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Discover Thrawn's origins within the Chiss Ascendancy in the first book in an epic new Star Wars trilogy from bestselling author Timothy Zahn.

Beyond the edge of the galaxy lies the Unknown Regions: chaotic, uncharted, and near impassable, with hidden secrets and dangers in equal measure. And nestled within its swirling chaos is the Ascendancy, home to the enigmatic Chiss and the Nine Ruling Families that lead them.

The peace of the Ascendancy, a beacon of calm and stability, is shattered after a daring attack on the Chiss capital that leaves no trace of the enemy. Baffled, the Ascendancy dispatches one of its brightest young military officers to root out the unseen assailants. A recruit born of no title, but adopted into the powerful family of the Mitth and given the name Thrawn.

With the might of the Expansionary Fleet at his back, and the aid of his comrade Admiral Ar'alani, answers begin to fall into place. But as Thrawn's first command probes deeper into the vast stretch of space his people call the Chaos, he realizes that the mission he has been given is not what it seems. And the threat to the Ascendancy is only just beginning.

Timothy Zahn

Chaos Rising

Thrawn Ascendancy

Nuevo Canon: 2.92

ePub r1.0

Titivillus 06-09-2020

Título original: Chaos Rising

Timothy Zahn, 01-09-2020

Editor digital: Titivillus

ePub base r2.1

• THRAWN | Mitth’raw’nuruodo—Mitth family merit adoptive
• ZIARA | Irizi’ar’alani—Irizi family blood
• THALIAS | Mitth’ali’astov—Mitth family merit adoptive
• THURFIAN | Mitth’urf’ianico—Mitth family syndic
• SAMAKRO | Ufsa’mak’ro—Ufsa family merit adoptive
• GENERAL BA’KIF
• CHE’RI—sky-walker
• QILORI OF UANDUALON—Pathfinder navigator (non-Chiss)
• GENERAL YIV THE BENEVOLENT—Nikardun commander

Nine Ruling Families

UFSA

IRIZI

DASKLO

CLARR

CHAF

PLIKH

BOADIL

MITTH

OBBIC

Chiss Family Ranks

BLOOD

COUSIN

RANKING DISTANT

TRIAL-BORN

MERIT ADOPTIVE

Political Hierarchy

PATRIARCH—head of family

SPEAKER—chief syndic of the family

SYNDIC—member of the Syndicure, main governmental body

PATRIEL—handles family affairs on a planetary scale

COUNCILOR—handles family affairs at the local level

ARISTOCRA—mid-level member of one of the Nine Ruling Families

A long time ago, beyond a galaxy far, far away….

For thousands of years it has been an island of calm within the Chaos. It is a center of power, a model of stability, and a beacon of integrity.

The Nine Ruling Families guard it from within; the Expansionary Defense Fleet guards it from without. Its neighbors are left in peace, its enemies are left in ruin. It is light and culture and glory.

It is the Chiss Ascendancy.

Prologue

The attack on the Chiss Ascendancy homeworld of Csilla was sudden, unexpected, and—despite its limited scope—impressively efficient.

The three large warships came out of hyperspace on widely spaced vectors, driving inward toward the planet with spectrum lasers blazing at full power toward the defense platforms and the orbiting Chiss Defense Force warships. The platforms and ships, caught by surprise, nevertheless took less than a minute to begin returning fire. By then the attackers had altered their directions, angling in toward the cluster of lights spread across the icy planetary surface that marked the capital city of Csaplar. Their lasers continued to fire, and as they came within range they added salvos of missiles to their attack.

But ultimately it was all for nothing. The defense platforms easily picked off the incoming missiles while the warships targeted the attacking ships themselves, blasting them into rubble and making sure that any fragments entering the atmosphere were too small to survive the journey. Within fifteen minutes of the attack force’s arrival, it was over.

The threat had ended, Supreme General Ba’kif thought grimly as he strode down the central corridor toward the Cupola where the syndics and other Aristocra were assembling after making their way back from the shelters.

Now came the real sound and fury.

And there would be plenty of both. As the supreme ruling body of the Ascendancy, the Syndicure liked to project an image of thoughtfulness, nobility, and unflappable dignity. Most of the time, aside from the inevitable political wrangling, that was close enough to the truth.

But not today. The Syndicure had been in full session, and the Speakers had had their own private meeting scheduled for later in the afternoon, which meant nearly all of the Ascendancy’s top-level Aristocra had been in the offices, corridors, and meeting rooms when the alarm sounded. The shelters deep beneath the Cupola were reasonably roomy and marginally comfortable, but it had been decades since the last direct attack on Csilla and Ba’kif doubted any of the current government officials had ever even been down there.

Two hours of forced idleness while the Defense Force waited to see if there would be a follow-up attack hadn’t gone over well with them, and Ba’kif had no illusions that the coming storm would be thoughtful, noble, or unflappable.

He was right.

“What I want to know,” the Speaker for the Ufsa family spoke up after Ba’kif had finished his report, “is who the aliens are who dared think they could get away with an attack against us. A name, General—we want a name.”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you one, Speaker,” Ba’kif said.

“Why not?” the Speaker demanded. “You have debris, don’t you? You have data records and bodies and weapons profiles. Surely a name can be gleaned from all that.”

“The Ascendancy has been attacked,” the Speaker for the Mitth family cut in gravely, as if the others might somehow have missed that fact. “We need to know who to punish for such arrogance.”

“Yes,” the Usfa said, throwing a brief glare down the table.

Ba’kif suppressed a sigh. In times gone by, major threats to the Ascendancy had usually drawn the Ruling Families into a unity that superseded the usual political maneuvering. He’d held a small hope that today’s attack might spark such a response.

Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen. In the case of the Usfa and Mitth, in particular, those families were in the midst of a particularly tangled campaign with a newly opened mining field on Thearterra as the prize, and the Usfa was clearly annoyed at having had some of his spotlight stolen by his family’s current chief rival. “More than that,” he added, his glare daring the Mitth to interrupt again, “we need assurance that the Defense Force has the resources to defend the Chiss against further action by these unidentified enemies.”

The questis data-link reader lying on the table in front of Ba’kif lit up as a fresh report came in. He picked it up, propping it at an angle on his left palm while he slid his finger along the edge to scroll the screen. “The Syndicure need not be concerned about their safety,” he said. “I’ve just received word that four additional warships from the Expansionary Fleet have been rushed in from Naporar and are moving to support the Defense Force ships already in place.”

He winced to himself. Young men and women, ready to give their lives to protect their homeworld. Noble and honorable…and a sacrifice, if it was ever required, that he and everyone else currently in the Cupola knew would be a complete and utter waste.

Fortunately, it didn’t look like any such sacrifice would be needed today.

“And if they attack other worlds within the Ascendancy?” the Usfa pressed.

“Other ships have already been sent to bolster the patrol forces of the neighboring systems in case they’re the targets of subsequent attacks,” Ba’kif said.

“Has anyone else reported attacks or enemy sightings?” the Speaker for the Clarr asked.

“Not as yet, Speaker,” Ba’kif told him. “As far as we can tell, this was an isolated incident.”

The Speaker for the Obbic family gave a theatrical little snort. “I seriously doubt that, General,” she said. “No one sends warships against the Ascendancy on a lark and then goes home. Someone out there is plotting against us. That someone needs to be found and taught a serious lesson.”

It went on that way for another hour, with each of the Nine Ruling Families—and many of the Great Families who had aspirations of joining that elite group—making sure to get their outrage and determination on record.

It was, for the most part, a waste of Ba’kif’s time. Fortunately, extensive experience in the military had taught him how to listen to politicians with half his mind while focusing the other half on more urgent matters.

The Speakers and syndics wanted to know who had attacked the Ascendancy. They were looking in the wrong direction.

The more interesting question was not who, but why.

Because the Obbic had been right. No one attacked Csilla for the fun of it. That went double for an attack that cost three major warships without providing any obvious gain. Either the attacker had misjudged badly, or else he’d achieved a more subtle goal.

What could such a goal look like?

The majority of the Syndicure clearly assumed the attack had been a prelude to a more sustained campaign, and once they finished their posturing they would undoubtedly start urging the Defense Force to pull its ships inward for the protection of the major systems. More than that, they would probably insist the Expansionary Defense Fleet likewise withdraw from the borders to augment them.

Was that the goal? To keep the Chiss looking inward and not outward? In which case, bowing to the Syndicure’s demand for security would play directly into the enemy’s plans. On the other hand, if the syndics were right about this being the start of a full-fledged campaign, leaving the Espansionary Fleet out in the Chaos could be an equally fatal move. Either way, if they guessed wrong, it would be too late to correct the error by the time they knew the truth.

But as Ba’kif weighed the possibilities, it occurred to him that there was one other possibility. Perhaps the attack wasn’t meant to draw the Ascendancy’s attention from something that was about to happen, but to distract it from something that had already happened.

And that possibility, at least, he could look into right now. Surreptitiously, he keyed a search order into his questis.

Midway through the Cupola session, as he continued to make his soothing noises to the Aristocra, he had the answer.

Maybe.

One of Ba’kif’s aides was waiting when the general finally made it back to his office. “Were you able to locate him?” Ba’kif asked.

“Yes, sir,” the aide said. “He’s on Naporar undergoing his final round of physical therapy for the injuries sustained during the Vagaari pirate operations.”

Ba’kif scowled. Operations that, while successful in a military sense, had been a complete disaster on the political front. Months later, many of the Aristocra were still brooding over that whole mess. “When will he be free?”

“Whenever you wish, sir,” the aide said. “He said he would be at your disposal whenever you wanted him.”

“Good,” Ba’kif said, checking the time. Half an hour to bring the Whirlwind to flight status, four hours to get to Naporar, another half hour to get a shuttle down to the Chiss Expansionary Fleet medcenter. “Inform him that I want him ready in five hours.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide hesitated. “Do you want the order logged, or does this qualify as a private trip?”

“Log it,” Ba’kif said. The Aristocra might be unhappy when they found out about this—the Syndicure might even assemble a tribunal somewhere down the line to waste more of his time with useless questions—but Ba’kif was going to do things strictly by the book. “Order from Supreme General Ba’kif,” he continued, hearing his voice drop into the tone he always used for formal orders and reports. “Preparing transport for myself and Senior Captain Mitth’raw’nuruodo. Destination: Dioya. Purpose: investigation of a derelict ship found two days ago in the outer system.”

“Yes, sir,” the aide said briskly. His voice was studiously neutral, giving away nothing of his own personal feelings on the matter. Not all those who thought poorly of Captain Thrawn, after all, were members of the Aristocra.

At the moment, Ba’kif didn’t care about any of them. He’d found the first half of the why.

Now there was only one person he trusted to come up with the other half.

Memories I

Of all the duties foisted on mid-ranking family members, Aristocra Mitth’urf’ianico thought sourly as he strode down the senior school hallway, recruitment was one of the worst. It was boring, involved way too much travel, and more often than not was a waste of time. Here on Rentor—physically close to Csilla yet paradoxically in the backwater of the Chiss Ascendancy—he had no doubt what the outcome of the trip would be.

Still, when a general—even a newly minted one—said he had a promising recruit, it was incumbent on the family to at least check it out.

General Ba’kif was waiting in the assembly overlook balcony when the Aristocra arrived. The expression on the general’s face was one of controlled eagerness; the face itself was far too young to be attached to a field-grade officer. But then, that was what family connections were for.

Ba’kif’s eyes lit up as he spotted his visitor. “Aristocra Mitth’urf’ianico?” he asked.

“I am he. General Ba’kif?”

“I am he.”

And with that formality over, they could move on to the far less awkward use of titles and core names. “So where is this student you thought was worth my flying halfway across the planet for?” Thurfian asked.

“Down there,” Ba’kif said, pointing at the lines of students reciting the morning vows. “Third row back on the right.”

So he was a line leader? Impressive, but only mildly so. “Name?”

“Kivu’raw’nuru.”

Kivu. Not a family Thurfian was familiar with. “And?” he prompted as he pulled out his questis and keyed in the family name.

“And his grades, aptitude, and logic matrix are off the boards,” Ba’kif said. “Makes him a prime candidate for the Taharim Academy on Naporar.”

“Mm,” Thurfian said, peering at the record. Kivu was about as obscure a family as the Chiss Ascendancy had ever spawned. No wonder he’d never heard of them. “And you contacted us why?”

“Because the Mitth still have two appointment slots left for this year,” Ba’kif said. “If you don’t bring Vurawn in, he won’t have another chance until next year.”

“Would that be such a catastrophe?”

Ba’kif’s face hardened. “Yes, I believe it would,” he said, offering his own questis. “Here’s his school record.”

Thurfian pursed his lips as he scrolled down the screen. He’d seen better, but not very often. “I don’t see any indication that his family has prepped him for military service.”

“No, they haven’t,” Ba’kif confirmed. “It’s a smaller family, without the resources or access the Mitth have for such things.”

“If they thought he was so exceptional, they should have found or made the resources,” Thurfian said tartly. “So you think the Mitth should step to the front and just welcome him in with no questions asked?”

“Ask all the questions you like,” Ba’kif said. “I’ve arranged for him to be pulled out of first class for an interview.”

Thurfian smiled tightly. “Are the Aristocra that predictable?”

“The Aristocra? No.” Ba’kif matched Thurfian’s smile. “But their rivalries are.”

“I imagine so,” Thurfian conceded, lowering his eyes again to Vurawn’s records. If the boy lived up to even half of his potential, he would be a worthy addition to the Mitth family.

Once, thousands of years ago, families had been just that: groups of people bound by blood and marriage and closed to everyone else. But the inherent limitations of such a system had led to decline and stratification, and some of the patriarchs had begun experimenting with methods for absorbing outsiders that didn’t involve marriage. The result had been the current system, where likely prospects could be brought in as merit adoptives, with those who proved themselves especially worthy rising to Trial-born and possibly even ranking distant.

Vurawn certainly fit the criteria for becoming a merit adoptive. More important, if the Mitth took him the Irizi wouldn’t be able to snatch him up. One of the many family rivalries Ba’kif was no doubt thinking of when he spoke of predictability.

But even that was beside the point. The Syndicure had finally agreed to the Defense Force’s long-standing pleas to expand its capabilities and mandate, and the newly formed Expansionary Defense Fleet was the result. Its mission was to watch over Chiss interests in the parts of the Chaos extending beyond the Ascendancy’s borders, to learn who was out there and assess their level of threat.

And for once, the Aristocra had actually been generous with their military funding. The Expansionary Fleet’s new ships, bases, and support facilities were already under construction, and they were going to need all the competent officers and warriors they could get.

This Vurawn looked like someone who would fit into such a role. A man who might make a name there, both for himself and for his family.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go talk to him. See how he stands up to a proper interrogation.”

“I trust the compound isn’t too far away,” Vurawn said as Thurfian’s car flew swiftly across the Rentor landscape. “I’m already missing all of today’s classes. My instructors would be displeased if I missed tomorrow’s, as well.”

“You’ll be all right,” Thurfian said, hearing the strained patience in his voice. Did the boy really not understand the depth of the honor that had been bestowed upon him?

Apparently not. Attending his classes was important. Adoption into one of the Nine Ruling Families wasn’t.

Rentor wasn’t exactly a political and cultural hub, and Thurfian knew he had to make allowances for a certain degree of ignorance. Even so, such a lack of awareness set Vurawn apart from even the unsophisticated commoners around him.

Still, if Ba’kif’s assessment was correct, the boy would be heading for a military career. Politics weren’t nearly so important there.

If Vurawn was rematched to the Mitth, which was hardly yet guaranteed. Thurfian had sent in his own report, but there was still an interview to be conducted by the Councilors who oversaw Mitth interests on Rentor, followed possibly by a short meeting with the local Patriel herself if the Councilors were suitably impressed. Once all that was over, the results would be forwarded to the homestead on Csilla for final review, and only then would Vurawn learn whether or not he’d been selected to be a Mitth merit adoptive. The whole process typically took two to three months; Thurfian had seen it take as many as six—

His questis signaled. Pulling it from his pocket, he keyed it.

It was a script message. A very brief script message.

Vurawn accepted as merit adoptive.

Thurfian stared. Accepted?

Impossible. The interviews—the Patriel evaluation—the homestead review—

But there it was, staring him in the face. The process had been short-circuited by someone, and none of the usual procedures were going to matter.

In fact, none of them were now even necessary. Presumably the Patriel had received the same message, and the only thing that would happen when they reached the compound would be the brief ceremony detaching Vurawn from the Kivu family and rematching him to the Mitth.

“Is there trouble?” Vurawn asked.

“No, nothing,” Thurfian said, putting the questis back in his pocket. So on the strength of Thurfian’s own interrogation, plus perhaps the boy’s school records and evaluations, he was accepted?

That made no sense. Impressive though the boy might be, there still had to be more to it. Clearly, someone high up in the family had been keeping watch on Thurfian’s mission today. That same someone had apparently also been following Vurawn’s life and had already decided that taking him was in the Mitth’s best interests.

So if the decision had already been made, why had Thurfian been sent to do an interview in the first place? Surely his recommendation didn’t hold that much weight with the homestead.

Of course it didn’t. Thurfian had been sent here to help cover the fact that Vurawn had already been selected for rematching. Pure politics, because with the Nine Families, it was always about politics.

He frowned, his thoughts belatedly catching up with him. He hadn’t reacted in any way when he received the message—he’d been an Aristocra and political creature long enough to know how to keep emotions like surprise out of his face and voice. Yet somehow Vurawn had recognized that the message had been disturbing enough to inquire about it.

He eyed the boy again. That kind of observational skill wasn’t common. Maybe there was more there than he’d realized. Some spark that would someday bring honor and glory to himself and his family.

Apparently someone at the homestead thought so, too, and that someone had determined that the family on the receiving end of that glory would be the Mitth.

There was still the question of whether or not the boy would be sent to the Taharim Academy. But with Vurawn’s unidentified benefactor pulling the strings, Thurfian expected that would also be a foregone conclusion.

He scowled at the landscape racing past beneath them. He didn’t like being manipulated. He very much didn’t like proper and time-honored procedures being thrown out the window on someone’s whim.

But he was an Aristocra of the Mitth, and it wasn’t his job to approve or disapprove of his family’s decisions. His job was merely to do the tasks he was given.

Perhaps someday that would change.

“No, no trouble,” he said. “I just received word that you’ve been accepted.”

Vurawn turned widened eyes on him. “Already?”

“Yes,” Thurfian confirmed, secretly enjoying the other’s confusion. So he could be surprised. And at least he knew enough politics to recognize the unusual nature of the situation. “We’ll presumably go through the ceremony when we reach the compound.”

“As a merit adoptive, I assume?”

So the kid also knew something about the Ruling Families. “That’s where everyone starts,” Thurfian told him. “If and when you go through the Trials, you’ll move up to Trial-born.”

“And then ranking distant,” Vurawn said thoughtfully.

Thurfian huffed out a silent breath. That, at least, would never happen. Not to someone from such an insignificant family. “Perhaps. For now, just start getting used to the name Mitth’raw’nuru.”

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