Chapter 178 · Neutral Ground

The first indication that something was wrong was Eli’s trousers.

He noticed it on the second morning after leaving Kiros, while dressing after the morning shower. He had already pulled on his shirt and was reaching for his belt when the waistband slipped lower than expected, forcing him to catch it with one hand.

Eli frowned and pulled the trousers back into place.

They had always been comfortable rather than fitted. Freight work was easier when clothing allowed room to move, and months aboard the Faded Glory had done nothing to improve his tolerance for anything restrictive. Still, he did not remember being able to fit quite that much of his hand between the waistband and his stomach.

He tightened the belt by one notch. Then another. That held.

Eli looked down at himself for a moment, decided that living on irregular meals and too much caff probably explained it, and finished getting dressed.

By the time he reached the galley, the matter had already been demoted below breakfast.

Stent was seated at the table with one of the cases of datacards open beside him. They had barely made a dent in the collection. The cards were now divided into broad categories rather than their original tightly packed rows: navigation, Imperial technical material, regional intelligence, Ascendancy references, cultural studies, art, and a growing collection that neither of them was yet prepared to classify.

Ch’eth was asleep in the crook between Stent’s thigh and the edge of the seat, curled so tightly that only the tip of his nose and one rear paw were visible.

Eli poured caff. “Anything exciting?”

“Several records of obsolete Imperial traffic-control protocols.”

“I withdraw the question.”

“They may still be useful.”

“Of course they may.”

Stent moved one card from the technical pile to the unclassified one. “There are also partial schematics for three civilian reactor families, two agricultural distribution studies and a comparative analysis of ceremonial architecture in the Expansion Region.”

Eli sat opposite him. “Only Thrawn could prepare an emergency cache and decide agricultural distribution deserved physical backup.”

“It affects population stability, military logistics and regional dependence.”

“I know. That’s why it sounds like him.”

The cards themselves had become more interesting the longer they examined them. They were not a conventional archive. There was no obvious chronological order, no single subject progression and no clean separation between Imperial and Chiss material. Files Eli would have expected to find together were sometimes distributed across entirely different cases, while apparently unrelated subjects shared indexing marks.

At first he had assumed years of additions had disrupted whatever original system Thrawn had used.

Stent disagreed. “It is deliberate.”

That had been several hours earlier.

Now Eli picked up one of the cards from the unclassified pile and turned it between his fingers. “Still think so?”

“Yes.”

“You haven't worked out why.”

“No.”

Eli smiled into his caff. There were limits, apparently, even to Chiss confidence.

They spent another hour with the archive before Stent returned the cards to their temporary storage and went forward to check navigation. Borleias lay ahead, the third point in Thrawn’s contingency network and the first whose records did not correspond to an apartment, cache or automated facility.

It corresponded to a name. The information attached to it was almost insultingly sparse. An address. An access phrase. A commercial registration number. No explanation.

The current registry identified the address as an antiques dealership in one of Borleias’s older commercial districts.

Eli had stared at the entry the first time they decrypted it. An antiques dealer. That, at least, required no imaginative reconstruction.

If Thrawn had maintained a civilian contact anywhere in the Empire, an art dealer was entirely believable. Whether the person was still there was another question. Whether they knew anything useful was a third.

By the time Borleias filled the forward viewport the next day, Eli had decided not to expect much.

That strategy had served him well at Berchest.

They landed without difficulty at a commercial port on the outskirts of the capital, paid for two days of berth time and left Tee aboard with Ch’eth. The droid objected to neither decision, although his tone when Eli instructed him to remain with the ship carried enough opinion to make the words unnecessary.

The antique shop lay deeper inside the city than Eli expected.

Borleias had rebuilt itself repeatedly over the centuries, and the district showed all of them at once. New transit lines crossed over streets whose buildings still carried carved stone façades. Modern display windows had been cut into structures older than the Empire. Signs projected in half a dozen alphabets above narrow doorways, while market stalls occupied whatever space remained between established businesses.

The address took them to a quieter side street.

The shopfront was narrow and dark, with a single window displaying three objects on individual stands: a ceramic mask with one side deliberately unfinished, a bronze animal Eli did not recognize and a delicate arrangement of translucent plates that changed color as pedestrians passed.

No prices.

That was usually a bad sign.

Eli stopped outside. “Do you think he actually bought things here?”

Stent studied the window. “Almost certainly.”

“That wasn't really the part I was questioning.”

“Then you should phrase your questions more precisely.”

Eli gave him a sideways look, then opened the door. A small chime sounded overhead.

The interior smelled of old wood, polish and something faintly mineral. Shelves occupied most of the walls, but the objects on them had been given generous space rather than packed together. Nothing looked cheap. More importantly, nothing looked arranged for tourists.

A woman sat behind the rear counter examining a small metal sculpture through a magnifier.

Human, perhaps in her late sixties, with silver hair cut close to her jaw and a pair of narrow optical lenses perched low on her nose. She glanced up when they entered, assessed them quickly and returned her attention to the sculpture. “Browsing is free,” she said. “Touching is expensive.”

Eli looked at Stent.

The woman adjusted the sculpture by a few millimeters. “And breaking anything is extremely expensive.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Eli said.

That earned him another glance. Her eyes moved to Stent and remained there slightly longer. Not surprise. Recognition, perhaps, but not of him personally. “You’re a long way from home.”

“So are many of your objects,” Stent replied.

The woman smiled faintly. “That answer improves your chances of being allowed near them.”

Eli approached the counter. “We were given your address.”

“People frequently are.”

“And an access phrase.”

That changed something. Not much. The magnifier came away from her eye and rested on the counter. “By whom?”

Eli recited the phrase exactly as it appeared in Thrawn’s file.

The effect was immediate but restrained. The woman did not start, did not reach for a weapon and did not ask them to repeat it. Instead, she folded the magnifier and placed it carefully beside the sculpture.

Then she looked directly at Stent. “Interesting.” Eli waited. Her gaze shifted back to him. “Close the door.”

“It is closed.”

“The lock.”

Stent turned and engaged it.

The woman rose.

She was shorter than Eli had expected, though the authority with which she moved made the difference irrelevant. She crossed the shop, turned the display sign from OPEN to VIEWINGS BY APPOINTMENT and drew a privacy screen across the window.

Only then did she return to the counter. “You may call me Deren.”

Eli suspected that was not the name on her birth certificate. “Horatio Figg.”

She looked at him for half a second. “No.”

Eli sighed. “Eli Vanto.”

“That makes considerably more sense.”

Her attention shifted to Stent.

“Commander Stent.”

Deren's eyebrows rose slightly. “Well.”

Stent remained still.

“You know who we are,” Eli said.

“I know who you were.”

“That’s close enough.”

“No, Mr. Vanto. It usually is not.”

There was no hostility in it. That was what made Eli believe her.

Deren returned to her seat and indicated two chairs set against the side wall. They were clearly intended for customers considering purchases expensive enough to require sitting down.

Eli and Stent moved them closer.

Deren remained behind the counter. “You used an authentication phrase I have not heard in several years,” she said. “Before we continue, I would like to see whatever secondary verification accompanies it.”

Stent produced the encoded token derived from the contingency archive.

Deren took it without touching the exposed contacts and inserted it into a reader beneath the counter. The device processed for several seconds before displaying a single green indicator.

She removed it and returned it. “Then we may speak.”

Eli leaned forward. “When did you last hear from Thrawn?”

Her expression did not change. “Before Lothal.”

“How long before?”

“Several months.”

Eli felt the answer settle with disappointing familiarity. “Did he contact you afterward?”

“No.”

“Did anyone contact you on his behalf?”

“No.”

“Did he ever arrive here personally after Lothal?”

“No.”

Deren studied Eli for a moment. “You expected another answer.”

“I hoped for one.”

“That is different.”

“I’m becoming familiar with the distinction.”

She leaned back slightly.

“What exactly do you believe I was to him?”

Eli considered his response. “That’s what we’re trying to establish.”

“A sensible answer.”

She removed her lenses and folded them. “I sold him art.”

Eli waited.

Deren waited longer.

“That’s all?”

“No. But it is the part people always find most difficult to accept.”

Stent spoke before Eli could. “You were a commercial intermediary?”

“Among other things.”

“For acquisitions outside normal Imperial channels.”

“Sometimes.”

“For information?”

Deren tilted her head. “Occasionally.” That sounded more promising.

Eli leaned forward again. “What kind?”

“The kind people tell art dealers because they assume we care only about objects.”

She gestured around the shop. “Collectors travel. Curators travel. Restorers, auction houses, private buyers, insurers, transporters, thieves pretending to be buyers and buyers pretending not to be thieves. Objects move between worlds, and people talk while moving them.”

“So you passed things along.”

“When I considered it appropriate.”

“To Thrawn.”

“To several clients.”

Neutral, Eli thought. Not loyal. Not recruited. Useful. Exactly the sort of person Thrawn would have kept in a contingency network.

Deren seemed to read some part of that conclusion in his expression. “I was not one of his agents.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were beginning to think it.”

Eli accepted the correction. “What did he ask you to do if someone came with that phrase?”

“Verify the secondary token. Provide temporary assistance if necessary. Answer questions I could answer safely. Nothing more.”

“What kind of assistance?”

“Introductions. Quiet transport. Accommodation. The sale or purchase of assets without attracting unnecessary attention. Information about which intermediaries were still trustworthy.”

Eli glanced toward Stent. It was not an escape route. It was infrastructure. A person who could help someone who had escaped begin moving again.

“Did he leave money with you?”

“No.”

“Messages?”

“No.”

“Instructions beyond that?”

“Only that the arrangement should remain valid unless I had reason to believe the authentication had been compromised.”

“And you kept it active all this time.”

Deren looked almost offended by the question. “I agreed to do so.”

Fair enough.

Eli looked around the shop again, suddenly seeing it differently. No hidden command center. No covert communications suite. No allegiance disguised behind the displays.

Just a woman who had once agreed to help if the correct person appeared.

“Did you know he was missing?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“The Empire did not exactly conceal the disappearance of a Grand Admiral and an entire Star Destroyer.”

“Depends which part of the Empire you ask.”

“That has become increasingly true.”

Deren's mouth tightened. “I heard Lothal through commercial channels before I heard anything official. Afterward there were rumors. Some said the Seventh Fleet had been destroyed. Some said it had defected. Some said Thrawn had staged the entire event because people greatly overestimate the amount of time intelligent men have available for theatrics.”

Eli almost smiled. “Anything credible?”

“No.”

“Nothing from anyone aboard the Chimaera?”

“No.”

“Nothing from one of his Imperial contacts?”

“Not concerning his location.”

Stent had been listening with the stillness he used when cataloguing details. “Did anyone else use the phrase?”

Deren looked at him. “No.”

“Has anyone attempted to obtain information about the arrangement?”

“No.”

“Imperial Intelligence? ISB?

“No.”

She paused.

“Though I assume that last answer will become less reliable the longer the Rebellion survives.”

Eli sat back. That was the end of it.

Not completely. Deren could tell them what Thrawn had purchased, when he had visited, which artists interested him, which worlds had provided objects. Under different circumstances Eli might have spent hours asking.

But none of it crossed Lothal.

The line stopped before the disappearance. Again.

Deren seemed to know when they had reached the same conclusion. “You came looking for proof that he survived.”

“We’re looking for the Chimaera.”

That caught her attention. Only for a moment. Then the professional calm returned. “That is a substantially larger problem.”

“Yes.”

“And you have reason to believe these contingency points lead toward it?”

“We have reason to check them.”

Deren nodded slowly. “That sounds more like him.”

Eli was not sure whether it was meant kindly. He rose. “Thank you.”

She put her lenses back on. “You have not asked for assistance.”

“Do we need any?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then I’d rather leave the arrangement intact.”

That earned him the first genuine smile he had seen from her. “Also sensible.”

Stent stood.

Deren looked toward him. “If you do find him, Commander, tell him he still owes me an explanation for a set of Csillan reproductions I spent four months locating.”

Stent considered that with complete seriousness. “If the opportunity arises, I will inform him.”

Eli waited until they were outside before speaking. “I think she means it.”

“I believe so.”

“I would pay to watch that conversation.”

Eli laughed and headed toward the transit stop.

The humor lasted most of the way back to the port. What remained beneath it was less pleasant.

Borleias had given them something Berchest and Kiros could not: a living witness who had known Thrawn, spoken to him and understood at least one small part of his contingency planning.

And she had heard nothing.

By the time they reached the Faded Glory, Eli found himself pulling his trousers up again. He frowned. The belt was still fastened two holes tighter than normal. It had loosened anyway.

And he was thirsty.

He adjusted it while climbing the ramp and nearly walked into Stent when the Chiss stopped just inside.

Stent looked down.

Eli followed his gaze.

“What?”

“Your clothing.”

“What about it?”

“It does not fit?”

Eli tugged the waistband into place. “It fits.”

Stent looked at him. “Poorly.”

“I tightened the belt.”

“That was not the observation.”

Eli walked past him. “I’ve probably lost a little weight.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

Stent followed. “You have a medical scale.”

“I also have dinner.”

“These are not mutually exclusive.”

Eli stopped at the galley entrance.

Tee rolled toward them from the cockpit and emitted a questioning trill. Ch’eth, inside his enclosure, stretched dramatically and immediately began investigating the door.

Eli looked from one to the other. “Fine. After dinner.”

Stent accepted that.

Eli should probably have been more suspicious.

They ate, reviewed the notes from Deren and updated the contingency record.

Borleias: Authentication valid. Contact active. No post-Lothal communication. No evidence of Thrawn or Chimaera passage.

Eli added the final line himself. THIRD POINT: NEGATIVE.

He stared at it a little longer than necessary before closing the file.

“Coruscant next,” he said.

Stent nodded.

The fourth point. Neither of them discussed it further. After clearing the table, Stent retrieved the implant reader.

Eli groaned. “You remembered.”

“You told me after dinner.”

“I was hoping the conversation would be forgotten.”

“That would be medically irresponsible.”

“So is most of my diet.”

“That is not an argument in your favor.”

Eli sat down and rolled his left sleeve high enough to expose the upper arm.

The implant itself remained invisible beneath the skin. Only a faint line marked where it had originally been inserted, easy to miss unless someone knew what to look for.

Stent activated the reader and positioned it over the site. The device chirped.

Eli waited for the usual display. Reservoir estimate. Delivery history. Glucose control. Perhaps another reminder about the refill interval.

Instead, the reader remained active several seconds longer than normal.

Stent frowned.

That immediately got Eli’s attention.

“What?”

“Wait.”

The display updated.

IMPLANT FUNCTION: ACTIVE

GLUCOSE REGULATION: WITHIN ACCEPTABLE RANGE

Below it, another line appeared. RESERVOIR CONTENT REVIEW REQUIRED

Then: CONTENT STABILITY VARIANCE DETECTED

CLINICAL ASSESSMENT RECOMMENDED

Eli stared at the screen. “That’s new.”

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

Stent was already opening the detailed diagnostic. “It does not indicate immediate failure.”

“Good.”

“It also does not indicate that we should ignore it.”

“Less good.”

Tee moved closer and extended his sensor toward the reader.

Stent angled the display away before the droid could interfere with the connection. The implant continued reporting: delivery rate normal. Glucose readings broadly stable. No occlusion. No mechanical fault.

The warning came from the reservoir-content analysis itself, a routine internal check of concentration, stability and delivery consistency.

Eli frowned. “The refill was on Epikonia.”

“Yes.”

“And that was what, two weeks ago?”

“Closer to sixteen days.”

“Plenty left.”

“According to the projected volume.”

Eli looked at him. “But?”

Stent changed screens.

“Your average consumption is again above the original estimate.”

“We already knew that.”

“Yes.”

“And my glucose is normal.”

“Yes.”

“So the implant is doing its job.”

“At present.”

There was enough qualification in those two words to irritate him.

Eli pulled his sleeve down. “Fine. We get it checked.”

Stent did not put the reader away. “The scale.”

Eli stared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“No.”

“I'm choosing to believe you are.”

The medical scale folded out from the lower cabinet near the fresher. It was primarily intended for basic crew monitoring and lacked the sophistication of a clinic unit, but its calibration was reliable.

Eli stepped onto it. The reading appeared. He stopped moving.

Stent checked the number. Then checked the previous stored measurement.

Eli saw the difference at the same time. “That can’t be right.”

“It is.”

“Run it again.”

Stent did. The second result differed by less than a hundred grams.

Eli looked down at himself. Six-point-two kilograms.

Gone.

Not overnight. Not dramatically enough to frighten him in the mirror.

Just slowly enough that he had tightened a belt and blamed the laundry. “When did we last record my weight?”

“Epikonia.”

Eli did the calculation. “That’s too much.”

“Yes.”

This time Stent did not soften it.

Eli sat on the edge of the bunk.

For the first time, the loose trousers felt less amusing.

“I’ve been eating.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe not wonderfully.”

“No.”

“But enough.”

“I agree.”

That was worse.

Tee made a low sound from the corridor. Eli looked toward him. “I’m fine.”

The droid replied with a sequence that clearly rejected the usefulness of that statement.

Stent closed the scale record and returned to the implant diagnostic. “We need a clinical assessment.”

Eli rubbed both hands over his face. “Borleias?”

Stent was already checking the local medical registry. “There are facilities capable of servicing the implant.”

“That sounds promising.”

“They are not listed as advanced endocrine reconstruction centers.”

Eli lowered his hands.

“That sounds less promising.”

“The warning is not urgent. Your regulation remains stable. We can obtain an initial examination here if necessary.”

“But.”

“Our next destination is Coruscant.”

Eli looked at him.

Stent turned the datapad so he could see the medical directory. The list was considerably longer. Specialist endocrine centers. Implant manufacturers. Metabolic reconstruction. Advanced prosthetic-organ systems.

“These were not available back where I got the implant…”

“No.”

Eli took the datapad.

The technology had existed when his original pancreatic damage was treated, but not where he had been, not at a level anyone trusted enough to recommend, and certainly not at a price he could casually consider after leaving Imperial service.

The implant had been the practical solution. Reliable. Refillable. Good enough.

Now he scrolled through several Coruscant clinics and found systems that made his current implant look primitive by comparison. Closed-loop synthetic pancreatic assemblies. Continuous biochemical monitoring. Adaptive insulin and glucagon regulation. Long-term implantable systems designed to replicate endocrine function rather than compensate for its absence.

Eli looked up. “A a bionic pancreas could actually replace the implant.”

“If you are a suitable candidate.”

“And if we can afford it.”

Stent looked at him. “We can.”

Eli sat there for several seconds, datapad in both hands.

Thrawn had apparently managed to solve another problem without being present.

That was becoming irritating. “We were going to Coruscant anyway.”

“Yes.”

Eli nodded. “Good.”

Stent watched him. “It changes the priority.”

Eli looked up. “We check the contingency point.”

“After a medical assessment.”

“We can do both.”

“We can.”

“That sounds suspiciously like agreement.”

“It is.”

Eli relaxed slightly.

Stent continued.

“But if the medical assessment requires additional time, we remain on Coruscant.”

There it was.

Eli leaned back against the bulkhead. “You've already decided.”

“The scanner recommended clinical review. You have lost more than six kilograms since Epikonia without intending to. Your current implant has generated a reservoir-content warning. These are sufficient grounds.”

“When you stack them like that, it sounds bad.”

“They are the same facts regardless of arrangement.”

Eli looked again at the clinic list.

Coruscant.

Of all places.

The fourth contingency point in Thrawn’s network, the political center of what remained of the Empire, the most densely monitored world in the galaxy and apparently the best place available to find someone willing to replace part of Eli’s endocrine system.

“Fine.”

Stent waited. “We go to Coruscant. I get checked. We investigate the fourth point.”

“In that order.”

Eli sighed. “In that order.”

Only then did Stent put the medical reader away.

Eli remained seated a while longer, staring at the list of clinics. He was not frightened. Not yet. Concerned, certainly. Annoyed. Deeply annoyed, in fact.

Mostly because the moment Stent had pointed it out, he could remember all the small signs he had dismissed over the previous weeks: the belt, the way his shirt hung differently at the waist, the fact that he had been finishing meals and still waking hungry some mornings. How thirsty he had been feeling lately.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing that had demanded attention. Just enough to become obvious once someone made him look.

Tee rolled closer and bumped lightly against his knee. Eli rested one hand on the droid’s dome. “I know.”

Tee gave a quieter trill.

Across the compartment, Stent had already returned to the navigation display.

Borleias glowed behind them on one side of the chart.

Coruscant waited ahead.

The fourth point.

This time, whether Thrawn had left anything there or not, they had a reason to go.