This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.
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Six: On Loyalty

"Wedge!"

Grunting, Wedge Antilles looked up from his work, glancing about the south hangar bay. He pushed heavy dark brown curls back from his damp forehead, sweating despite the near freezing temperatures in the bay. As in all the other rooms of the Echo Base complex, the high walls were made of ice and packed snow set down millions of years ago by the natural cycle of elements on Hoth. The ice stalactites and other formations in the cave had been cleared away by giant excavating machines, and the cave itself had been enlarged, but all in all, the cavern still looked the same as it had before habitation; high, echoing, frigid. A fallen slab of ice from the ice cliffs above concealed the opening of the bay from unwelcome eyes, and, if one did not look too closely, the base itself would seem nonexistent, just one of the many frozen mountain caverns dotting Hoth's desolate landscape.

Wedge didn't like that idea very much, shrugged, dropped the welder he was carrying. A half-modified airspeeder lay on the ground before him, internal components strewn over the floor of the cavern. Wedge stretched, shook his head, trying to rid himself of his persistent week-old headache. His ears rang with the deafening sounds of metal on metal, the hiss of power welders, and the whine of engines and repulsorlifts as they were activated and tested. Above the racket rose the hum of voices, everyone in the hangar bay shouting loud enough to be heard over the noise. The louder they shouted, the louder the noise grew, which lead to them shouting even louder. Which, Wedge thought sourly, did not do a thing towards relieving his headache. Looking around, he saw on the others' faces the same fatigue that he felt. Two weeks...five minute naps whenever he had a spare moment...days without rest...Too-Onebee would have a fit...

"Wedge!"

The sound came, closer now. He turned, drew in a sharp breath as the motion twisted the overused muscles in his back. If it was General Carlist Rieekan, base commander, calling him, he'd just pretend he didn't notice. Rieekan treated him just like he was omnipresent or omnipotent or something; telling him to supervise this, deliver that, take notes on this, check that out. The man acted like he was the absolute authority, stalking around the base, wanting to keep a full all-hours alert, working people to death. And Wedge was entirely not willing to go on as Rieekan's slave driver. Or slave, however one chose to look at it.

"Hey, Wedge Antilles!"

There was definitely someone calling him. Wedge rubbed bleary eyes with a grimy, oiled fist, trying to make himself stay awake just a little longer, then saw Luke Skywalker-Commander Skywalker- picking his way across the sea of metal droids, scraps, and people with visible annoyance. Well, if it was Luke, Wedge didn't mind. The kid was really something. Good pilot, fun to work with. Just as long as he wasn't carrying orders from Rieekan for Wedge to go off on some other crazy venture.

Luke jumped over one last pile of twisted metal plates, came over by Wedge. "Hey, Wedge! General Rieekan wants you to-"

Wedge groaned, threw his hands in the air. "I knew it! I just knew it! I've had enough of him. Go away! Tell him you couldn't find me."

"-take a break," Luke finished with a wide grin. "But if you want to keep on working, I don't think he would mind."

"Oh, just shut up," Wedge snarled, threw a mock punch at Luke, who stepped back, examining him with a concerned expression.

"Gee, Wedge, you look terrible. "Haven't you slept at all these couple of days?"

"On and off." Wedge took a step backwards, tripped on the welder, stumbled, recovered his balance unsteadily. "The last real nap I had was three days ago. Or something like that." He rubbed his temples, willing his headache to go and haunt someone else for a change.

Luke shook his head, surveyed Wedge's work with hands on his hips. "I'll admit it, you're doing a pretty good job, though, on these speeders."

"Thanks." Wedge rubbed his hands on the dirty gray coveralls he had on over his thermal suit. "I used to be a mechanic, did some fancy patch-up jobs here and there. But man, I wish I had know what I was getting into when I volunteered for this. Do you know how impossible it is to convert these airspeeders to snowspeeders? Or whatever they call them now."

Luke raised his eyebrows. "Kind of, yes. That's why I didn't volunteer for this. I'm a pretty fair mechanic myself, but I didn't want someone getting all over my case if I accidentally fixed the repulsorlift generators in the wrong place."

"Very funny. And that someone being General Rieekan?"

"I suppose." Luke threw an amused look at Wedge. "Besides the fact that I'm, you know, above all this now that I'm a commander-"

Wedge waved a negligent hand, snorted. "Go on, brag all you want. I'll be above you before you know it."

"Come on." Luke shifted to one foot, then the other. "You gonna take a rest or not?"

Rest. The word sounded heavenly to Wedge. "Sure," he said, trying to sound nonchalant about it. "Where? Not Rieekan's office, I hope."

Luke sighed, began carefully to pick his way back across the hangar bay, Wedge following. "Rieekan's really not that bad, Wedge," he said, words floating back to Wedge as if coming from a distance. "Is he?"

They made it across the bay without major incident and wandered slowly down the dim ice hallway. "No, he isn't," Wedge conceded, fingers reaching out to brush the icy walls, eyes discerning the power cables fixed to the top of the packed snow. "I just wish he could get someone else to run all these errands for him."

"But there is no one else," Luke said, words coming heavy and muffled in the chill air.

"No," murmured Wedge. That was the problem. The Alliance wasn't growing any bigger; if anything, it was shrinking. With the casualties of the past year combined with the Battle of Yavin, the number of Rebels was slowly decreasing. Which meant that people could be called on to perform duties outside of their regular assignments. As he was doing now: X-wing pilot turned temporary mechanic. Or perhaps permanent, if the Rebellion's losses continued to outweigh its gains. "Rieekan-I really don't know. He takes everything too seriously, wants everything in top shape, wants us to be able to evacuate split second. I hate to say it, but he's paranoid."

Luke's breath puffed out in clouds of white in the near-freezing temperature of the tunnel. "You know why he is though, don't you?"

"No." Wedge felt surprise. There was a reason? People were either naturally paranoid or they weren't. "Why?"

Luke slowed, looked back as if to make sure there was no one following them, lowered his voice. The corridor was deserted. "You don't? Major Monnon made sure all his engineers knew. That's why you never see any of them complaining about him. It's not a very nice story." Luke swallowed. "Rieekan was from Alderaan, like Leia was. Princess Leia," he corrected himself.

Wedge grinned. It was no use for the kid to pretend; the whole base knew about him and the Princess by now. Or at least had heard the rumors. "Yeah. And?"

"He was a Rebel agent/spy kind of thing around that system. Seems that the day the Death Star arrived at Alderaan he was out inspecting satellite transmitter around Delaya, Alderaan's neighboring world, and spotted it coming. He had heard the reports, of course, and knew what the Death Star could do. So he wanted to order an evacuation."

"So...why didn't he?"

"Well, for one thing, Alderaan's always maintained neutrality on the surface. So if people started evacuating all of a sudden, the Empire would at least suspect that there had been a security breach somewhere; that someone had blown their cover and was therefore working for the Alliance. Which wouldn't have been good for the Alderaanian people, either. So Rieekan decided to take his chances, hoping that maybe Tarkin wouldn't do anything, just sit there for a while and then leave."

Wedge shook his head. "Tarkin wasn't that kind of person. He wouldn't ever sit and do nothing. He liked demonstrations of power."

"That was Tarkin," Luke agreed, turned a corner into a new, downward sloping, twisting hallway lined with low doorways at regular intervals. "But Rieekan wasn't sure. So he was still debating with himself when...well, you know what happened."

Wedge nodded slowly. "I see. So he blames himself?"

"Yeah. So that's why he works everyone so hard, why he's so insistent about being prepared and defended. He's afraid that someday the Empire might find us here on Hoth unprepared for invasion, and then it would be his fault, the death of thousands of others to add to his conscience."

"He shouldn't be so hard on himself. Tarkin was nuts anyway."

Luke shrugged. "I don't know. But I know if I were him, I'd feel pretty terrible, too."

He stopped in front of a numbered doorway, the flat metal entrance looking like all the other in the corridor, pressed his fingers into the automatic fingerprint recognition lock. The lock clicked and the door open. Wedge followed him into what looked like standard personnel quarters, or as standard as things got on Hoth, except it was 10 odd degrees colder than regular living temperatures.

Like all other living areas in Echo Base, the walls of Luke's room were lined with thin sheets of insulating plastic to keep in what warmth there was. Two bunk beds were built into a wall module to the right of the door; the bottom one looked slept in and rumpled. The top bunk was bare of covering; thermal sheets stacked in a neat pile above the mattress. Above and beside the door were various blinking screens: temperature control, intercom. A table folded out from the wall beside the beds and there was a built in chair by the door. The room was small, as space was limited in the caverns. The ceiling was left bare, power conduits running along the ice. An R2-D2 unit trundled out from behind some boxes and whistled a greeting.

"Hi, Artoo," said Luke, turning to check on the temperature control panel. Artoo whistled again, a long string of remarks apparently directed at Wedge.

"He's just tired, I guess," said Luke with a grin. "Hey, Wedge, why don't you just take the bottom bunk? I'm not gonna sleep for a while anyway."

Wedge flopped down on the bottom bunk, pulling the covers partly over himself. Luke eased into the chair next to the door. The door slid shut. With the added warmth of the sheets and the higher room temperature, Wedge felt more relaxed than he had in two weeks.

"So you know, now." Luke finished, turning and fishing in a drawer that opened up underneath the table. "General Rieekan doesn't want to overwork people or anything, it's just that he's afraid of anything like that happening again. Ah, ha." He pulled out a small, portable entertainment module, set it on the table. A weird, strangely soothing melody drifted from the speakers.

Wedge yawned, frowned at sound of the music. "I don't even want to know where you came up with that. " He lay back, stared at the bed's ceiling, then looked over at Luke. "Though I guess having no roommate you can listen to anything you want."

The expression on Luke's face changed, something unreadable and closed. "Yes," he said flatly. He turned away, reached behind the entertainment module, picked up a cylindrical metal object and started running his fingers over its surface in an idle motion.

"What's that?" Wedge squinted at the object. It didn't look familiar.

"This?" Luke held it up. In the light the metal surface shimmered. "It's my lightsaber."

"Huh?" Wedge sat up halfway. He could see now that it wasn't all smooth; there was a grooved surface near the bottom and a kind of thumb switch set near the middle of the cylinder. "A what?"

"My lightsaber," Luke repeated. "It's a weapon. It was my father's." He paused, added with a touch of sadness. "It was given to me by...a friend."

He touched the switch, a barely perceptible twitch of the finger. A brilliant beam of blue-white crackling energy sprang from the end, about as thick around as two of Wedge's thumbs put together. The hum it emitted was quite loud in the frozen cavern. Artoo rolled closer, clearly fascinated by the weapon, beeping to himself.

Luke waved it back and forth a few times, then shut if off. Wedge blinked, the blue afterimage of it still pounding numbingly against his eyes. "That's neat," he mumbled, feeling suddenly lightheaded. He yawned.

Grinning at his expression, Luke pressed a control on one of the wall panels. A small compartment slid out from the wall next to the chair, just long enough and wide enough to fit the handle. Luke placed the lightsaber inside, closed it, stood.

"Have a nice sleep," Wedge heard Luke say faintly. The bed smelled of clean, crisp coldness and warmth at the same time. He closed his eyes, fell into oblivion.

Luke Skywalker stepped out of his quarters followed by Artoo. Letting the door close behind him, he leaned against the icy wall just outside. He smiled at the image of Wedge fast asleep in his bed, snoring for all he was worth. In spite of all he had just told Wedge, there were times when he felt that Rieekan did work everyone too hard. Times like this. Three days, Wedge had said. He hadn't slept at all in three days. Man, no wonder he had dropped off just like that.

Well, that was one of the reasons Luke had taken Wedge to his room and not the other's room; so that Wedge could get some decent rest without anyone bothering him. Luke's room was private, out of the way, and no one would know Wedge was there. And there was another reason, too. Luke didn't mind having a room to himself, as he had told Wedge, but with Wedge there in the bottom bunk, the room would feel less empty than it had with only one occupant. His room...the room he was supposed to share with Han...

Han, who was on another of those accursed smuggler missions...

Artoo whistled with concern, and Luke pushed himself away from the wall. Technically, he was off duty right now, but suddenly he felt lonely and restless. Maybe Leia could find something for him to do.

Yes, that was it. He'd go see Leia. That should keep him busy, keep him from having to think too much about things that didn't concern him. After all, Han had never said he was going to stay with the Alliance. Even though he had shot those TIEs off Luke's back and had done some good smuggling for the Rebellion, that was no guarantee of anything. Maybe Han was just one of those people, coming and going as he pleased, with no feelings for anyone...

Stop it! Luke headed purposefully down the corridor to the main control center of Echo Base. Don't think about Han. You can't do anything about it by worrying.

"So where's Threepio, huh?" He addressed the little droid.

Artoo delivered a series of flat remarks that sounded less than complimentary, punctuating them with a loud blatting noise.

"I see. Not spending enough time with you, is he? I know how you feel, Artoo. I wish Han'd spend more time with us too."

Artoo whistled mournfully and rolled along in silence.

Luke turned into a wider ice corridor, this one filled with more traffic: technicians, lesser functionaries, personnel, all intent on their own personal mission, faces buried in the thick layers of their standard issue thermal suits. Luke forced his mind away from his own concerns; tried to think about other things. He remembered the expression on Wedge's face when he had shown him his lightsaber. It was the weapon of a Jedi, right? So Ben had said. Swinging it back and forth was one thing, but he had to learn and use it, if he was ever going to become a Jedi, like Ben had been.

A Jedi? Are you crazy, Luke? You're going way to far ahead of yourself here. How are you ever going to find someone to teach you, much less find the time? And you don't even know if you have what it takes. Big dreams for a farmboy.

If only Ben were here...

He stopped at the thick blast door of the main hub of the workings of the Rebel Alliance, the nerve center of all its operations: the Echo Base command center. Whipping out his ID card, he moved to the computer terminal, ran it through the scanner. The doors hissed open, and he was in.

Inside was a whole different world. There was still lingering presence of the ubiquitous cold, but it looked like most of the people inside, hunched over radar consoles and communications equipment, were working too hard to notice. Daylight streamed in from cracks in the ice and powerpacks lined the solid ice walls, providing power for the myriad consoles and portable equipment in the command center.

Luke walked in slowly, filtering the high-tech conversations through his hearing, listening for that familiar voice. Ah, yes, over to his left, there.

He turned, saw Leia leaning over an engineering console. The upright tactical com-scan display showed what looked like a scan of the perimeter around the shield generator. Leia was deep in conversation with the man seated at the console, and Luke hated to distract her, so he stopped a distance away and waited. He spotted Threepio a distance away at another console, reciting coordinates in a controlled, prissy voice. Artoo bleeped in indignation at the sight of the golden droid and trundled off to probably give the protocol droid an angry part of his emotional programming .

A breath of air next to him alerted Luke to the presence of another. He whirled, then relaxed as he saw General Carlist Rieekan standing there, a severe expression on his face, as always. The general nodded. "Commander Skywalker."

Luke snapped to attention, saluted. "General."

Rieekan smiled, a rare occurrence, smoothing some of the harsh lines of his face, seemed to relax slightly. "I trust you reported my message to Lieutenant Antilles?"

"I did, sir. He's now...well, I'll just say he's oblivious to any activity."

Rieekan sighed. "He deserves his rest. Antilles is a hard worker, and a good mechanic. He does wonders with those airspeeders-or, should I say, snowspeeders."

"He did tell me he used to be a mechanic, sir."

Rieekan nodded absently. "So...tell me, Commander, how is the work going on those new speeders?"

"We're still having problems adapting them to the cold. Most of the original airspeeder engine parts just aren't compatible with the weather out there, especially the cooling tubes, and we're having a hard time trying to replace them. But we're working on it. Right now, sir, I'd say that tauntauns are proving to be better modes of transportation."

Nodding again, the general looked at Luke. "I've a feeling we're going to be here for a while longer. It might just as well be worth the effort we're putting into those things." He paused, smiling sardonically. "It had better be." He turned his head to glance at the stations on the other side of the room, snapped a command at a controller who hurridly turned some switches off and waved to Rieekan to come over. He acknowledged with a wave and a scowl, then looked back at Luke.

"Tell Antilles I'm proud of him and to keep up the work."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Rieekan turned, moved off to the left, barking orders to a pair of aides. Luke stared at his retreating back, feeling conflicting emotions come over him. It was hard to dislike Rieekan at times like this, but then again, it required unlimited patience and understanding to put up with him in other circumstances.

He was still staring into space, lost in his own thoughts, when he gradually became aware of a soft tapping on his shoulder. He turned slightly, saw a pair of familiar determined blue eyes staring up at him.

"Leia!"

She smiled back. "What are you doing here? I'd though you would be with the others playing 'tame the tauntaun.'"

He grimaced. "I did that yesterday. Took four showers to get half the smell off me."

Leia laughed lightly, but Luke noticed a pensive look in her eyes. "Well, sorry we can't do anything about the smell. Unless you want to replace the animal's sweat glands where it comes from."

"I don't care where it comes from. I'll only ride those lizards because I have to. I prefer odorless, mechanical transport."

"Speaking of mechanical..."

"Wedge is dead to the world."

"Ah." She glanced over as an aide hurried up, handing her a datacard, which she slipped into her pocket. "So why are you here? Need work?"

"Well, yeah, kind of."

"Kind of, huh?" She looked into his eyes intently. He blushed. She chuckled. "There's lots of work that needs to be done, but it's only the official type. You know, signing of documents and things. Mon Mothma and Admiral Ackbar are away on Fleet inspection, so there isn't anything you can do about it."

"Just give me work. Any work! Shoveling snow, even."

The semi-worried look was back, but it wasn't directed at him. "You're that bored?"

No, just depressed, he wanted to say. Depressed and worried. Instead, he gave her a strained smile. "I guess so."

"No, you don't guess so," she said, coming around to face him fully. She lowered her voice and Luke had to strain his ears to hear her below the din. There had been a meteorite shower in Sector 23; he could hear Rieekan from across the room. Leia tilted her head up. "I know you better than that. What's wrong?"

He should have known. You couldn't pretend with Leia. Between her diplomatic mind and odd sixth sense of others' feelings, she would find out sooner or later. "It's Han," he said resignedly, feeling oddly relieved to be telling someone else.

He face tightened at the name and she looked down at the ground. Luke stared at the top of her bent head, wishing he could read her expressions as readily as she could read his. In the two or so years that they'd all known each other, he still felt like he'd never really gotten to know Han, like he now knew Leia. Had never shared some of those moments with him as he had with her, feeling like only the two of them existed in the whole universe, pouring out thoughts and feelings to her that he hadn't even known he had. Granted, he still couldn't read her expression, but their relationship was more profound and deep than any other he had had before.

Of course, Han would probably feel uncomfortable even talking about trivial personal matters. Han was just that kind of person. But still, it would be nice to have him around for more than a day or two at a time between months of absence. Smuggling for the Rebellion, he had said. But there was a price on his head to consider. And then maybe he just wasn't coming back...

Luke shook his head, then looked down at Leia again. She was biting her lip. Whatever she felt for Han, he had no idea, but he knew how he felt about her. If Han did come back, he might take Leia away from Luke, and that wouldn't be good, either...

Shut up! He told himself furiously, pushing the wave of jealousy away. Leia's preferences weren't for either himself or Han to decide. So what if he was a farm boy? Han was a smuggler, and that was worse. If anything, what Leia really needed was to find someone of her rank, a man with high, even royal connections, fit for a princess like her to marry. It wouldn't do her any good to hang around people like them; she deserved better.

The thought of that made Luke's spirits plunge even lower.

Leia stirred, looked up at him again, her expression one of tiredness and resignation. "Well, at least I know someone else has been thinking the same thing as me."

Luke gaped at her.

She smiled, a temporary illusory smile at his expression. "Do you think you're the only one who's been worrying about Han?"

"Not worrying," Luke protested, trying to salvage what remained of his composure. "Just-"

"Worrying," she finished for him. 'I think about him almost every minute of the day. Lie awake at night wondering if anything had happened to him. Sometimes I get angry at him for not even contacting us once or twice, and then I think of all the dangers he might be in." She shook her head. "I can't seem to get him out of my mind. And-" she looked up into his eyes again, "-neither can you, it seems."

Luke met her gaze, troubled thoughts running through his head. I think about him almost every minute of the day...was she thinking about Han now, while ferreting out his thoughts from his head? No, Luke! Han is her friend, just like he is your friend. Jealousy won't help you any. Besides, she loves you.

You sure about that, farmboy?

With an effort he wrenched his mind back on topic. "Sometimes I wonder if he's forgotten us," he confessed. 'He was a smuggler for years, him and Chewie. Old habits die hard."

Leia stared at him, doubt and fear in her eyes. Her lips compressed. "No," she said. "I won't believe he's forgotten us. He can't. He's going to come back."

"Are you sure about that? Really sure?"

She had been turning away, reaching into her pocket for the datacard that the aide had given her. Slowly, she came back to face him. "No." Her eyes dropped and when she spoke, it was barely above a choked whisper. "I'm not."

Harkov had retired for the "night," exhausted after the Ripoblus/Dimok/smuggler encounter that General Daran had jokingly dubbed "The Battle of Freighter." That was all very well, since the stolen goods had been appropriated and accordingly stored away, but it had also shed some new light on the severity of things in this civil war. If the Ripoblus-or the Dimok-were smuggling from the Empire...

Well. That was not his problem, was it? Leave the worrying over that to Vader or some other high-ranking official. He would contact Coruscant tomorrow, let them deal with it. He was a soldier, and his business was to fight. Nothing more. Fight for the Empire.

The Empire...

With a grunt he heaved himself out of the hard chair he had been sitting in next to his bed and went into the next room. He splashed a bit of water on his face, too tired to take a shower-there would probably be no water anyway; almost everyone aboard would be bound to take a shower-combed his hair, took a 'fresher break, and then proceeded to change out of his uniform into looser, more comfortable civilian night clothes.

Leaving the inner room, he turned off its single light, and went over to his bed. It was a narrow bed with a hard mattress, but then, what could one expect on a starship? He turned down the covers, then crossed the room to shut off the wall computer where he'd been reading the updated battle reports pouring in from all commanders. The only thing he didn't have was the casualty report, and he wasn't particularly anxious to read it, anyway. TIE Fighters should have shielding, he thought to himself, as he had a thousand times before. Any kind of shielding. Yes, sheer numbers of TIEs could overwhelm any fighter, but Harkov was not the kind of man to throw away the lives of young and gifted pilots. He never had been.

Sighing deeply, he turned off the light next to the computer as well, leaving only his bedside light on. Now was not the time to think of these things. He was too tired. He climbed into bed, the stiff mattress feeling incredibly soft to his tight muscles. Reaching over, he turned on his entertainment system, the only luxury he allowed himself aboard the Protector.

"What is your preference tonight, Admiral?" the machine said pleasantly.

Harkov scowled. He should remember to exchange the voxchip on it; besides its annoying Corellian accent, that voice was just too pleasant for his moods of late. "I don't know," he said tiredly. "Just play something soft and soothing. Relaxing."

There was a click and a whir, and the machine said: "Would the piece Tr'ial'tan 'or' 'Ist'y'l composed by V'lag'er 'A suffice?"

The name of the piece as the machine pronounced it gave Harkov a headache, but he hoped the piece itself was more relaxing. "I suppose," he grumbled. "Skip the history; just play the music."

"Of course, Admiral," the machine said. Was it just his imagination, or did the machine's Corellian accent become more pronounced? The voxchip clicked off and music came on. It was soothing, full of bell-like sounding instruments. Harkov dimmed the light, lay back and was drifting off to sleep, when the noise of the door buzzer reached his ears. At first he thought it was only part of a dream, but as the insistent ringing continued, some small last part of his mind came awake. He cursed under his breath, rolled out of bed, and padded across the floor in his bare feet. Fumbling, he managed to press the door open control. The door slid open and the light from the corridor outside nearly blinded him.

He blinked a few times, then looked up and saw General Daran standing in the doorway, apparently as surprised as Harkov was. Daran looked uneasy, but then, he was always uneasy, except in battle.

"Admiral," he began apologetically. "If I'm disturbing you ..."

"No," Harkov sighed. "It's all right." He reached for the room's light control switch, motioning Daran to step inside. The door shut behind him.

Daran was nervously fingering a datacard, which he suddenly handed to Harkov as if he had forgotten that he had been holding it in the first place. "Casualties, sir," he said. "I just finished it; didn't realize you were asleep. Most personnel are still working. I was going to give this to your aide, but I couldn't find him."

"I fired him," Harkov said sourly. "He was a nuisance anyway." He rubbed his eyes, turned the datacard over and over.

"Oh," said Daran, taken aback. He swallowed, brushed some imaginary lint off the right shoulder of his immaculate olive-green uniform. "Well, sir, if you want me to take the card back-"

"I'm fine," Harkov said absently. Duty called, but he was too tired to read and update files at this hour. He looked narrowly at Daran, frowning at the general's expression. "If that is all, General..."

He looked at Daran who was nervously edging towards the door but looking at Harkov with a strange expression, as if he were pleading with Harkov to save him from some unknown fate.

Abruptly Daran stopped his sidling, snapped to military attention. "Admiral," he said, then lowered his voice, stepped close. "Are the surveillance systems in this room turned off?"

"Yes," said Harkov, suddenly wary. What in the worlds was going on? "I do not hold with installment of surveillance equipment in private quarters. You know that. Why?"

"Sir," said Daran in the same quiet voice. "I must tell you, sir, that..." he swallowed, then continued on with an almost terrified expression. The words came out in a rush. "-That I do not work for the Empire."

"That what?" Harkov said, now thoroughly confused. "What are you talking about, Daran?" Daran was watching him with a quiet look, nervousness gone now except for a few lines around his eyes, as if he were hoping, pleading, with Harkov to understand. Harkov shook his head in confusion. What was the man up to? Of course Daran worked for the Empire. Who else would he work for? Smugglers?

He was about to make a clever retort, tell Daran that both of them needed sleep, when suddenly his vision seemed to explode. The floor spun. Unless he was-

"-a member of the Rebel Alliance," Daran said grimly.

Harkov's legs gave under him and he stumbled backward, fell into a chair behind him. His arms would not move. He shook his head wordlessly, in stupified shock. This couldn't be. No.

"Admiral!" Daran took a step forward. Harkov waved him back.

"Are you aware, General," said Harkov softly, keeping his eyes trained on Daran, "that I could have you arrested and convicted of treason?"

"Yes," returned the general, with confidence now. The worst was past. "But you could hardly convict me without convicting yourself as well."

"General!" Harkov pushed himself upright, stood, angry now, his voice as frozen cold as an arctic wind. This was impossible. He had to be dreaming.

"I am speaking the truth, aren't I?" retorted Daran, with the same legendary calm that served him so well in battle. Harkov felt cold, suddenly. What did Daran know? "One Rebel wouldn't arrest a fellow Rebel."

"We are treading on dangerous ground here, General," Harkov grated. The coldness dissolved into seething heat. How dare Daran address him in this manner? "Some things I would rather not discuss. The Rebellion is one of them."

"You deny your ties to the Alliance!"

"I deny nothing!" In two quick strides, Harkov lunged for Daran, grasping the other's shoulders with both hands and pulling the general close in a deathlike grip. He spoke softly, with a deadly intent. "We are on an Imperial starship, General, in a Imperial fleet, surrounded by Imperial personnel. One wrong step can mean death. For you or I. I prefer to die fighting than to be butchered like an animal."

Daran had fallen silent, eyes wide, throat working to swallow. He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of the chin.

"As for the Rebellion..." Harkov trailed off. "I cannot do anything about that now. The war is far away from here. I can give no help to anyone from Sepan."

"Yes sir." There was new respect in Daran's eyes.

"Betrayal in the Empire is something to be kept secret, General." Harkov stepped back, released Daran, who winced. "I am not sure I am willing to trust your words just yet. My feelings towards the Alliance now do not concern you. The Empire does not take defection lightly."

Daran headed towards the door, stopped. "I wouldn't call it exactly defection, sir," he said quietly. "More like...release."

The door hissed shut behind him. Harkov stood there, still holding the datacard, mind blank.

More like release.

Could he trust this man? Was he telling the truth? Not that he had any real choice in the matter; Daran already knew about him and the Alliance. Did that mean he knew about his visit to Hoth as well? About his messages to Mon Mothma? Why tell me here? Why now? What does he know? What does he want?

Defection. From all accounts he was already a traitor to the Empire. Or perhaps, not a traitor, but only a fugitive. More like release. Yes, it could be called that...from a certain twisted point of view.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Harkov noticed that the music was still playing.