The adrift vessel beyond the viewport is not the most peculiar oddity he’s witnessed on the outskirts of Ascendancy borders. Actually, it’s quite common for pirates to attack and discard a scuttled shuttle. It’s also common for those in war to wreck a vessel in hopes of thwarting their enemy. Some would rather die than be taken alive.

What makes this vessel an anomaly, however, is the damage inflicted along its hull.

Thrawn has seen more than his fair share of charred frameworks and wrecked vessels during his short tenure with the fleet. The holes and tears harpooned into this vessel aren’t entirely new.

The way metal has been ripped away like sheets of flimsy is.

Hands behind his back, Thrawn moves forward, encouraging his leery away team to proceed. He doesn’t fault them for their apprehensiveness as they move to dock. The silence bearing down on them is disconcerting, especially when the doors open to reveal an interior in pristine condition.

As he leads the boarding party inside, the chill of space nips at his nose and cheeks. Scans reveal safety protocols are in measure for affected sections with gaping holes and are on lockdown. Unfortunately, there must be insurmountable damage that emergency features cannot contain.

Pausing at the first major split, Thrawn finds it odd there are no lifeforms aboard nor distress beacons activated. Every lifeboat is accounted for and is tucked safely away in its compartment. Ships are never abandoned without some sign of trouble, but apart from the air slowly leaking out, there’s nothing.

It’s too quiet.

Too clean.

Was this abandoned for some nefarious purpose? Ill-intent perhaps?

Directing his men to fan out, the Chiss Commander proceeds forward with his brow wrinkled in thought. Perhaps pirates captured the crew and turned them into slaves. That’s not uncommon in the Chaos. It could also mean that, unmanned, the ship came into contact with meteors and the vessel responded with emergency protocols.

Still, there should be some sign of life.

When reports begin to filter in describing how the cargo is untouched, his suspicions grow. Pirates would have certainly claimed payload. Found discreet places to offload for maximum profit.

Touching the comm on his lapel, Thrawn listens for the soft chime.

“Commander?” comes the stern voice of Captain Samarko.

“Any changes?”

“No, sir.”

There’s a subtle slap in the remark. The softest notes of annoyance lie in the undertone of no. Not only is a decorated captain frustrated with serving under a younger man, but he believes this vessel should have been passed over completely. With scans registering no lifeforms, Captain Samarko would have preferred to continue on.

After all, they are rendezvousing with the Vigilant in eleven hours.

This could make them late.

“Continue running scans,” Thrawn informs. Pausing, there is one place unexplored, and he taps his questis to pull up a map of the vessel. “See if there are reports of attacks in this sector.”

“Acknowledged, sir.”

Unhappily, Thrawn snorts and descends further into the belly of the vessel. As Intelligence begins noting some of the cargo being moved to the Springhawk, he notes the expensive materials left untouched. A crew would never abandon such merchandise. These items are highly sought after by the Ascendancy… which means the Aristocra will appreciate it.

One has to win favor some way, he muses. As long as the ruling families continue to see him as an asset in some form, he’ll be free to make larger decisions they may not agree with.

Such as stopping for a vessel like this.

“Sir,” Samarko chimes over the comm again. “It is that time of year. Have you considered this very well may be a hoax?”

His brows draw together. Right. It is autumn in the Chaos. While he never participated in such antics growing up, others do celebrate the harvest season and observe all the land has produced. All it has provided. Autumn and its festivities are the start of the holiday season where Chiss come together.

It’s also the season when sweets, tricks, and costumes are quite common.

“I highly doubt this is a mid-ager prank, Captain,” Thrawn responds as he reaches a door in the bowels of the ship. Keying in a combination his questis provides, he steps back as the door to the brig swishes open. “Consider the resources wasted—”

Eyes widen.

The stench that greets him is utterly vile, and he stumbles back a step or two. Stomach churning, he swallows back thick acidic bile as he places an arm over his nose.

“Commander?”

Tongue thick and heavy, he blinks away the water in his eyes to get a better look.

Only to wish he hadn’t.

Severed limbs are strewn haphazardly—resembling some demonic ritual he’s never seen the likes of. The floor panels are painted in blood, now dried, with no prints indicating who or what did this. Every corpse is gutted like some gruesome science experiment in a horror holofilm. The only possible witness consists of a head on a crate gazing over with wide, milky eyes and what remains of a scream.

Hand to his mouth now, Thrawn works to keep his breakfast down. Throat seizing, he coughs roughly as his eyes continue to water. He’s come across many things in the Chaos.

But nothing as atrocious as this.

Turning, he raises a hand to seal the door shut again, but pauses when a red flickering catches his attention.

The cells lining the walls are open with the exception of one. Of course, it would be furthest from the door, indicating a possible trap. However, there is the prospect some sort of answer is hidden within its depths.

“Commander?”

Wincing, he coughs roughly as he moves toward the cell. “Captain, send a medical team to the brig for remains collection. And make sure they’re suited up.”

“Right away, sir.”

Reaching the cell, Thrawn observes the red flickering ray shield. The panel beside is damaged and there’s some form of comfort in that. Given how pristine the rest of the vessel has been, the proof of a battle or fight is oddly reassuring.

Peering in the cell, he notes it’s untouched. While the others he passed were smeared with blood and other internal organs, this one remains unspoiled. Another oddity in an already peculiar situation.

Tapping the panel, the shield shorts out with a soft zap. Stepping in, he scans the empty cell before pausing, and his lips part.

Huddled in a corner to his left is a trembling female with a collar around her neck. Curled on her side, her hands are tied behind her back, ankles bound. In her mouth sits a once white rag, now black with filth. Her stringy dirt-colored hair blocks the majority of her facial features from his view.

Glancing behind, Thrawn approaches and kneels next to her. Gaze quickly scanning her for any abnormalities, he isn’t quite sure what shade of grey her skin might be—or if it’s grey at all. She’s simply a mixture of mud and dust at the moment, complete with scabs.

Reaching for the gag, her breathing hitches as she tries to squirm away. In her writhing, he catches a glimpse of terrified bloodshot eyes. Hands raised in submission, Thrawn does his best to ease her as caged animals are known to attack. Short of getting away from him though, she doesn’t appear to be aggressive.

“You’re okay,” he comforts in Sy Bisti. Carefully, he snaps off the metal collar and removes the rag from her mouth, taking note of her cracked and bleeding lips. “Do you know who did this?”

Trembling, her gaze drops to the floor. Another oddity in this incredulous situation.

She cannot understand, he thinks and begins asking her in every trade language as he unties her ankles.

All to no avail.

Rising, he gently helps her onto shaky feet and grabs an arm to steady her. The girl flinches under his touch, but her gaze remains on the floor as she continues breathing unevenly. Given she appears intact apart from large bruises in various stages of healing across her body, he attributes her labored breath to fear.

Returning to the door, Thrawn looks across the brig. Across the severed parts. Across the remains of her captors. Though the closer he observes, not all of them are crew. Some of them are prisoners.

And all housed here are decidedly dead.

Except her.

Left to waste away as if she’s of no value.

Slave, he assumes. Only a slave would be deemed nonconsequential. It would also explain her reluctance to make eye contact. Perhaps that’s how she survived the massacre. Though considering her tattered shorts and wrap, he questions what they may have done to her.

Looking back at her, Thrawn doesn’t prefer the idea of her walking barefoot across the carnage. He just isn’t certain she’ll allow him to carry her. Instead, he moves beside her and gestures toward the door. Step by shaky step she moves, determined to stay behind him at all costs.

All but verbally confirming her status as a slave.

She’s barely taken three steps into the massacre before she heaves. Trembling, she tries to regain what composure she has only to let loose more yellow bile.

She hasn’t eaten, he assesses as she stumbles into a wall. Reaching out, he gently tilts her chin upward. Averting her gaze from the horror appears to settle her stomach. It does little to ease her hesitancy and distrust of him as she’s forced to let him be her guide.

If she wasn’t leery, Thrawn would worry about her mental state. Slaves are stripped of their very identity. Their independence and worth are removed. They are broken and shattered beyond repair only to be reformed into a being with complete subservience to the owner who purchases them.

A despicable way to treat a living being.

An industry he deplores.

Everything is valuable. Even this female. If he can find a way to communicate with her, he can learn who is responsible for such a heinous crime.

Which means this pitstop is not the waste of time Samarko assumed it to be.

Nodding to the medical team who’s begun to document and collect the dead, Thrawn wishes these fine people didn’t have to witness this horror. Just like he wishes she didn’t have to witness it.

As the away shuttle ferries him and the female back to the Springhawk, Thrawn presses his lips together. There are no rhymes nor reasons for the brutality of the murders. Given the cargo is intact, and reports are filtering in stating nothing was touched—not even files the vessel had access to, the dots are far too obscure to connect.

The greatest of which is the barefooted female who doesn’t speak. Merely follows as he rises to reboard his ship. Head down, she hasn’t given any indication of fleeing, and surprisingly she hasn’t drawn the attention of his crew. They all seem to ignore each other.

“Commander?” Samarko greets, hands behind his back.

“Captain, see to it the lab is prepped for examination upon arrival. I want a cause of death by the time we make contact with the Vigilant.” Pausing, Thrawn wets his lips. “And prepare a room for our guest.”

The older man looks at him, one eye scrunching slightly.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Nothing, sir. Just…” He clears his throat. “A guest?”

“Yes, as you can see…” Turning, Thrawn nods toward the girl.

Only to find the space behind him empty.

Gaze darting about, he doesn’t understand where she’s escaped to. After disembarking, they’ve only been down this one hall. There are no side panels, no ceiling hatches. “Initiate a full search of the Springhawk. Lockdown procedures. I want anyone not assigned to be escorted to the bridge immediately.”

“Sir?”

“Now, Captain. That’s an order.” As he starts for the bridge, he calls over his shoulder. “Any stowaway is to be treated with extreme prejudice. In addition, have the away team check the brig for any possible air contaminants.”