The days after the Second—and Last—Battle of Poln Major passed as if they were a dream. Asori Rogriss surrendered to it, already feeling out of place aboard Rendili Vigil. She spent most of her off-duty time in the New Republic ship's forward lounge, staring at the swirling storms of hyperspace as they trekked further into the Unknown Regions. She lost herself in the spinning swirling lights and lightning, trying to find any sense of meaning, any pattern to them. Nothing presented itself, though. Commodore Tabanne stopped in frequently to check on her, bringing her meals or caf, making sure she ate and drank, and offering a comforting presence.
Atril had not been her only company.
Rendili Vigil was packed with refugees. The plurality of Poln Major's population had been human, but it had enormous alien populations, and she was surrounded by sentients of all kinds. They shared the same stunned expressions and stark silences. There were few words exchanged, and they gave her a wide berth—they were wary of someone in uniform, especially a stranger.
The image of Agonizer's slow death refused to leave her. She saw it when she closed her eyes and when she gazed into the spiraling hyperspace corridor. The cracks that shattered through Agonizer's hull, from prow to engines, exploding the Imperial-class Star Destroyer into chunks of debris... the chunk that had once been the bridge tower, disintegrating slowly. All the flotsam left behind swept into the hungry maw of Silencer Station.
It was hard, though, to be too lost in her own pain when she was surrounded by others. Others who, like her, had seen family, friends, and revered places consumed by Silencer Station. Others who, unlike her, had lost their entire world.
Her own home, Anaxes, had been conquered by the New Republic a few years before. The idea that it could be lost to the Empire, rendered unreachable to her beyond the impermeable barrier of war, had been unthinkable once. But it had now been years since she had returned to Anaxes, years since she had last visited her mother's grave.
She swallowed hard. Her father had always wanted to be buried beside his wife.
The thought made her eyes tear up and she tucked her knees up against her chest, resting her chin against them. She sat there, silently resisting the urge to cry.
Someone sat on the couch beside her. "Are you all right?"
Asori blinked her eyes open. The alien sitting beside her was elderly—at least, she assumed the alien was elderly, it was hard to tell when dealing with non-humans—and very non-human. She had green skin and a lizard-like appearance; Asori recognized her as a Troukree, one of the species which Baron Fel had more success recruiting into the UREF.
She wiped her eyes hastily. "Yes, I'm fine."
"Ahh," the Troukree said. Her elongated head shifted forward in a nod. "My progeny's progeny said much the same when I asked them. But they too are far from fine." She shifted awkwardly in the couch next to Asori; its shape wasn't quite suited to the Troukree's body.
"I didn't lose my world," Asori protested. Someday, I'll be able to go home again. She never will.
"But you lost your father," the Troukree said.
Asori sat up straight. "Excuse me?"
"You're Captain Rogriss." The words were calm and knowing, if their Basic with a slightly buzzing, alien flavor; the alien was clearly not accustomed to speaking so much in Basic. "Your father stood and fought so that we might flee."
She wasn't sure how to respond. One option was to deny, just to escape the conversation as quickly as possible. But she realized, rather quickly, that the other refugees were listening also, and the words had been spoken with too much certainty for a denial to be plausible. "He did," she said quietly.
"It was a noble thing."
Despite her best efforts, her eyes started to water again. "Yes," she managed to say. "It was."
Whatever else had been true of her father—his commitment to the Empire, encouraging his children to follow in his footsteps—no one would ever doubt that he had died nobly. Not for the Empire, not for any hope of gain, but because he was doing his best to help save as many lives as he could—both of the people of Poln Major, of all species, and of all those who would have to fight Silencer Station in the days to come. He would be remembered as an Imperial—with all the connotations that the word that all those who had served the Empire would forever carry—but he would not just be remembered as an Imperial.
"Grief does not like to leave," said the old woman. "It is a natural thing, which does not make its hurting any less a thing, but the pain should be felt by more than just you. Your father was a just man. We mourn with you."
"Thank you." Asori said.
"What will you do now?" The woman asked, filmy membranes nictating over her old eyes as Asori took a moment to gather herself, and really think.
She offered the old woman a tepid smile.
I still don't know what I will do tomorrow. But I know what I'm going to do today.
"I'm headed back to my command. I'm going to find that thing that killed your world, and I'll do what my father taught me to," she said. "I'll stand and fight."
"How long until the shuttle for Chimaera arrives?"
Atril Tabanne checked her wristcomm. "Two or three hours, assuming there isn't another delay thanks to all the refugees being shuttled to the surface… which there will be. It sounds like all of Chimaera's small craft are in use. As many people as we picked up, they took on thousands more."
Rendili Vigil had been assigned a high orbit around Dowager's Rest, alongside the rest of Mirage Formation's ships. The world turned slowly, clouds floating above green and white continents and blue seas. It was dark below them, lights that signified the presence of advanced civilization gleaming on the largest continents, all clustered around an array of enormous lakes in the middle of one of those continents.
Imperial transports had come up in an orderly queue, shuttling the refugees down to the surface one transport-load at a time. The process had taken hours, and now that it was complete those same transports were being used to evacuate Pellaeon's much larger ships, leaving Rendili Vigil's lounge empty except for the Imperial officer and her Republic counterpart.
Asori's Termagant had evacuated nearly twenty-thousand people—far above its standard maximum capacity—and it would be at least a day before she could go back to her ship. That left the Imperial stuck on Rendili Vigil until she could be sent to confer with Pellaeon. Asori had spent several days in a daze; Atril had tried to help her through it by just providing a comforting presence, but wasn't sure if it was really helping. "I'm sorry about your father, Captain," she said. "I didn't get to know him very long or very well, but I could tell that he was a man of principle." She hesitated. "I don't know why he chose to serve the Empire, but I'm sure it was—"
Asori laughed softly, offering Atril a small, not-entirely-genuine and terribly sad smile. "He made the decisions he made because they made sense to him at the time. He always thought he was doing the right thing." She sighed. "I do wonder if he would have made different choices with the benefit of hindsight… but I have no doubt that his decision to take Agonizer into her last battle is not one he would change."
"He saved my life and the lives of my crew. If there's anything…"
"No, but thank you, Commodore. I'll be fine."
Atril wasn't sure, but she nodded anyway. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to stay in your quarters? I've had them cleaned."
"I'm sure. I can't stand the idea of staring at four cramped walls." Asori nodded towards the viewport, at the world below. "This is much better."
There was something about the Imperial's tone… an oddly compelling combination of sadness, uncertainty, and resolve.
Atril tapped her wristcomm. "Tabanne to bridge. Forward lounge is designed off-limits until I say otherwise."
"Acknowledged, ma'am," Hiacun confirmed.
Atril found Asori looking at her, a small, amused smile on her face. "Is that an abuse of authority? A seizure of a public space?"
"This is still a warship, and more to the point it's my warship," Atril replied, feeling mildly embarrassed. "Rank hath its proper remunerations."
Asori smirked—the first expression that Atril had seen on her face since the battle that wasn't tinged with sadness. "Spoken like a true Carida graduate."
Atril folded her arms across her chest, adopting a feigned scowl. "Still?"
That made the Imperial captain laugh. Atril found her smile reassuring—that despite everything, despite the Empire's new weapon, the destruction of Poln Major, the death and conflict, the decades-long civil war that Palpatine had inflicted upon the galaxy, there was still a future worth looking forward to.
Two hours later, Atril's wristcomm buzzed. "Ma'am, the shuttle to take Captain Rogriss to Chimaera is on its way. It'll be here in fifteen minutes."
Asori put down her wine glass with a sigh. She offered Atril a slightly abashed—and alarmingly cute—smile, and pulled a small detox patch out of one of the small pockets on her uniform. She affixed it to her arm. "Goodbye, pleasant buzz," she sighed reluctantly. "But best to meet the Admiral sober." She fixed her uniform sleeve.
There were a lot of questions that Atril could ask.
How are you feeling? What are you going to do when all this is over? Are you going to stay with the Empire? But none of them felt right, and Atril wouldn't feel much like talking about her feelings right then either. "I'll see you at Corellia," she said instead.
Asori's expression turned hard. "Yes, you will," she promised, the words coming with some of the ferocity that the Imperial Starfleet tried to imbue into its officers. But for some reason, she found that she couldn't keep it up. "And after," Asori promised, and held out her hand.
"Well in that case," Atril took Asori's hand and held it a touch longer than necessary. "Good hunting. I look forward to it."
The other woman said nothing, merely nodded and gave a soft, sad smile.
Asori's arrival aboard Chimaera did not go unremarked. "Welcome aboard, Captain Rogriss."
She recognized the officer there to greet her, a young man, though not as young or uncertain as he had been a year ago. "Thank you, Lieutenant Tschel," she replied formally.
"The Admiral is meeting with our guests in his private suite, Captain. He requested that you join him at your earliest convenience."
She straightened her uniform and gave a formal nod. "Of course. But please have a transport ready to take me to my ship when the meeting is over, Lieutenant. I've been away for too long."
"Of course, Captain."
She made the short trip from the bridge tower's hangar to the Admiral's suite. It was not what she had expected. The Admiral's suite was always tailored to suit whichever Admiral occupied it, and consequently there was a great diversity among them. Some were luxury suites (with luxuries of varied legality and expense), others were gaming rooms, or libraries. The suite aboard Exigent had been the home to a kybuck that Captain Nidal had named Genti; Asori hadn't gotten to know the beast well before her transfer, but the crew had doted on it.
Chimaera's suite was a museum. The lights were kept dim and carefully engineered microbrights cast gentle pools of light over the sculptures and paintings that were spread evenly through the space. She found Admiral Pellaeon gazing at one of the paintings on the left. Framed with a dull unobtrusive bronze, the painting was of a lone man on a hill. The figure was painted in a ghostly white, with a flowing robe that made him appear almost ethereal, fabric whipping in the imagined breeze. The ground under his feet was rocky and troublesome and the man appeared pained by the experience of his hike. It was the sky behind the man that was the painting's most defining feature: dark and starry, but as if behind a haze of dim fog that gave the image a dreamlike quality.
"It's called 'Peregrine'," Pellaeon said quietly. "Garm Bel Iblis was apparently a devotee." He glanced at her, then gestured at the painting. "The painting of an old man who can never go home again."
"Yes, sir," she said.
"I'm sorry about your father, Captain," he said, his voice remaining soft, his attention still on the painting.
"Yes, sir," she repeated. "Thank you, sir."
"The New Republic treated you well?"
"As well as could be expected, sir."
"And Commander Dreyf?"
"Still on Coruscant, sir."
Pellaeon nodded and said nothing. She stood beside him and said nothing—a junior officer did not speak to a senior unless invited—and gazed at the painting because Pellaeon was gazing at the painting. She understood why General Bel Iblis had found the painting compelling; the figure was lost, wandering, unable to go home and yet unable to stop moving.
"Thrawn used to say that if you understood a species' art, you would understand the species," Pellaeon said finally. "He would keep the art of his enemies here, to study so that he might understand them." Pellaeon watched the painting a while longer. "I think I am finally beginning to understand General Bel Iblis." He glanced at her. "But you already did, didn't you, Captain?"
"Sir?"
Pellaeon's wristcomm buzzed, interrupting the exchange. "Admiral, your guests have arrived."
"Send them in, Lieutenant."
Asori and Pellaeon turned to face their newly arrived company. Luke Skywalker and Mara Jade approached first, with three additional Jedi and Artoo-Detoo behind them. "Admiral Pellaeon, Captain Rogriss," Luke greeted the two Imperials.
"Jedi Skywalker. You retrieved your X-wing?"
"I did, thank you," Skywalker said with a nod. "These are apprentices Kirana Ti, Tyria Sarkin, and Streen," he said, motioning to the others.
The trio of Jedi standing behind Luke and Mara inclined their heads and bowed in dips that could be measured in micrometers. The dark-haired woman clad in what appeared to be leather armor and armed with a spear certainly drew the eye—tall, muscular, and imposing she was impossible to miss—while the other two were less flamboyant in their presence. The blonde woman was some kind of Jedi commando by her gait and dress. The least noticeable was a nondescript older man.
Skywalker smiled, and attempted to break an awkward silence "Thank you for looking after my ship and not messing with its computer."
"It was not for lack of trying. You have very effective encryption."
Luke smiled. "I have a very capable astromech."
Pellaeon and Asori both looked at Artoo— who wobbled back and forth and blatted rudely—then back at the Jedi. "Counterpart," Pellaeon said knowingly. "Of course."
"He baffled you at Myrkr, too," Luke said, his tone gently chiding.
"Hmmm," Pellaeon hummed with a frown. "So it did." He folded his arms behind his back. "Baron Fel has assigned a stormtrooper detail to your infiltration team. They've been ordered to treat you as their commanding officer, and told that the fate of the galaxy may depend on the success of the mission." He nodded at Mara. "These stormtroopers are the best the UREF has to offer. You can be assured of their quality."
"I prefer to make such judgments for myself," Mara said coolly.
"Of course," Pellaeon agreed. "But I'm quite certain that you will come to the same conclusion."
"Hmmm." Mara rejoined, in a sardonic echo of Pellaeon's earlier bluster.
The exchange between Mara and Pellaeon continued, but Asori found her attention drawn away from it, and towards the old Jedi apprentice. Lean, comparatively thin, with flyaway gray hair and a scraggly beard, he looked more like a vagrant than a soldier. He carried himself with a clear lack of confidence, too. Uncertain, his eyes darted around the museum, never looking too long at any one of the pieces of art.
But his eyes always came back to Asori. She caught him looking and he immediately looked down at his battered boots.
"There is one other thing," said Luke. The words drew Asori's attention and she found the Jedi looking at her. "Captain Rogriss, Streen has something he wants to discuss with you."
"With me?" she asked, tilting her head. She glanced at Pellaeon, whose slight shrug communicated that he didn't know either.
"I'll let Streen explain." Luke gestured at the old man, stepping to the side to let Streen step to the forefront.
It took Streen a long moment before he finally did so. With a resigned sigh, he stepped into the void that Luke had left behind, flanked by Luke and Mara. "I want to accompany you during the battle," he said.
"Excuse me?" she asked. Why would he want to do that? "You aren't going to go with the Jedi on the assault team?"
He shook his head. "No. I'm no warrior. I won't stand a chance against the Empire in a fight. I'd be more of a burden than a help."
"But why do you want to come with me?"
He looked at a loss. "I don't know exactly," he said. He hesitated, his hands wringing together. "I'm not a fighter, but I am a Jedi," he started to explain—
"Not every Jedi is a skilled warrior," Luke interjected. "In fact, I don't think that should be our most important quality. What defines a Jedi is our ability to make peace and offer guidance, not our ability to kill."
Streen nodded. "And I'm very good at knowing where I need to be," he said. "When I was just a gas prospector, piloting mining barges, I was always able to know where the tibanna would rise and be there before anyone else to collect it." He was growing more confident now, she could tell, his tone enthusiastic. His expression and tone both became more serious, his tone becoming pleading. "And I know that the place I need to be in this battle is with you, aboard your ship."
"This is highly irregular," Pellaeon objected. "You can't simply demand to station one of your sorcerers on the bridge of our ships." The Admiral inclined a finger. "And it's official Imperial policy to have Ysalamir present to protect all command officers from foreign influences—"
"That's new," muttered Mara.
"As I recall," Luke said casually, "the last time you had a Jedi on your bridge, Admiral Pellaeon, it proved very helpful."
Her commanding officer's expression soured further, and Asori cut in before the exchange could worsen. "I'll have the Ysalamir moved off the bridge," she said firmly. "Streen, you're welcome to join me, on the condition that you follow any orders I might have and stay out of the way of my officers, especially during combat."
"He doesn't even know why he's supposed to be there!" Pellaeon objected.
"We have a massive station that can eat planets and grow, Admiral," Asori shot back, "We're on the defensive, and out of our depth, which means we need to take all the help we can get." She paused, and allowed her tone to soften. "Given what we're up against, sir, the unorthodox might be all we've got."
"I remember the stories about the Jedi!" barked Pellaeon, with surprising heat. "I know how many ships we lost because of lepi-brained schemes." He pointed at her, then at Streen aggressively. "I don't want to lose another one!"
Asori's eyes narrowed and she chose her words with care, drawing each one like a precious gem from a valise. "My father knew what duty was, sir. I learned sacrifice at my mother's knee every time he deployed."
Pellaeon paled and remained silent, though bristling at the implication.
Why is it, Asori wondered, that the older generation has such a hard time believing that we understand the nature of sacrifice? That we knew what we signed up for and are just as willing to risk life and limb? We grew up with this war, too.
"Sacrifice, duty, and trust are all part of what it means to be a Jedi, Admiral. If we are involved, so is risk and uncertainty. How many of your elaborate battle plans have survived first contact with the enemy?" asked Mara, her hands folded behind her back. "Sometimes all we can do is listen, put our faith in the Force to guide us, and hope for the best in the unexpected." She nodded at Streen. "Streen's track record is very good. He does know where he needs to be, even if he doesn't know why."
"I know that I need to be there," Streen said, and his voice had all the confidence it had lacked before. "And I know that together the Captain and I will do something that needs to be done, at the precise moment it is possible." He offered Asori a thankful smile.
Asori didn't wait for Pellaeon to object again. "Welcome aboard, Jedi Streen," she said. "With your leave, Admiral, I'll take the Jedi back to Termagant and get him settled in while I resume my command."
"Very well," Pellaeon nodded reluctantly, and finally, "It's your ship, Captain."
Iella Wessiri was embarking on her most dangerous mission yet in the lap of Imperial luxury, and the only thing she was sure of is that Wedge and the Wraiths would have loved Teldin Imperator.
The vessel itself was a large SoroSuub luxury transport, built to Imperial specs, procured by Baron Fel for their infiltration into Entralla. Significantly larger than a typical yacht, Iella thought it was rather too large for anything short of actual freight hauling. Once inside, she realized that it was closer to a liner than anything intended for truly private use: it featured accommodations for dozens of people, all able to be pampered with the height of luxury.
Of course, they were in the middle of removing all the unnecessary fluff so that they'd have more room for weapons and supplies. Once they were in Imperial space they'd be cut off and without easy reinforcement. All they would have is what they brought with them.
Iella glanced to her side. Her Devaronian partner was busy guiding his commandos, all of them clad in dark, helmeted boarding armor—none of them Noghri, who he had left behind on Coruscant to guard the Solo children—in stacking all their supplies from Tempered Mettle. "Two more trips with the heavy lifter," Kapp reported to her. "Then we'll be fully prepped for departure."
"We're just waiting for the Imperials, then."
Kapp pressed his lips together unhappily. "I'd really rather we went on this mission on our own, Iella. I don't like the idea of having stormtroopers at our back."
"Neither do I," Iella admitted. "But we could use the extra bodies if it becomes a firefight. Besides," she gestured at Kapp's horns, "you can't masquerade as a stormie, Kapp, and neither can a lot of our people. Mara's disguise requires a guard unit that can pass as genuinely Imperial, and that means being able to put on the white helmets."
He huffed and nodded a reluctant agreement. "Two more trips," he said.
The transport was more than a hundred meters long, and while the cargo areas were placed conveniently to the exit, they had moved most of the equipment much deeper into the ship. If they were boarded by a customs team—or even a formal greeting party—it would be important to pretend to be a simple luxury craft. Crates full of blaster rifles, explosives, and heavier equipment would be out of place, at best.
They heard familiar footsteps, heavy on the deck, outside the ship, growing louder as they approached the cargo ramp in cadence. The Imperials had arrived and she went to greet them. Two rows of Stormtroopers in ranks of ten, and each one wearing unit insignia that made Iella reach for her blaster.
The 501st, Iella thought in surprise, forcing her hand to relax. Once known as Vader's Fist, the 501st were the Empire's most famous—most infamous—unit.
The stormtrooper wearing the unit commander's pauldron saluted her. "Agent Wessiri? TKR 330 reporting. Baron Fel sent my detachment of the 501st for deployment to Silencer Station, ma'am."
Wasn't that just a dust-up for the dataslates, she thought, letting the man hold his posture of attention for a moment before she flicked two fingers to her own brow in an informal, Alliance-style dismissal.
"I didn't realize that the 501st had defected to the UREF," Iella said cautiously.
"We've been serving the right people for a while now." The helmeted head peered past Iella into the transport, then those the black visor turned and affixed on her again. "I understand we'll be under the direct authority of Jedi Skywalker and Jedi Jade."
"You will," Iella said. "Jedi Jade will be in overall command of this operation. You'll obey her orders when they are given and without hesitation."
TKR 330 glanced to his side. The stormtrooper standing there gave a small shrug, and TKR 330 nodded. "Baron Fel made that very clear. My unit and I are willing and able to operate under those conditions. Since Jedi Jade is not currently present, do we have your permission to begin our preparations for departure?"
Iella and Kapp shared a look. "Go ahead," said Kapp. "But I'm going to have some of my people guiding you. We've already stocked up with everything we brought with us and have used up a lot of the available space."
"We're stormtroopers," TKR 330 said, his voice surprisingly wry for a trooper. "We're used to being stashed in a small metal box for weeks at a time before being called into action."
It was only a few minutes after the stormtroopers had begun moving into the yacht—under the watchful eye of Kapp and his commandos—that Luke and Mara returned. Looking at Mara, Iella couldn't tell that she was pregnant—it was far too early in the pregnancy for that—but… maybe it was self-deception, or maybe it was her investigator's skills, or maybe it was ego, but Iella thought she would have guessed even if Mara hadn't told her. There was something about the way Mara carried herself—normally so perfectly poised—that communicated uncertainty and concern.
Iella approached them with a reassuring nod. "Fel's stormtroopers are settling in. They haven't given us any trouble so far."
Mara looked over Iella's shoulder towards the yacht, watching the stormtroopers carry crates of supplies and equipment aboard. "They won't," she confirmed. "They're trained to the standards of the Empire at its height, not the standards of the Empire after Endor."
"I trust her on this," Luke added.
"As soon as we're loaded we should depart," Mara continued. "It's better to be early to the convocation than to be fashionably late. My Countess Claria identity will get us in the door with the help of Sarreti's documents, but she's not nearly high-ranking enough to expect VIP treatment once we're there. We'll get in, settle in, and then decide what to do next."
"It'll take us a few more hours to load, and I'm not leaving the troopers alone to do it. You two should go relax a bit and make sure Leia eats something."
It wasn't much, but it would give the two of them an excuse to spend a little time with Leia before they left.
"Oh, so you've worked with my sister before?" Luke said, in an artificially breezy tone.
"I thought she was supposed to be the sarcastic one." Iella replied, jabbing a quick thumb at Mara, who rolled her eyes in response. "But I have—we did go on that raid of Eyrie Tower together."
"Well, that's good enough then," Luke agreed lightly. He sighed. "I don't like leaving her here all alone, but I don't feel like these Imperials are any threat to her." He nodded at Mara. "Let's try to have one last meal before we go."
Iella nodded in return, "Grab us something while you're at it? I hate ration bars and I want my people to be at least a little relaxed. We'll take care of the last Imperial superweapon when you return."
Mara just smiled as Iella shooed the two out of the yacht. Once they were out of sight, she allowed her smile to fall. Assuming this entire run isn't a trap. But even if it was, they didn't have any choice but to take the risk. After what the World Devastator had done to Poln Major it had to be stopped… and it had to be stopped now. Its ability to grow with time meant they had no margin for error and no time to wait.
The opportunity in front of them might be the only chance they ever had to stop it.
Iella reached down to the comfortably-worn grip of her blaster, feeling the reassurance of its familiar shape.
Trap or no, we have to see it through.
Leia was hard at work, reviewing a series of documents that Grand Moff Ferrouz had prepared. The terms of the peace agreement were sufficiently harmful to the Empire—and sufficiently willing to turn complicit officers over to the New Republic to see justice—that she believed she could sell it to the Senate. Combined with the destruction of Poln Major which, Imperial world or not, would provoke great sympathy in the Republic, and with Ferrouz and Fel's decision to come to the aid of a New Republic world… she could do it.
There were some in the Republic who would call her traitor for even broaching the topic of peace. Many Alderaanians would never forgive her if the New Republic did not bring every last Imperial to justice. But her father had taught her, long ago, that to make peace with an enemy could not simply mean subjugating them. That was not the foundation for a lasting peace… and both the New Republic and Ferrouz's resulting polity, whether it called itself the Empire or not, would struggle for decades—if not much longer—with people who thought back on the Empire not as a galactic catastrophe, but as a galactic savior.
The memory of the Empire was never going to go away.
And Airen's people are going to be hunting quietly in the shadows for another generation all the same. I wouldn't have it any other way.
"Leia?"
That was Luke's voice, and she turned in her chair. He was there in the doorway, with Mara at his side and Grand Moff Ferrouz at the door controls. "She's been in here working for hours," Ferrouz explained to her brother.
"We're getting ready to leave," Luke explained awkwardly. "And we wanted to see you before we left. We were thinking of borrowing the Grand Moff's kitchen and making something to eat, just to make sure you got some food."
"Oh, I can assure you that my staff will see to it that the Councilor is fed—"
"All right," Leia cut off Ferrouz. "But…" and on instinct, Leia realized that there was something she wanted to do. Something she very much wanted to do. An Alderaanian tradition that would normally not taken place until much later in a pregnancy, but they might never have another chance. "Can your staff provide an oven and shortbread dough?"
Ferrouz blinked in surprise. "I'm not sure, but I can check… Do you want something specific?"
Less than ten minutes later, Leia was dragging a confused Luke and Mara with her through the kitchen in the suite Ferrouz had aboard Chimaera. A pair of chef droids were making dinner—dried herbs created fresh scents from a sizzling plate, just off a griddle—while Leia struggled to remember how to create the vital cookies.
"Watch me," she encouraged Luke. "If you'd been raised on Alderaan you would have learned this too." She'd tried to find the time to teach him a variety of Alderaanian dishes over the years, out of a sense of guilt and obligation, and he in turn had sought to teach her how to make the Tatooinian dishes that he still regularly made for himself… but she'd never really had the time. She had always been running short on time.
The thought drove her to check on the shortbread cookies again.
"I can't believe Ferrouz let us use his galley," Luke said awkwardly as he watched her bake.
"I can," Mara said. "He's desperate for peace and willing to do whatever it takes to get on Leia's good side."
Leia slid the cookies out of the oven. They weren't perfect—she had rushed too many parts of the process, and she'd never been all that good at baking to begin with. She only vaguely remembered her mother's lessons, those months before her youngest cousin had been born. She offered the first one to Mara trepidatiously. "Here," she said. "It's good luck."
Mara ate it. Leia wasn't sure if she enjoyed it—it didn't crumble like it was supposed to—but the former Emperor's Hand kept a straight face. "Thank you," she said graciously.
"Dinner is served," the protocol droid announced.
Leia laughed. "So when Jaina made that slingshot out of a stretchy blanket and climbing frame the Rogues sent her—"
"An inspired use of improvised weaponry," Mara interrupted her with a roguish grin.
"—It was your idea?"
"Well, I suspect the targets were her idea. I would have told her not to try it on Noghri. She would have been better off trying to hit something stationary."
"They were, thankfully, not offended. I think they believed it was good early combat training. It wouldn't surprise me if they had encouraged it, actually." Leia shook her head. "They were furious about being left home, but there was really no choice. Not after Bilbringi."
Luke rolled up the mix of meat and vegetables in his flatbread, chewed, and grimaced. "The stewards didn't do too badly, but they should have let me bring my spices from the Mettle. The Imperial Starfleet apparently has no tolerance for spices."
The door chimed. The trio turned to look at it, then it slid open unbidden. Grand Moff Ferrouz stepped through, looking apologetic. "Forgive me for interrupting your dinner, but Teldin Imperator is prepared for departure. Agent Wessiri asked me to fetch you."
A sudden, intense morose feeling descended over Leia. She did her best to hide it—not just from Ferrouz, but from Luke. Especially from Luke. She suddenly couldn't even look at her brother and his future-wife. His pregnant future wife. Both of whom were, again, charging into harm's way, into something that could easily be a trap—that Mara was reasonably convinced was a trap—because they had no better option.
Luke stepped in and wrapped his arms around her, giving her a quick, tight hug. "We'll be fine, Leia."
She sighed and hugged him back, desperately wishing Han were there. When Luke released her, she hugged Mara just as fiercely, not caring that Ferrouz was watching. "We will be fine," Mara reiterated. Somehow, hearing that from Mara was more reassuring than hearing it from Luke—not that she didn't trust Luke, but she never doubted Mara to be anything less than honest.
"Go," she told them. "Go stop that thing."
Ferrouz stepped out of the way, letting them pass, and Luke and Mara were gone. When she turned to face him, struggling to keep her diplomat's calm, she noticed him examining what was left of her shortbread cookies. "Ah," he said.
Leia paled. She had no idea how Ferrouz would know about Alderaanian maternity traditions… Mara had gone to such efforts to keep that secret—not just the pregnancy, but of her relationship with Luke—
He stopped her with a small shake of his head. "I know better than to draw the ire of Mara Jade," he said calmly. He took a seat at the table and rolled himself a flatbread. "And I am not unfamiliar with the concept of duty taking one where they do not wish to go. May I ask you a question?"
She sighed, furious at herself. "You may."
"After Alderaan…" his voice faded away and he put the flatbread down without biting into it. "After Alderaan, how long…"
Her momentary relief that he had not asked about Mara and Luke was fleeting, replaced by a familiar old pain. "Never," she said. "It never gets better."
"Not even when you killed the Death Star?"
A tight smile slashed its way across Leia's face despite herself, remembering the exuberance of Luke and Han's return to Yavin. "I felt satisfaction that it wouldn't kill anyone else, at Tarkin's demise, at the symbol of Palpatine's power shattering, and I felt joy that some of my friends made it back," she admitted. "But I wouldn't say any of that made me feel better for long. My world was still gone and my surviving people had no home."
"I am sorry," Ferrouz said, and she believed it was genuine—whether that was because he had just lost his own, or whether he would have meant it even before, she could not tell. "But I promise you this… I'm going to see that monstrosity destroyed, and then I'm going to work on making a new home for my people, too. One that won't be complicit in any more monstrosities."
She believed him.
Slowly, deliberately, she slid him the platter of shortbread cookies.
Asori Rogriss stood on the bridge of Termagant. Her Chiss XO had turned command back over to her with a salute and a nod—and an askance glance at her guest.
Streen sat at a deactivated console, watching with a detached, distant expression as the yacht that carried the other Jedi approached the hyper limit. It soared past that invisible line and then vanished into hyperspace with a flicker of pseudomotion in the direction of Entralla and Silencer Station.
"All ships, prepare for immediate departure," Admiral Pellaeon said over the comm. "Destination: Corellia. The sooner we get there, the better we can prepare for the battle to come." There was a pause, a rustle of fabric. Asori imagined Pellaeon straightening, creating an imposing presence for the sake of his crew. "Make no mistake, this battle will be difficult. But we will be victorious in the end. The future of the Empire, and of the galaxy, rests on it. We will all do our part."
There was a ding. Pellaeon's voice was replaced by another man, Chimaera's comm officer. "Hyperspace in thirty seconds… Hyperspace in twenty seconds… Hyperspace on my mark. Mark!"