Chapter 53 · The Long Road to Lothal

The Mynock had never flown so smoothly, and never felt smaller.
Imperial space stretched around them—vast, ordered, suffocating. Every relay and station they passed hummed with the same signature: Imperial authority, clean and merciless. The stars here seemed less wild, as though even light had learned to obey.

Eli sat in the pilot’s chair, half-buried in projections from the nav console. The new astronavigation core rendered the data fragments they’d gathered from the buoys and Veddan’s cleaned systems with sharp precision. Hundreds of coordinates stitched together in ghostly blue, a constellation of breadcrumbs across half the galaxy.

“Anything?” Stent asked, his tone unreadable.

“Define anything,” Eli said, rubbing at his eyes. “If you mean proof we’ve wasted months of our lives chasing cosmic static—then yes. Plenty.”

Stent leaned over his shoulder, studying the display. The blue lattice narrowed, the trail resolving into a final sequence of coordinates, neat and complete.

“There,” Stent said.

Eli zoomed in. The projection expanded, filling the cockpit with ghost light. A map of the Outer Rim bloomed before them. The relay path terminated at a single point in the corner of known space.

“Lothal,” Eli said quietly. “Of course.”

The name hung in the air, absurd and inevitable.

The farthest possible place.

He ran the vector again just to be sure. The data held—solid, simple, mocking.

“That’s it,” Eli said. “That’s the end of the chain. That’s where the signal stopped.”

Stent folded his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the map. “So we proceed.”

Eli stared at him. “Proceed? You realize that’s on the other side of the galaxy, right? The corner. The one no one visits unless they’re running from something.”

“Then we will not encounter traffic,” Stent said.

Eli turned back to the console, jaw tightening. “You’re serious.”

“Always,” Stent said.

He keyed the hyperdrive interface and punched in the route.

The Mynock’s computer hummed, calculating the chain of jumps, the fuel requirements, the gravitational drift between sectors. Then it beeped—sullenly—and printed a warning in red text:

ESTIMATED TRAVEL TIME: 146 STANDARD CYCLES

Eli leaned back in his chair, letting out a low laugh. “Even the computer’s judging us.”

Stent didn’t blink. “One hundred forty six cycles is acceptable.”

“Acceptable for what? We’ll be dust by the time we get there.” Eli gestured at the screen. “Look at this—half these lanes are Imperial-protected, the civilian lanes are a pain in the ass. We’ll have to stop every other sector to refuel, and that’s assuming we can find somewhere that doesn’t ask why a Chiss and a civilian trader are joyriding in a ship older than my parents.”

“Obstacles are opportunities for adaptation.”

“That’s not strategy,” Eli said. “That’s denial with better phrasing.”

Stent’s gaze didn’t waver. “We do not stop now.”

Eli looked at the display again, then at the small, tired ship around them. The hum of the engines filled the silence, patient and defiant.

“Fine,” he said softly. “Then let’s see how far stubbornness flies.”

The numbers didn’t change no matter how many times Eli recalculated.

He ran the fuel equations twice, the hyperlane drift projections three times, even cross-checked the astro-core’s fresh calibration—same result, every time.

One hundred forty six standard cycles, not counting refueling delays, route recalibrations, or the probability of the Mynock falling apart somewhere between civilized space and myth. One hundred forty six cycles of hyperspace time.

He killed the holo projection with a sharp tap. “It’s impossible.”

Across the cockpit, Stent looked up from his console, calm as always. “Nothing is impossible. Only impractical.”

Eli spun in his chair, jaw tight. “Then let me rephrase. This plan is suicidal. You want to drag this ship across half the galaxy on a drive rated for short hops in the Chaos? We’ll blow the motivator coil before we clear the Mid Rim.”

Stent didn’t flinch. “Then we will repair it.”

“You don’t repair disintegration, Commander.”

The title landed harder than Eli meant it to. The air between them shifted—tense, brittle.

Stent folded his hands behind his back. “The data leads to Lothal. Therefore, we go to Lothal.”

Eli exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half a growl. “You can’t just—command—physics into submission.”

“Discipline, not command,” Stent corrected. “And discipline has achieved far more than improvisation ever did.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never had a reactor explode under him,” Eli shot back.

That earned a flicker of reaction—small, but real. Stent’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. “You believe this endeavor futile.”

“I believe this ship won’t survive the trip,” Eli said, standing now, his voice rising. “And even if it does, we won’t. You think I like saying that? I’ve spent months patching this heap together while you chase ghosts! We have a trail, yes—but it’s done. The signal stops at Lothal. He’s gone.”

Stent’s tone dropped, precise and cutting. “You are certain of that.”

“I’m certain we’ll get there just in time to die tired and broke.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed—two stubborn minds measuring each other in the dark.

Finally, Stent said, “Abandoning the pursuit would render every risk meaningless.”

“That’s not meaning,” Eli said. “That’s obsession.”

Stent’s gaze met his, unflinching. “Meaning is defined by endurance.”

“Not if endurance kills you,” Eli said.

They stood like that for a long moment—Eli breathing hard, Stent still as carved ice. The hum of the Mynock’s reactor filled the space between them, steady and impartial.

When Stent finally spoke, his voice had the softness of a blade’s edge.
“You have permission to leave at the next port, Mr. Vanto.”

Eli froze. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Stent said. “If your conviction wavers, better you disembark now than falter when it matters.”

The words hit like a cold current. Eli opened his mouth, then shut it again.

He turned back to the viewport, staring at the endless field of stars.

“Fine,” he said at last, quieter now. “You want to go to Lothal? Then let’s go. But when this ship comes apart, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I would not,” Stent said simply.

Eli sank back into the pilot’s chair, fingers tightening on the controls. The silence that followed wasn’t peace—it was endurance.

The kind of silence that could last days.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the day.
The silence wasn’t companionable. It was taut and brittle, like a wire stretched too far.

Eli spent the first few hours in the cockpit, running the same flight paths he’d already proven impossible, just to have something to do with his hands. The nav display kept feeding him the same brutal truth: too far, too slow, too doomed.

He shut it off and went to the galley, more out of spite than hunger. The food compartment hissed open with a faint note of disapproval. He rummaged through the ration packs until he found one labeled protein stew (variant unknown) and shoved it into the cooker.

Behind him, the soft hum of footsteps—the even, precise rhythm of Stent crossing the corridor. He didn’t stop in the galley. He didn’t even look at Eli. The Chiss walked straight past, toward the fresher, carrying the old tin bucket.

Eli turned. “You know the sonic works, right?”

“I prefer the traditional method,” Stent said evenly.

“That’s not tradition,” Eli said. “That’s pettiness with water pressure.”

Stent didn’t answer. The fresher door hissed shut.

Eli stared after him, then muttered to himself, “Fine. Waste the hot water, see if I care.”

He didn’t mean it. He did care. That was the problem.

The cooker beeped, spitting out something that might have been edible. Eli sat at the narrow table, pushing the stew around with his spoon. The quiet pressed in, broken only by the sound of running water and the occasional clink of metal on metal.

A few minutes later, the fresher door opened again. Stent emerged, immaculate as always, sleeves rolled, hair damp, expression unreadable. The bucket was empty.

He passed the galley without a glance.

“You’re welcome for the sonic,” Eli said dryly.

“It remains functional,” Stent said. “You may continue to enjoy it.”

Eli laughed once under his breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So I am told.”

The Chiss disappeared into the cockpit.

Hours passed. The hum of the reactor was the only thing that acknowledged their continued existence.

Eli eventually drifted in after him, restless. Stent sat at the co-pilot’s station, posture perfect, reviewing what looked like sensor readouts for the tenth time.

“You planning to stare at those until Lothal comes to us?” Eli asked.

“Observation refines patience.”

“I’m plenty refined,” Eli said. “And patience is overrated.”

He sat down anyway, elbows on his knees, watching the soft glow of the instruments paint the space between them.

Stent finally spoke, still not looking at him. “You believe I am wrong.”

Eli sighed. “I think you’re pushing a ship that can’t take it. That’s not wrong, it’s reality.”

“And yet you remain aboard.”

“I didn’t say I was smart,” Eli said, managing a weak smile. “Just… not ready to give up either.”

That earned him a glance—sharp, cool, but less cutting this time.

He took that as progress.

“Look,” Eli said after a moment, “if we’re going to Lothal—and I’m not saying we shouldn’t—then we need a ship that can make the trip. A bigger one. Or at least a new drive.”

Stent’s expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Replacing the vessel would delay us.”

“Better delayed than stranded.”

Stent didn’t answer. His eyes went back to the dark of the viewport, the endless streaks of hyperspace. “You believe acquisition of a new drive will resolve the limitations.”

“I know it will,” Eli said. “You can calculate every jump perfectly, and this ship will still tear itself apart trying to keep up.”

Stent’s silence stretched. The kind that meant he wasn’t ignoring Eli—he was considering him.

After a long minute, he said, “If an alternative can be secured without significant deviation from our current trajectory, then the efficiency loss is acceptable.”

Eli leaned back in his chair, half a grin forming. “That’s Chiss for ‘you’re right,’ isn’t it?”

“It is strategy,” Stent said.

“Sure,” Eli said softly. “Let’s call it that.”

The tension ebbed, slowly, like a tide receding. Neither apologized, but the edges between them softened in small, habitual ways—Stent running silent maintenance checks so Eli could sleep longer, Eli cleaning the galley instead of leaving the chaos of dinner behind.
For two days, they coasted between jumps, conserving fuel and temper alike.

The quiet was almost comforting until the Mynock’s new alert system chirped—a brisk, polite sound that didn’t belong in a ship this old.

Eli frowned, glancing at the console. “Well, that’s new.”

Stent appeared beside him in seconds. “Temperature anomaly,” he read. “Internal climate control exceeding parameters.”

Eli tapped the screen. “System says it’s trying to disperse heat and failing. How do we have heat problems? We’re flying a tin can through vacuum.”

“The regulator valve has engaged and locked,” Stent said. “Manually.”

“Meaning?”

“The heating system is attempting to incinerate us.”

The temperature gauge climbed from comfort to discomfort with steady, bureaucratic precision. Within minutes, the cockpit felt like an oven.

Eli tugged at his collar. “Fantastic. On the bright side, the new software works.”

“An observation of dubious consolation,” Stent said, already kneeling beside the access panel.

By the time Eli killed the auxiliary lights to reduce power draw, both of them were slick with sweat. The heat radiated off the walls, thick and oppressive.

“We should discuss alternatives for propulsion,” Stent said without looking up, as if refusing to give the heat the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

Eli blinked. “We’re cooking alive and you want to talk engines?”

“Prioritization is essential.”

Eli wiped his forehead. “Fine. You first.”

“Hyperdrive replacement,” Stent said. “We acquire a superior model.”

Eli barked a laugh. “Sure. You got a spare hundred thousand credits hidden in your perfectly folded socks?”

“Your sarcasm grows with stress,” Stent noted. “Statistically unhealthy.”

“So is heatstroke.”

The temperature climbed another degree. The air tasted of metal and sweat.

“Even if we had the money,” Eli went on, “a better drive would need more space. You’ve seen the cargo hold—there’s barely room to breathe.”

“Adaptation is possible.”

“Where would you put it?” Eli asked. “In my bunk?”

“If necessary.”

Eli stared at him. “You’re joking.”

Stent looked up, perfectly serious. “I am not.”

“Of course you’re not,” Eli muttered.

A soft alarm chimed again. Stent’s usual color—blue tinged faintly toward violet—had deepened toward purple. His breathing had shortened. “Chiss physiology is not optimized for sustained high temperature,” he said through clenched precision.

“No kidding.” Eli stood, made a decision. “We’re dropping out of hyperspace. We fix it outside.”

“Manual recalibration is hazardous.”

“So’s roasting.”

The transition out of hyperspace hit with a familiar jolt. The stars snapped back into points, and for the first time in hours, the silence of real space filled the cabin.

Eli was already suiting up. “Come on,” he said. “You’ll feel better the moment we’re out there.”

Stent hesitated, jaw tightening, but followed. Within minutes, they cycled through the airlock—stepping from furnace to frozen cathedral.

The shock of cold hit like mercy. Eli exhaled, his breath fogging the visor. “See? Almost pleasant.”

“Pleasant is not the term,” Stent replied, but there was relief under the control.

The Mynock drifted before them, panels glowing faintly in the starlight. They moved along her hull, magnetic boots clinking softly. The heater unit sat beneath a ventral access plate, its casing hot enough to radiate even through the suit’s insulation.

“Found the problem,” Eli said, prying it open. “The relay’s fused.”

“Manual disconnect will suffice,” Stent said, voice steadier now. “Proceed.”

Eli worked the release latch. The cable resisted, then tore free with a satisfying snap. The temperature gauge on his wrist display dropped instantly.

“Done,” Eli said, grinning. “And look at that—quiet, dark, cool.”

“Too cool,” Stent observed. “We have eliminated all internal heating.”

Eli shrugged, still floating beside him. “We’ll take cold over roasted any day.”

“For you, perhaps,” Stent said. “Chiss are not impervious to freezing.”

“We’ll ration power, use the drive heat when we’re not in hyperspace,” Eli said. “You’ll manage.”

“Your optimism is invasive.”

“Thanks.”

They lingered outside for a few moments longer, letting the cold seep in through the suits, bleeding off the memory of suffocation. Stars stretched forever in every direction—quiet, empty, uncaring.

“Stent,” Eli said after a long silence, “you ever think maybe he doesn’t want to go back?”

Stent’s gaze stayed fixed on the void. “That possibility has never deterred me.”

“Yeah,” Eli murmured. “Didn’t think so.”

They returned to the Mynock in silence. The interior was dark, still cooling, the air crisp enough to sting. Eli exhaled, watching his breath curl in front of him. “From now on,” he said, “we freeze together.”

Stent sealed the hatch behind them, his voice calm again. “Efficient.”

Eli smiled faintly. “Always.”

The ship drifted on, stripped of warmth but clean of anger—its new silence not empty, but earned.

The drifted for two days after the heater failure, the air cool enough now to make breath mist in the corridors.

Eli didn’t mind. Cold made him feel awake. It cut through the exhaustion and gave the ship a kind of sharp clarity—as if the hull itself had stopped trying to comfort them and simply decided to endure.

Stent tolerated it less well. Chiss skin wasn’t made for the heat, but the cold—although not this kind, the uneven sort that crept through the bulkheads and pooled in the corners. He wrapped himself in his regulation jacket again and worked in silence, breath faintly visible each time he spoke.

Eli sat at the pilot’s console with a blanket over his legs and a cup of diluted caff. The navchart hovered above the controls, the new software mapping the Imperial civilian lanes in perfect blue clarity. The routes spiraled outward like arteries through the body of the Empire—clean, numbered, lifeless.

He’d been staring at them for an hour when he finally said, “I think I’ve got a bad idea.”

Stent didn’t look up from his datapad. “All your ideas begin that way.”

“Lothal’s too far for this ship. You know it, I know it, and the Mynock definitely knows it. We’ll need a new drive—or a new ship altogether.”

“I recall this argument.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s less shouting and more math.” Eli rotated the map projection, zooming in on the Central Rim. “We’ll need a port big enough to have inventory, but not so big they’ll start asking who we are. Somewhere commercial, not military.”

Stent said nothing, which was his way of listening.

Eli’s eyes tracked the trade routes until they landed on one particular sector—the name glowing faintly on the holographic map, familiar in a way that tugged something old awake.
“Lysatra,” he said quietly.

Stent looked up. “I recognize that name.”

“Yeah,” Eli said, still staring at it. “My homeworld.”

The word hung in the cold air.

He hadn’t spoken it aloud in years. Not since Thrawn had ordered him onto a shuttle and into a new life in a region no human had ever heard of. Before leaving, he’d written one final letter to his family, pretending everything was normal and writing about his work on an ISD, but not saying anything important. Then nothing.

He didn’t know what they’d been told after he’d vanished completely from Imperial records. Killed in action, maybe. Missing. Or just another quiet disappearance swallowed by bureaucracy.

Eli cleared his throat. “It’s a decent-sized port. Industrial hub, mostly shipping and manufacturing. My family runs a small company there—Vanto Shipping.”

“Your family believes you are deceased?” Stent said. It wasn’t cruel, only factual.

Eli nodded slowly. “Probably. But Laro—my brother—he might still be there. He’d know where to get a drive, or at least where not to get scammed for one. We could outfit the Mynock properly and move on.”

Stent studied him for a moment. “Contacting your family presents risk.”

“Everything we do presents risk,” Eli said. “But this one might actually pay off.”

The Chiss folded his hands, gaze turning toward the viewport. “You believe this is the optimal course.”

“It’s the only course that gets us moving again quickly enough.”

A long silence followed, filled by the low hum of the ship and the faint hiss of recycled air. Then Stent reached forward and tapped the console.

The map shifted. The route redrew itself in clean blue light, the vector bending toward the distant coordinates of Lysatra.

“Course adjusted,” he said.

Eli looked over at him, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Just like that?”

“Efficiency demands progress.”

“Right,” Eli said softly. “Progress.”

The word tasted strange—like something halfway between hope and guilt.

Stent leaned back in his chair, hands steady on his knees. “We depart once the drive stabilizes.”

Eli nodded, eyes lingering on the blue pin marking his home.

The thought of seeing Lysatra again filled him with something that wasn’t quite comfort and wasn’t quite fear. The distance between what he’d been and what he’d become felt longer than the stretch to Lothal.

He shut down the nav projection, the room falling into shadow. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

The Mynock’s engines stirred, a low, steady pulse echoing through the hull—like the sound of a heart remembering how to beat.