma’am,” he murmured, his voice low but firm.

As the doors hissed shut, he slapped the emergency stop, the lift jolting to a halt. Sonya’s hand hovered near her blaster, her senses sharpening as she sized him up. “L-T, here’s an access card for the locker—no security alerts so far,” he said, offering the card. “Thrawn’s got prisoners below who can help crew the ship. Also, a datacard for the watch officer, and a bag for the weapons.” He quickly passed her the other items.

Sonya took the cards and the bag, scanning his face for deceit, her grip firm as she processed the tech’s words. “Loyalty officer tried to arrest me. He’s out.”

The tech’s lips twitched, a flicker of approval. “Good. Others might sniff around, but they’ll be too late. Get the prisoners and get to the ship. I’ll see you there.”

She nodded, her jaw set, and he restarted the lift with a quick tap. The hum of the drydock resumed, a tense undercurrent to their silence as the car descended. Sonya’s mind raced—Thrawn’s web tightening, each move a thread in a scheme she barely grasped. The lift dinged, and she stepped out, the weight of the bag grounding her resolve.

Sonya stepped into the weapons locker, the air thick with the tang of oil and metal. She swiped the access card, the lock clicking open with a soft beep, and surveyed the arsenal—rifles, grenades, and sidearms glinting under harsh lights. Ignoring the curious glances from a pair of techs, she moved with purpose, her taut, muscular frame radiating quiet authority. With a fluid motion, she slung a rifle over her shoulder, her raw strength making the heavy gear feel light. The techs exchanged a hushed whisper—“Think she’s prepping for a raid? That’s enough firepower for a squad”—their voices barely audible, but her sharp ears caught the speculation. Her steely gaze silenced them, their questions dying unspoken.

As she turned to leave, two guards blocked the exit, their postures tense. She sighed, channeling frustration into her voice. “Short straw. Don’t ask, or I’ll vent something court-martial-worthy.”

One guard nodded sympathetically, his eyes flicking to her rifle. “Understood, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, brushing past them, the weight of her mission settling deeper. Her mind churned—Thrawn’s plan hung by a thread, and every step risked exposure. She headed for the lifts, the clink of her gear a steady rhythm against the drydock’s hum.

Minutes later Sonya stepped onto the prison deck, the air heavy with the stale scent of confinement. The watch officer glanced up from his console, raising an eyebrow at her armed presence. “Armed for war, Lieutenant?”

She smirked, her tone laced with mock exasperation. “Training exercise. Sent down mid-weapons check. Bureaucrats think this fracking gear’s light?”

He chuckled, easing back in his chair. “Who’re you here for?”

Sonya’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The one they call Scorpion.”

His hand drifted toward his sidearm, tension tightening his frame. “Authorization?”

Sonya handed over the datacard, her gaze steady. He plugged it into a device, relaxing after a tense moment. “Sorry, had to double check you’re with us. Security’s spoofed. Two loyalist guards inside, you’ll have to take them out.”

She nodded, her voice calm but firm. “Can’t be too careful.” He gestured to her gear. “Ditch most of that ordnance here, or they might decide to shoot first before asking questions.”

She set the bag down, keeping her rifle and pistol, the weight a familiar anchor. “Smart call.”

“Good luck.” He buzzed her through the blast door.

Inside, two guards paused their patrol, eyeing her warily. “I’m here for prisoner 45132,” she said, her voice even.

They shrugged, one jerking a thumb toward a cell. “That one.”

As they turned, Sonya dropped to a knee and fired two precise shots. The first guard fell with a muffled thud. The second spun toward her, but her next blast caught him in the chest and dropped him. The blast door slammed shut behind her.

Three more guards charged from the far end of the corridor, weapons raised. Their headsets screeched with feedback. Sonya’s rifle clicked indicating a malfunction as electricity danced along the barrel. She hurled the useless weapon into the lead guard’s face, knocking him out, then grabbed a nearby 200-kilo crate and flung it. The crate crushed the second man against the bulkhead. The third closed the distance and fired. Sonya sidestepped, closed the gap, and snapped his neck in one fluid motion.

The prisoners stared in silence.

Sonya knelt down and snatched the keycards off the guard’s belt and his rifle before approaching one of the cells, her boots echoing on the cold deck. She keyed the door and it slid open with a groan, revealing Gregory Westner in a tattered flight suit, a bandage plastered across his forehead, his buzz-cut stark under the flickering lights. His cybernetic eye whirred, scanning her with wary precision. “Room service ain’t due,” he quipped, a faint smirk cutting through his exhaustion.

Sonya grinned, her voice light but edged with purpose. “Breaking you out, hotshot.”

Greg shook his head, rising stiffly. “Appreciate the spirit, but how do we escape this hellhole?”

She handed him the rifle, the metal cold in his grip. “Steal a ship, bolt for URF space. Who’s with you?”

“An old friend of mine, James Hunter, Fairgot and Ripsaw crew and marines—captured when their ships went down,” he said, testing the weapon’s weight.

Sonya’s gaze sharpened as she pocketed the keycards. “The desk guard’s on our side—he’ll open the way to the ship.”

His jaw dropped, a mix of awe and disbelief. “You pulled this off alone?”

Sonya shook her head, unlocking another cell. “Thrawn’s the brains running this show.”

James Hunter emerged from the cell she opened, brushing off his tattered uniform with theatrical flair, bruises from a guard’s beating darkening his face. His red hair, shaved to a stubble, framed green eyes that glinted with mischief. “About bloody time, mate. Thought I’d rot here.”

Sonya smirked, nodding toward the corridor. “Keep up, loudmouth.”

James caught the cue with a grin. “I’ll outrun ye, lass, and charm the guards while I’m at it.”

Minutes later, Sonya and Greg had freed 203 prisoners, the cells emptying into a ragged line of defiance. Murmurs rippled through the group—marines from the Fairgot, Ripsaw crew, some with scarred faces, began distributing the weapons from the duffle bag, all eyes on her, whispers of her crate-smashing feat lingering like smoke. Sonya and Greg faced them at the exit, his rifle slung low, his cybernetic eye gleaming under the emergency strobes. She spoke first, her voice cutting through the hum of the deck like a blade. “Stick close, we have a limited window to escape—no heroics, no stragglers.”

A Ripsaw crewman frowned, his voice rough. “The garrison will swarm us!”

Sonya shrugged, her tone steady. “Thrawn will have them chasing shadows. Trust the plan or go back to your cells.”

Greg nodded, gripping his rifle. “We’re not dying here. Move as one—cover your wingman.”

The desk guard activated the override device, his fingers flying over the console. “Ten minutes before surveillance resets. Go!”

Sonya led the charge through the security door, the group surging behind her like a tide. Alarms shattered the air: “Security breach! Decks 4, 8, 9! Not a drill!” Red smoke billowed from vents, thick and acrid, the stench yanking Sonya back to that cell’s suffocating haze—chains, screams, violation. She shook it off, her breath sharp, pushing forward. “Environmental failure, deck 6! Evacuate sections 3-7 immediately!” The diversion quickly cleared the corridors in front of them, echoes of distant shouts fading as the group pressed on, boots thundering against the grating.

They reached a T-junction branching to the Red Thunder’s airlock, the path ahead dim and foreboding. Sonya signaled a halt, her hand raised in a fist, then strolled forward with feigned casualness, ID card in hand. Two armed guards snapped to attention, rifles rising. “Halt! Restricted area.”

“Lt. Sonya Blade, I’m authorized,” she said, flashing the card, her pulse even despite the knot in her gut.

The sergeant scanned it, his brow furrowing. “What’s going on L-T? Comms are down, and all the eggheads working on the ship just ran through here like they were on fire.”

He hesitated as he realized something was off, rifle inching higher. The second guard fired twice, dropping the sergeant in a heap. He yanked off his helmet, revealing a friendly face twisted in a grin. “Never liked that prick.”

Sonya pulled him into a quick embrace. “Good to see you, Alex.”

“Likewise, but we’re on the clock. Wraiths are locking down the remaining airlocks.”

Alarms wailed anew: “Security breach at all Red Thunder airlocks!”

Alex cursed under his breath. “Thrawn’s spoof failed early.”

Sonya nodded, her jaw tight. “Guess not all of them are idiots. We hold them off. You take right, I’ll take left.”

Greg shifted to the right flank as shots cracked the air. James ducked into a doorway, laying down suppressing fire to pin the incoming security. Return fire chipped the bulkhead, forcing him back. “Oi, lads, ye shoot worse than my gran after a couple of pints!” A guard crept up behind, rifle pressed to his spine. “Hands up, prisoner.”

James dropped his weapon, hands rising slow. The guards cuffed him roughly, dragging him toward a small security office. The officer looked up from his desk. “What’s this?”

“Sneaky bastard got out and took some potshots at us,” the sergeant growled.

“How’d he get a rifle?” the officer demanded.

James flashed a bloody grin. “Yer mum slipped it to me last night.”

The sergeant backhanded him, splitting his lip. “Answer properly!”

“Sod off, ye wankers.”

The sergeant drove a fist into James’ gut, blood trickling from his mouth. The officer waved them off. “Enough! Check the airlock, make sure it’s secure. And someone drag him back to his cell.”

They hauled him to the door. As it hissed open, Sonya’s blaster fire cut down the sergeant. James stomped the second guard’s instep, kneeing him unconscious as he fell. A final shot took out the officer as Sonya stepped from the shadows. “I would have thought you would have gone with his sister instead of mother, Hunter.”

James wiped blood from his chin, grinning through the pain. “I didn’t know he had a sister. Need a medpack, lass.”

She tossed him a medpack from her belt. “Patch up. Let’s move.”

Moments later Sonya and Greg burst into the CIC, the hum of the Red Thunder’s Reflex reactors vibrating through the deck. The virtual intelligence (VI) chimed, its voice crisp: “Welcome, Lieutenant Blade. Are you assuming the captain’s station, or will you take the weapons officer position?” The console lights flared to life, casting a pale glow over the chaos.

Sonya’s eyes narrowed, her mind racing as she assessed the situation. “Defenses first—Striker, Captain Gregory Westner is taking temporary command!” She gestured sharply toward the captain’s chair, her hands already flying to the tactical display.

Greg hesitated, then slid into the seat, his cybernetic eye scanning the readouts. “Captain? Me?” The VI adjusted instantly. “I have updated my systems. Captain Westner is acting captain. Systems are coming on line.”

Sonya flashed a tight grin, her fingers swift on the controls. “Don’t freeze up.”

The reactors’ thrum deepened as the ship shuddered as it freed itself of the dock. Alarms blared outside: “Emergency launch initiated! Battle stations!” Sonya checked the tactical screen, her breath steady amid the storm. “We’ve got the CAP inbound.”

Greg nodded, his voice firm despite the shock. “Make sure those airlocks are sealed, activate point defenses, and someone plot us a quick jump out of here.”

The VI complied, the ship’s systems humming in response. Sonya triggered the defenses, watching the fighters vanish in silent bursts. “CAP is down but they’re launching fighters.”

The man who took the navigation station called out. “Clear of station’s gravity well. Nav computer already has a solution for coordinates in URF space.”

“We’ll take them. Jump to hyperspace,” Greg ordered, his grip steady on the armrest.

“Jumping.” The stars outside the viewport streaked into a blur, the tension easing as the ship slipped into hyperspace.

One of the freed crewmen, still riding the high of the escape, looked over at Sonya with something close to awe. “You pulled off a full prison break in the middle of a drydock. That was… damn impressive.”

Sonya shook her head once, already turning her attention back to the tactical board. “It was Thrawn’s plan and Greg’s leadership. I just carried out the plan. That’s all.”

The crewman looked at her for a moment, puzzled. Why was she downplaying her involvement? Her actions had saved them all. Well, if she wasn’t going to acknowledge it, then he would make sure it came up during the debrief.

Hyperspace stretched out ahead of them on the viewscreens, the familiar blue-white tunnel a welcome change from the chaos of the drydock. In the CIC the tension had finally begun to ease. Crew members were rotating out in small groups, heading for the officer’s mess to scavenge whatever they could find. Low voices and the occasional short laugh drifted through the compartment.

Sonya had gotten up from her station, trying to stretch the tension of combat out of her muscles. She walked a slow circuit of the CIC and stopped at the now-vacant sensor station, one hand resting on the console. She wasn’t really looking at the displays. The thousand-yard stare had settled over her features. Whatever she was seeing, it wasn’t the tactical readouts or the hyperspace tunnel.

Greg finished speaking with the acting helm officer, then noticed the stillness in her posture. He crossed the short distance and stopped beside her, keeping his voice low.

“Sonya?”

She blinked once. The distant look receded as she forced her focus back to the present. For a fraction of a second something raw flickered behind her eyes before she locked it down.

“I’m fine,” she said. The words were flat, controlled.

Greg studied her a moment longer. He didn’t push. He simply nodded.

“They’re starting to rotate people to the mess. You should get something while you can.”

“I’m good. I ate before the breakout,” she replied, already turning away from the console and heading the short distance back to the tactical station. The performance was back in place, neat and practiced.

Greg watched her for another second, then let it go. There would be time later. For now, they were alive and in hyperspace. That would have to be enough.

Greg watched another pair of crewmen head for the officer’s mess, then glanced over at the acting sensor officer. “If anyone finds real coffee in there, I’m putting them in for a commendation. Or at least first dibs on the next hot shower.”

A couple of tired chuckles answered him. The mood in the CIC eased another notch.

The last of the rotating crew had left for the mess. The CIC was quieter now, the viewscreens still showing the steady blue-white tunnel of hyperspace.

Greg stood near the tactical table, arms folded, eyes on the status board without really seeing it. The breakout had worked. People were alive who wouldn’t have been otherwise. By any reasonable measure it had been a complete success.

So why did the familiar weight still sit in his chest?

Was I the right call for this?

The question had been circling since they cleared the drydock. He’d made the command decisions in the heat of the moment that got them out. But Thrawn had set the stage for him. He’d also been the one sitting in a cell in the first place — pulled out of the wreckage while the battle of Saturn still raged. They had taken that derelict destroyer, drifted it right into the carriers’ back line, and lit the whole area up. It had worked… until the return fire started and the flight had to bug out. Debris had caught his fighter on the way clear and put him under. He’d woken up a prisoner, hoping the rest of them had made it.

The old doubt still lingered. If someone sharper, someone with fewer close calls and actual command experience, had been in that cell instead…

He exhaled slowly and forced the thought down. There would be time to second-guess later. Right now the ship needed a captain who could still function and lead them. Sonya needed him steady.

He straightened and turned back to the displays.

Behind the scenes, Thrawn observed from the Inquisitor, her red eyes calculating. Now for her fleet to join the Red Thunder and do everything possible to ensure it was placed in a scalpel role, a move that would help win this war and hopefully allow them time to prepare for the next one.

An hour later on a URF command station, Admiral Seti glared at the updated strategic display, his slick voice seething with barely contained rage. “Thrawn’s defected with a fleet? And the Red Thunder’s been stolen?” The security officer nodded, his tone clipped. “The Inquisitor and all the task forces in her fleet—full defection.” Seti slammed a fist on the console, his ambition fracturing. “She’s stolen my command! That blue-skinned schemer’s basically seized the Grand Admiral’s chair!”

Admiral Bannon’s holo flickered to life, his weathered face lit with rare excitement. “Admiral Seti, the Inquisitor just jumped in with several taskforces and wishes to defect. Can you confirm—Thrawn’s brought her entire fleet?”

“Yes,” Seti spat, his eyes narrowing. “The Inquisitor, her escorts, and more than likely that stolen experimental ship. She’s doubled our firepower overnight.” Bannon grinned, a spark igniting in his gaze. “A game-changer for our understrength squadrons. We can hit the Nathal hard now.” Seti sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “She’s not just handing us ships—she’s clawing for my… for remaining a Grand Admiral.” Bannon’s grin faded, his tone firming with resolve. “Focus, Seti. Her assets are ours—let’s integrate them and seize this advantage. We now have a real fighting chance!”

The Red Thunder dropped from hyperspace near Bannon’s Enterprise, the stars snapping back into focus. Sonya scanned the IFF codes, her breath catching as the Inquisitor’s signature glowed on the display. “That’s Thrawn’s fleet. She brought the whole damn armada.” Greg gaped, his cybernetic eye whirring. “She defected a fleet?” Sonya hailed the Inquisitor, her voice steady. “Red Thunder actual to Inquisitor. Code: Scorpion.” Thrawn’s calm tone flowed back, smooth as a still void. “Inquisitor actual. Well done, Blade. A name change is in order—Avenger suits her. Bannon’s standing by.” Bannon’s voice joined in, warm with enthusiasm. “Blade, you’ve delivered a treasure—rescued prisoners and a superior warship. What a haul!” Sonya smiled, her tension easing. “It was a joint effort. We have Ripsaw and Fairgot survivors as crew, but we’ll need additional support, though. Could be some Imps hiding on the ship.”

“Sending teams over now,” Bannon replied, his tone lifting with hope. “This fleet’s a lifeline.”

Thrawn’s words were deliberate and assured. “A well-executed operation, Lieutenant. The Avenger will carve deeper paths ahead.” Greg chuckled, shedding his doubt. “Unbelievable. Helm, fall in behind Enterprise.” The VI chimed, “Until a facility reassigns command, you’re my Captain.” Greg sighed, a wry note in his voice. “Fair enough, but don’t get too cozy with calling me captain.”

Eight months later, at Liberty dry-docks, the URF Admiralty convened in a stark chamber, the hum of the station a constant undercurrent. The Avenger loomed beyond the viewport, its sleek hull a symbol of contested power. Seti slammed his datapad onto the table, yanking his collar loose. “Westner as Captain of our most formidable ship? Have you lost your mind?”

Thrawn, clad in a functional URF uniform, her red eyes piercing, folded her hands with deliberate calm. “Captain Westner is hardwired to the Avenger’s VI, Admiral. He proved his mettle under fire at Ta’charin and his adaptability with stealing that derelict during the battle of Saturn.”

Seti scoffed, his voice oily with resentment. “So’s Lieutenant Blade as well as being hardwired in as the senior weapons officer—would you put her in command?”

Thrawn’s tone turned icy. “The Avenger’s VI technology is advanced, unpredictable. I asked Westner to form a command team for the ship and he came up with some unconventional choices.” She updated the display with his command team. “Review his selections.”

Seti’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing at the list. “This is madness! Only Wilson’s fit as XO.”

Bannon raised an eyebrow, his gruff voice hesitant. “I seldom agree with Seti, but he’s got a point—most of these choices were given their assignments for a reason…”

Thrawn cut in, her gaze unyielding. “You fight as if the Empire’s your equal. Their tactics, your training—it’s stagnant. Westner’s crew will think creatively, striking where the Nathal Empire is vulnerable. The Avenger will raid, distract, and open gaps for our fleets to exploit.”

An Admiral frowned, leaning forward. “Our strongest ship, reduced to a raider?”

Thrawn nodded, her eyes distant, as if tracing together a fractured strategy. “The Emperor will chase it, exposing weaknesses. Blade’s role is also critical to this—if she agrees.”

Seti leaned in, his tone still slick. “I would think any chance to make her a double-agent was blown after Ta’charin. It’s useless now. Send her on a commando squad—somewhere she won’t be a danger.”

“The Emperor’s fixation on her still persists,” Thrawn countered. “Intelligence can exploit that and she’s eager to prove her loyalty.”

Another Admiral spoke, referencing a report. “Hunter’s report shows Blade’s a natural commando—her strength at Ta’charin was corroborated by several others. They claimed she crushed three guards with her bare hands.”

Thrawn inclined her head. “Her exceptional power and skill is not in question. With the Avenger in a raider role, Blade can participate in marine raids on enemy ships and strongholds as needed. She’s ideal in this role.” She turned to Seti. “She’s waiting outside.”

Seti shifted uncomfortably. “You didn’t clear that with us!”

Thrawn’s blue face hinted at amusement. “A concern, Admiral? You were at the base where she was found—chained, beaten, violated. I read the report.”

Seti paled, his composure cracking. “I had no part in that.”

Thrawn’s lopsided smile revealed rare emotion. “Very well then there shouldn’t be a problem. Send her in.”

Sonya entered, her URF dress uniform fitting her taut muscular frame, saluting with precision. “Lt. Blade reporting.”

Thrawn returned the salute. “At ease. Do you know why you are here?”

Sonya dropped to parade rest, her jaw tight. “For the intel I passed while conscripted, ma’am.”

Seti nodded, his voice smooth but edged. “Correct. We need you to continue as a double agent, feeding Nathal handlers our selected intel.”

Sonya’s muscles tensed as Seti’s voice struck a chord—chains, screams, the cell’s stench flooded back. Her eyes locked on his, her tone chilling. “Understood… sir. Where?”

Thrawn caught the flicker of recognition and slight change in facial expressions. “Something to address, Lieutenant?”

Sonya shook her head, her voice steadying. “If I may have a private word later, ma’am.”

“Granted. Understand, this assignment is purely voluntary. Exposure marks you a traitor, with the grave risks associated with that.”

Sonya’s gaze wavered, shadows of that cell lingering but she was determined to prove herself. “I accept, ma’am.”

Thrawn nodded. “You will be assigned to the Avenger as the Weapons Officer under the command of Captain Westner.”

Sonya raised an eyebrow. “Captain Westner, ma’am?”

“Yes, he personally requested you. He believes you will make an excellent Weapons Officer. Of course, both he, the security officer, and communications officer aboard ship will know of your assignment so as to facilitate your cover but no one else will.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Thrawn got up. “We will set up the details and you will have everything you need before the Avenger deploys.” Thrawn saluted. “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

Sonya quickly saluted back. “Thank you, ma’am.” Turning smartly she exited the room as Thrawn sat back down. “Alright, now let’s see to beginning to fully turn this war around…”