The bridge was uncommonly quiet as Thrawn led the way to the aft stairway and descended into the starboard crew pit. He walked past the crewers at their consoles, past the officers standing painfully erect behind them, and came to a halt at the control station for the starboard tractor beams. “Your name,” he said, his voice excruciatingly calm.
“Cris Pieterson, sir,” the young man seated at the console answered, his eyes wary.
“You were in charge of the tractor beam during our engagement with the starfighter.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, sir-but what happened wasn’t my fault.”
Thrawn’s eyebrows arched, just a bit. “Explain.”
Pieterson started to gesture to the side, changed his mind in midmotion. “The target did something with his acceleration compensator that killed his velocity vector-“
“I’m aware of the facts,” Thrawn cut in. “I’m waiting to hear why his escape wasn’t your fault.”
“I was never properly trained for such an occurrence, sir,” Pieterson said, a flicker of defiance touching his eyes. “The computer lost the lock, but seemed to pick it up again right away. There was no way for me to know it had really picked up something else until-“
“Until the proton torpedoes detonated against the projector?”
Pieterson held his gaze evenly. “Yes, sir.”
For a long moment Thrawn studied him. “Who is your officer?” he asked at last.
Pieterson’s eyes shifted to the right. “Ensign Colclazure, sir.”
Slowly, deliberately, Thrawn turned to the tall man standing rigidly at attention with his back to the walkway. “You are in charge of this man?”
Colclazure swallowed visibly. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Was his training also your responsibility?”
“Yes, sir,” Colclazure said again.
“Did you, during that training, run through any scenarios similar to what just happened?”
“I … don’t remember, sir,” the ensign admitted. “The standard training package does include scenarios concerning loss of lock and subsequent reestablishment confirmation.”
Thrawn threw a brief glance back down at Pieterson. “Did you recruit him as well, Ensign?”
“No, sir. He was a conscript.”
“Does that make him less worthy of your training time than a normal enlistee?”
“No, sir.” Colclazure’s eyes flicked to Pieterson. “I’ve always tried to treat my subordinates equally.”
“I see.” Thrawn considered a moment, then half turned to look past Pellaeon’s shoulder. “Rukh.”
Pellaeon started as Rukh brushed silently past him; he hadn’t realized the Noghri had followed them down. Thrawn waited until Rukh was standing at his side, then turned back to Colclazure. “Do you know the difference between an error and a mistake, Ensign?”
The entire bridge had gone deathly still. Colclazure swallowed again, his face starting to go pale. “No, sir.”
“Anyone can make an error, Ensign. But that error doesn’t become a mistake until you refuse to correct it.” He raised a finger—
And, almost lazily, pointed.
Pellaeon never even saw Rukh move. Pieterson certainly never had time to scream.
From farther down the crew pit came the sound of someone trying valiantly not to be sick. Thrawn glanced over Pellaeon’s shoulder again and gestured, and the silence was further broken by the sound of a pair of stormtroopers coming forward. “Dispose of it,” the Grand Admiral ordered them, turning away from Pieterson’s crumpled body and pinning Colclazure with a stare. “The error, Ensign,” he told the other softly, “has now been corrected. You may begin training a replacement.”