Iella had been moved from Termagant to the medical facilities aboard Garm Bel Iblis as soon as it was possible. Wedge had accompanied her, and both as the General of the Fifth Fleet, and as a junior member of the New Republic's negotiating team—which was almost entirely just a formality, Wedge had no standing orders from Leia or the rest of the negotiation team except to lurk in the corner and stare too-calmly whenever the Imperials got recalcitrant—he had been assigned temporary quarters.
The first moment it had been convenient, he had discarded his hated dress uniform jacket, replacing it with one of his well-worn fatigue jackets that had followed him from posting to posting over the years. It had survived the years of war. Many of his comrades had not.
Wedge tried to force down the sensation of simmering anger at Pellaeon, Daala, at all of them. He knew, intellectually, that the decision to let them walk without facing a war tribunal was the right one. Plenty of Imperial officers had been allowed to defect, even with pretty horrible records of atrocities—Crix Madine was a clear example—and Pellaeon and Daala's records were clean by comparison (even if Pellaeon's had a few conspicuous blemishes).
I'd have a drink with Teren Rogriss, but apparently the one semi-decent Imperial Admiral doesn't get to survive.
He would have to find Teren's daughter. He and Captain Rogriss hadn't had a chance to speak after the battle, Wedge had been much too distracted. He hoped there would be an opportunity to rectify that soon.
"You don't look like the conquering hero who saved our homeland."
Iella was no longer one-handed. The temporary prosthetic that had replaced her forearm was still visibly artificial, as the creation of a custom prosthesis that would exactly match her needs would take some time, but she was able to use the arms she had without obvious hindrance.
The custom prosthetic was already being constructed. Only a few hours after Iella had been moved to Garm Bel Iblis, two nondescript medtechs had arrived at their quarters, equipped with hoverdollies with top of the line medical scanning equipment. They had unimpeachable security clearances and a datapad. FOR A JOB WELL DONE, IN EARNEST DUTY, AND WITH A COST TOO HIGH. NRI LOOKS AFTER ITS OWN.
There had been no name, but it didn't need one. At least Cracken looks after his own, Wedge thought.
Officially, Iella was still recuperating, which gave her an excuse to avoid attending any of the parade of events associated with the ongoing peace negotiations. Unofficially, she was sick of sludgenews trying to capture any picture of her, or the fusillade of expressions of sympathy and sad eyes.
"Oh yeah?" Wedge countered. "What do I look like?"
"In a jacket like that?" Iella smirked. "You look like someone trying to blend in with the fringers on Treasure Ship Row. You know you have to go back, right?"
He winced. Taking the uniform off prematurely had been silly, but it had started to feel confining.
Her voice took on a more sympathetic lilt. "And after that we have to meet with the Baroness of the Empire and all her little Baronlings. Baronets?"
In spite of himself, Wedge smiled. Despite her injury, Iella's good cheer had never subsided. Wedge had known many Rebel soldiers who had lost limbs in combat, and so far she was taking it better than most—though Wedge knew well that a brave face often only ran skin deep.
But Iella was clearly worried about him as well. As his sister's transport had come ever closer, Wedge had tried not to think about his brother-in-law, or the beloved older sister who had left him and his parents to go seek her star when he'd been too young to understand her sudden, inexplicable absence from his life.
"You don't have to go see her, if you don't want to."
"I know. I want to. That really isn't why I'm angry." Wedge signed. "I agree with Fey'lya of all people. The proposed peace is awfully lenient. Are we letting the dead down if I go make nice with the highest-ranking people in the Empire?"
"Even if some of them are family?" Iella wrapped her arm around his waist, leaning against his side and brushing her lips against his cheek. "It's natural to be mad at her. It's normal to feel weird about all of this. But can I give you some advice?"
"We're getting married, Iella. A big part of that decision was based on how good your advice is."
She smiled and kissed his cheek again. "You can be mad. At Pellaeon, at Daala. But just for today, let's not be mad at Fel or Syal. Let's go see your sister. Go meet our family. Don't carry the rest of it. I'll be right there with you when her ship docks."
The abandoned kid he had once been wanted to scream and stomp his feet and complain about how unfair it all was. But Wedge wasn't that boy anymore.
"They say first impressions are everything, Antilles," Iella said with a smile. "And you still have to mingle with the Imps and your nieces and nephews." She gave him a hip bump. "You may not like it, but you need to get back in that dress uniform."
"If I didn't know better," Wedge said, somewhat playfully, "I'd think you just liked the uniform, but everyone with a dram of good taste agrees it's a fashion disaster. I think you just like watching me change."
"Guilty as charged." Iella's prosthetic wrist whirred as she made a get on with it gesture.
The circular table at the heart of Garm Bel Iblis' primary conference room was large enough to seat the entire New Republic Inner Council. It had been intended for exactly that purpose: a place for the political leaders of the New Republic to meet in the event that negotiations had to take place off Coruscant during a crisis. It was temperate, with the climate intended to make every inhabitant of the room comfortable enough to avoid unnecessary irritations.
Leia let her eyes trail around the table, evaluating each of the people present.
The entire New Republic Inner Council was not present. Who would represent the New Republic had been a difficult battle even within the highest levels of its government, but ultimately five people had been selected. Mon Mothma would, of course, lead the delegation, with Leia as her primary deputy. Councilors Ackbar and Fey'lya, whose peoples had contributed the largest military forces—and who had suffered, as a consequence, the most serious losses—at the Battle of Corellia would be next. The final representative was Kerrithrarr, whose role was simple: no people had suffered as much, or as long, as the Wookiees had. Their long enslavement was known to all, as was the grudge they carried. No one doubted that if Kerrithrarr was satisfied with the final terms, all but the most recalcitrant, most bitter fighters would accept them—at least a first.
No one expected Leia to carry the same kind of grudge, despite her own losses.
The Empire brought five representatives, though only the first two really mattered. Everyone at the table knew that Grand Moff Ferrouz and Baron Soontir Fel would lead the Empire—even if it was not entirely clear which of them was actually in charge. Accompanying them were Admirals Pellaeon and Daala, who both sat silent and blank-faced on the flanks of their political leadership. Only Daala had spoken during the long hours of the day's negotiations, and she had only spoken briefly to confirm that she had, in fact, executed every member of the Imperial hierarchy that she could get her hands on. Not for crimes against the galaxy, or because of any loyalty to the New Republic, or even out of personal animus, but simply because she had concluded that they had betrayed their oaths to the Empire.
The last member of the Imperial delegation was a newly-minted Moff named Ephin Sarreti.
Young, handsome and personable, thought Leia. This former ISB officer is one to watch.
"The reconstituted Council of Moffs," Sarreti said, "is empowered by Imperial law to revise the structure of Imperial government. Under my leadership, and with permission from Grand Moff Ferrouz, we have proposed the following reforms. First, we intend to restore the Imperial Senate. As was the case with the Imperial Senate prior to its dissolution, each Sector will elect a Senator to serve. Legislation passed through the Imperial Senate will be affirmed and implemented by the Imperial Government, led by the Grand Moff, who will be selected by the Senate and can be removed via a vote of no confidence by the Senate."
That was, in essence, a recreation of the previous Imperial model… though the Moffs serving at the whim of the Senate, rather than the whims of the Emperor, was a novel adaptation, Leia thought. It was not dissimilar to the New Republic's own process for the selection of its Head of State—though both were clearly based on the Old Republic's process for choosing a Chancellor.
Ferrouz looked at Baron Fel. "To accommodate the UREF into the new Empire, we propose that Baron Fel be crowned Emperor—"
"I accepted the title of Baron of the Empire when I was young and had no choice," Fel cut in, voice low and vicious. "You are not going to crown me Emperor now that I do."
"Baron Fel will be crowned Emperor," Ferrouz continued raggedly, "but the position will be largely ceremonial. He will have the right to consult with the Grand Moff, but his authority will be exclusive to the autonomous territories of the UREF, until such time as they are integrated as Sectors into the Empire."
"My existing objection remains." Borsk Fey'lya pronounced with affected gravitas; the shameless opportunist was still riding high on the laurels he had received for his role in the Battle of Corellia. His large, furred finger jutted out towards the Imperials at the far side of the table. "There are many in the New Republic who see the continued existence of the Empire as a threat and an insult. My honorable fellow Kerrithrar and his people, Councilor Ackbar and his people, Councilor Organa Solo and her people… we have all suffered at the hands of 'the Empire.' It remaining on the map is itself an affront to the memory of all those who died because 'the Empire' decided they should."
What had previously been a rather calm, well-mannered meeting, one which had hammered out most of the details of a formal peace, the obligations of both the Empire and the New Republic, disintegrated into acrimony. On the Imperial side of the table, Fel was half standing, his hands flexing the synth-wood in front of him, voice growing in volume. Ferrouz was already at his feet, hands held up in a placating gesture.
"Enough." Mon Mothma's calm voice cut through the din, silencing them all. "Be seated," she instructed firmly. She turned towards Fel first. "Baron Fel, if I understand it, you already have all the powers that this settlement proposes to give you. The Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force's territories are under effective military rule, and you are the senior officer, correct?"
"That's correct," he affirmed, his hands slackening. "Our worlds have not been settled for very long, but they were all settled by Thrawn's orders with the intent that they serve as military depots. I have not been in charge of them for long enough to change that yet, though I have seen some proposals for reforms."
"Then your objection is not the power that this arrangement seeks to give you, merely the title?"
"Emperor is not a mere title," Fel growled.
"It would seem that you and Councilor Fey'lya agree," Mon Mothma said, a small smile creasing her lips. "I believe I have a solution to both dilemmas. Instead of promoting Baron Fel to Emperor, perhaps the Empire should simply be re-titled and scaled back to a Barony."
Silence ruled. Fey'lya leaned back in his chair with an amused, toothy smile. "I would find this… acceptable," he decreed. "Conditional upon the Barony keeping all the other obligations it has already agreed to, of course."
"Councilor Kerrithrarr?" Mon Mothma asked.
The Wookiee was silent for a long moment, then barked a simple reply.
"Councilor Kerrithrarr would also agree," Threepio translated.
Ferrouz looked around the table at the people sitting on his side. Pellaeon and Daala's expressions were flat and emotionless, though Leia thought she could see just a hint of tension at the corner of Pellaeon's mouth. Sarreti seemed downright amused, like he could barely keep himself from laughing. Fel was the only one who looked truly contemplative.
"Baron Fel?" Mon Mothma probed.
"This would still mean making my children heirs to an Empire, whatever we end up calling it," Fel growled. "Neither I nor my wife will countenance making them any kind of royalty and putting that kind of a target on their backs."
"The title does not have to be inherited," Sarreti proposed. "The UREF territories could select a Baron based on any criteria they deem acceptable. You would have no direct control over the rest of the Emp—Barony. And if we integrate the entire UREF into the… Barony… during your lifetime, the title may not even be necessary beyond it."
"I will be a custodian only," Fel said, and rubbed his face. "Custodians sweep up all kinds of nasty messes, and I will handle this one… on the condition that my wife agrees to this arrangement, when she arrives."
"That leaves just you, Grand Moff," Mon Mothma said.
Ferrouz gazed back at Mon Mothma. "You realize what this will mean," he said quietly. "There will be many millions of people in my territories that object to everything in this agreement. They will reject the idea that Palpatine was anything other than a well-meaning hero. They will claim that the New Republic is illegitimate. They will say that we have been demeaned and degraded, they will hold on to their hatreds. What you see as simple worldplay that will reassure your own peoples, to mine will be a symbol of all they have lost."
"Until it becomes a symbol of all they have gained," Mon Mothma countered.
"Gained what, exactly?"
The words came from the white-uniformed woman sitting on the Imperial side of the table. Grand Admiral Daala was, as far as Leia was concerned, the single most unpredictable element in the room.
"A chance at peace, with your lives and liberties," Mon Mothma returned, with a glacial calm that almost made Leia overlook the fact that her words constituted a threat. "Liberties the people of the Barony have been deprived of since the declaration of Empire, just like everyone else in the galaxy."
Daala's eyes flashed. Mon Mothma merely raised a single eyebrow an infinitesimally small distance higher. "Or you can go back to your ships, and we can go back to ours, and more good people can die to end in precisely the same place."
And so the implicit threat became explicit, Leia thought with satisfaction.
Daala looked away first, as Fel raised a hand. "Grand Admiral Daala, there is no need to send more good officers and crew to their deaths. The New Order would do so without a second thought, but be rest assured: the Grand Moff and I realize that the lives of the people fighting on the Empire's behalf have value, too."
Slowly, Daala sank back into her chair, then nodded her assent.
Ferrouz folded his arms across his chest as he leaned back in his chair. "I realize that if we fought a unified New Republic, we would lose. But I also realize that if we lost, the only thing that would really change for the Empire would be that you were in charge of the reconstruction, instead of us." He pressed his lips together. "I don't know which of us has the better chance of success," he admitted. "But if we start trying now, at least no more people need to die fighting, and I think a revolution, or evolution, is preferable to an occupation." He offered a thin smile. "And if I didn't believe in my own ability to rule, I would never have become a Moff in the first place."
Han Solo most decidedly did not belong at major diplomatic events, but there was no way to avoid this one. It was bad enough he was Leia's husband and as such was expected to attend the things. This time he also had the misfortune of having commanded the joint fleet that destroyed the World Devastator over his homeworld. Maybe when he'd been a teenager he would have enjoyed the wall-to-wall, all-encompassing adoration that made even the celebrations after Yavin look tame, but he wasn't a teenager, he was a husband with kids and he really, really just wanted to go back to Coruscant to see them. Chewie was both extraordinarily irritable at having been reduced to babysitting and extremely relieved that Han and Leia had survived and he wouldn't have to raise Jacen and Jaina himself, and Han really, really wanted to get home to relieve the poor Wookiee from his duties, catch up with his best friend, and shower his kids in hugs and kisses.
But he was stuck.
If he couldn't go home, then Han would have much preferred to be around Karrde. He'd had a chance to reconnect with Kyp, who had been present at both Poln Major and Corellia as part of the Wild Karrde's crew. The kid felt a lot older than he had when Han and Mara had sent him off with Karrde—more experienced, calmer, and more sure of himself. He'd even started taking on some of Karrde's mannerisms, though he didn't quite have Karrde's gravitas. Spending more time with Kyp was far, far higher on Han's priority list.
Gonna have to kidnap the kid from Karrde for a family visit after this, he mused.
But whatever Han wanted, the fact remained that he was stuck at this soiree.
Pretty much everyone wore a uniform or formal wear and—reluctantly—Han was still in uniform too. He had managed to loosen his collar and lose most of his medals, but not the rank pins Wedge had given him.
Garm's rank pins remained fixed to his uniform jacket, and they hung heavy there.
This was something of a problem for everyone, because Wedge putting him in command of the fleet had not exactly respected regulations… but no one seemed willing to point that out, not even Fey'lya.
The Bothan is too busy taking his victory lap. No need to make a fuss right now, I suppose, Han thought. Besides, in a fight between Wedge and Fey'lya, Wedge would win every time, and Fey'lya knows it.
"Whyren's?" Wedge asked him, offering him a tumbler of amber liquid with a promising peaty smell.
Han shook his head. "No. The last thing I need is to get drunk, forget we're here at a peace conference, and deck an Imperial Admiral." He nodded at a figure standing distantly behind Wedge. "Like that one, for instance."
Wedge turned around. He and the admiral in question, Gilad Pellaeon, made inadvertent eye contact. This was probably the first time they had ever stood in the same room, Han mused as the older man put down his glass and approached the pair of New Republic officers.
Wedge drank off the tumbler in one smooth pull and set it aside.
"General Antilles," Pellaeon greeted Wedge. "And General Solo. My compliments on your efforts at the Battle of Corellia. You both fought well."
"It was do or die," Han said darkly. "We did."
"War always is, General Solo," Pellaeon countered. "Not every man is capable of doing what they have to in those kinds of moments. You both have repeatedly proven that you are those kinds of men." Pellaeon turned to Wedge. "I understand congratulations are in order, General. You are to be married?"
Wedge's lips pressed together. That secret had proven impossible to keep after Iella and the others had been rescued by Termagant and was currently dominating Corellian—and probably galactic—sludgenews, especially given the wounds both Iella and Wedge had suffered defending their homeworld. "Soon," he agreed curtly.
Pellaeon's awkwardness might have been cute, Han reflected, had he not been an Imperial officer. "I chose not to pursue longer term relationships," the Admiral said. "There was never time for it."
"You have to make the time, or you miss out." Wedge said. Han could see the tired irritation on Wedge's face, but also the relief in his next words. "I've already informed A'baht that I'll be retiring as soon as I've had time to train a replacement commander for Fifth Fleet."
"It's about time," Han exulted, with clear relief. "You've needed to get out for at least a year."
Wedge laughed softly. "I know," he admitted. "But I couldn't, not with the war. Not when someone else would have had to take over. But now, with Iella's injury and Corellia free, we have the opportunity to go home again and recover. I've already been offered a job with the planetary reconstruction bureau. Coronet in particular is going to need a lot of repair."
"Gonna take it?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, I wish you the best, General," Pellaeon said, the words stilted and formal, like he wasn't quite sure what to say. "I'm looking forward to the end of the war myself. There hasn't been an extended period of peace…" he shook his head, as if uncertain, but Han suspected that really Pellaeon did not want to say out loud that there had not been peace since the Rebellion started. "In many years."
Wedge was not amused. "I wish you peace and a very long life, Admiral. If there's any justice in the galaxy, you'll see the faces of all the young men and women who died believing in you when you try to sleep every night."
Han glanced between the two of them in the resulting silence.
Pellaeon was unnaturally still, but that was not unusual—Han had been trained to stand thus at Carida, though it had never taken. His expression was not: The old man looked like Wedge had just scooped out his insides with a few well-chosen words. Still, as Han watched, Pellaeon forced himself to relax.
"And you, Antilles?" Pellaeon finally said. "Will you see yours?"
Wedge gave a small nod, not taking his eyes off of Pellaeon. "I already do. I'll carry them with me until the day I die."
"The best do," Pellaeon replied, his tone oddly without recrimination. "When I joined the Judicial Forces, I was told that good soldiers must love the armed forces. When I trained as an officer, I was told that the good officers must be willing to order the death of the thing they love to achieve a greater purpose." He paused, then nodded. "By my lights, General, you've achieved your purpose."
Wedge shook his head. "Why are you trying to make me feel better?" he asked, sounding genuinely baffled. "I never went to any academy. I hopped into a starfighter as a teenager and haven't stopped fighting since."
"Being able to lead men into battle is a rare talent," Pellaeon said. "Rarer still is knowing when to stop."
"Are you going to be retiring yourself, then?" Wedge asked.
The question seemed to take Pellaeon genuinely aback, like he hadn't even considered it. He did not have a chance to answer the question either, because one of the few people in the room who was wearing neither a uniform nor fancy wear approached, accompanied by the familiar burnished metal form of Goldenrod.
Kerrithrarr's enormous, furred form loomed even over Han and Pellaeon, both of whom were quite tall. The Wookiee ruffled Han's hair, a gesture for more intimate friend-family, nodded a warm, if somewhat stiff, greeting to Wedge, but his attention was clearly on Pellaeon. He rumbled, a low sound in his native tongue.
"Admiral Pellaeon, Councilor Kerrithrarr offers you a respectful greeting. On behalf of the New Republic Inner Council and the New Republic Senate, as well as the people of the New Republic and of Kashyyyk, his world of origin, he wishes to thank you for your efforts during the Battle of Corellia."
Han considered interrupting. Threepio's translation wasn't exactly precise—there was a fair bit more respect in the translation than the Councilor had deliberately conveyed. Plus, Kerrithrarr had put a bit more emphasis on 'Kashyyyk' than Threepio's translation had suggested.
Pellaeon stood tall, folding his arms behind his back. "Councilor Kerrithrarr," he said, not quite stumbling. "Thank you."
Kerrithrarr growled. His tone was remarkably neutral, without accusation, but there was without a doubt a clear tone of challenge in each articulated syllable.
"The esteemed Councilor wishes to confirm an aspect of your service record, Admiral," Threepio said apologetically. "Your record indicates that you have served aboard Chimaera for a long time. That includes service under the late Captain Calo Drusan?"
Pellaeon's discomfort was growing. Han, realizing where this conversation was going, wasn't about to let him off the hook. "The Councilor doesn't really care about Drusan," Han said bluntly. "Whoever he was. What he wants to know is if you served on Chimaera during the slave raids."
To his credit, Pellaeon did not flinch, nor did he attempt to equivocate or correct Han's terminology. "Yes, I did."
Threepio resumed his translation. "As part of the formal peace between the New Republic and the Barony, the New Republic has agreed to pardon certain crimes committed by former-Imperial officers who came to Corellia's aid. Your crimes against the people of Kashyyyk are among them, and the esteemed Councilor assures you that his people will respect the terms of the peace agreement, as long as they are respected by the Barony."
Pellaeon's expression stayed the same remarkable stone.
"However," Threepio continued, in that same prim voice, "in the spirit of the new peace agreement, the Councilor wishes to extend to you a personal invitation. If you agree, he will host you in his home on Kashyyyk for a period of time, determined by you. The purpose of this visit would be to correct misperceptions about the nature of Wookiees that were spread by Imperial propagandists."
Han scoffed. "And," he drawled, "for you to spend some time working with the Reunion and Reconciliation board, helping them track down and return—or account for—every single slave taken by the Empire." He inclined a finger. "At the very least the ones who were carried off on Chimaera."
Kerrithrarr had not said that, and Threepio looked quite taken aback. Kerrithrarr, however, merely offered a slightly-toothy smile.
Pellaeon opened his mouth to say something, but whatever he was about to say vanished as Wedge's comlink buzzed. Wedge—his expression apologetic—snatched it up. "Antilles."
"General, the Baronal transport has arrived in-system and is maneuvering to dock with Garm Bel Iblis now. Expected arrival in ten minutes," said Needa's calm voice.
"I'm on my way," Wedge said. He clicked his comlink off. "Gentlemen, Han, I'm afraid I must be going. Councilor, Admiral." His eyes met Han's, very clearly saying that later he would demand to find out what happened after he left, and then he turned and headed for the exit at a crisp pace.
Pellaeon, somewhat shaken, watched him go.
"The Councilor does not require your answer now, Admiral," Threepio reassured Pellaeon. "But when you wish to either accept or decline his offer, he would appreciate you doing so in person."
"Of course," Pellaeon said stiffly.
Han found himself alone once again. Kerrithrarr and Threepio headed in the direction of the representatives from Duros, while Pellaeon had slumped into a chair near a flatscreen that displayed images from a variety of scenic locations within the New Republic. It took Han a minute—and the memory of a conversation with Leia—to realize that those images were all from locations which had been destroyed during the war, and he wondered how long it would take Pellaeon to notice.
The Imperials present were making an effort to mingle with their New Republic counterparts, but there were many either sitting separately together or sitting alone. One in particular stood out, notable not only for the white Grand Admiral's uniform she wore but also for the fact that she was one of the few women in Imperial uniform present.
Memories of the academy coming back, Han headed for the nearest bar, grabbed a pair of lomin-ales that he might have drank during his academy days, and headed in Daala's direction. "Hey, Tossie," he greeted.
Her hand leapt to the empty holster at her hip, but she relaxed as she recognized him. "Solo," she replied, her expression faintly amused. "General Solo, even."
"For the moment." He handed her one of the ales and took a seat across from her, propping his boots up on the table between them before taking a sip of the bubbly, slightly bitter brew. He winced as he did, wondering if his palette had become a bit too refined as a consequence of his association with Leia. "You outrank me, though."
She shook her head. "Grand Admiral," she said softly, taking another sip of her ale, a longer one this time. She put the bottle down, still shaking her head. "And Fel is becoming Emperor."
"Of the three of us, which do you think our instructors would have most objected to?"
"Before or after you got kicked out?" She smirked and took another long sip of her ale, then winced. "This is terrible. I haven't had lomin-ale since…" her expression tightened and she exhaled deeply.
"Since Tarkin," Han finished.
Daala pursed her lips and took another sip of her ale.
Han took his feet off the table and sat up, placing his own ale on the table. "Is it true that you personally shot Moff Dekeet?"
Her eyes were cool. "Do you think I wouldn't?"
"Aw c'mon. I remember the academy, Tossie. I know you would."
"At least you learned something before they cashiered you." She took another long sip of her ale, leaning back in her chair. "I was surprised when I heard your name after Yavin, but not that surprised. You always had a habit of turning up in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"You did too," Han countered. "Usually because you were bashing heads in."
"Not always, though."
Han decided it was safe enough to tread onto somewhat more dangerous ground. "I kept track of you, when I could. There wasn't a lot after Yavin, though. Your name just kinda disappeared, and if I did hear anything it was rumors off on the distant rim, bashing pirate heads. I always wondered if you might end up in a Rebel uniform someday. Such as they were."
She heard the unspoken question. "Spit it out, Slick."
She had always been impatient with smalltalk. "Why did you do it? Turn on the Empire, bring your ships to help Corellia? Just a few weeks ago you were on the other side, attacking Corellia and Coruscant."
"What do you want me to say?" Daala asked, her smile vanishing. "I saw the light? The Rebels were right all along?"
Han raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just curious, is all."
She watched him for a moment. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair and took another long drink of her lomin-ale. "We were both orphans, Solo," she finally said. "But you had your Wookiees. I had the Fleet."
"The Fleet exiled you."
Daala's eyes flashed. "So what? The fleet pulled me out of a nothing orphanage on a nothing world. Sure, the fleet gave me some… bad superiors, but it gave me some good ones, too, and some superb subordinates. The fleet gave me a home." She inclined a finger at him. "Everyone who actually has a family always complains about the relatives they don't like, but they're still family, aren't they?"
"Not always," Han muttered darkly.
"Well, the fleet might not be perfect, but it's still the fleet. And our leadership never cared about us. We were just tools to be used and discarded when they didn't need us anymore. How many of us died because of their idiotic machinations? How many more of us died because they decided we were better off with a metal chassis?" That last sentence had been spoken with barely controlled rage, quickly suppressed. She inclined her finger at him. "You, the renegade. Always saying 'no' to your superiors, to authority. And just once I decide to say no and you get all confused." She shook her head. "What was it you said that night at the Academy? 'I'm not afraid to say no if the Lieutenants are idiots?'"
Han snorted. "I was young and stupid." He shook his head. "There is no way I left enough of an impression on any woman in my life that she'd remember some throwaway boast when we were both drunk on bad ale two decades later."
"You're married to the second-most powerful woman in the Galaxy and just commanded the fleet that saved Corellia. Ably, too. You've made a strong impression on plenty of people, Solo."
Han decided not to follow up that particular line of conversation. He changed the topic back. "So that's it?" Han asked, genuinely curious and a bit thrown. "You changed sides to protect the fleet?"
"I didn't change sides. I'm on the same side I was yesterday. The fleet's."
He waited, wondering if she would say more, but she didn't. She just took another sip of her ale, turning the bottle in her hands, and he sat there with her for a long moment.
"Speakin' of Wookiees and family, Chewie's back on Coruscant, looking after my kids," he finally said, deciding to fill the silence. "Wanna see some holos?"
Garm Bel Iblis had multiple hangar bays. One was meant for its starfighter squadrons, and another was meant for other military transports. A third was reserved for diplomats, particularly foreign diplomats, who might not be permitted in the two military facilities. Wedge had never been inside the diplomatic hangar—he'd never been aboard Garm before Iella had been moved there, after all—and it was evident that Mon Cals had rushed the warship into service.
It was also obvious that the ship's name had been a last second decision. The ship's original name, Defiance, was still traced on the wall. Despite his nervousness, Wedge couldn't help a fond grin. Admiral, I sure hope I never have to learn to play politics the way you have.
"Nervous?"
Wedge turned to face his brother-in-law. "Are you? I'm not the one who has just been made head of state, pending my wife's approval." He glanced around. Walking in behind Soontir were stormtroopers of the 501st, an honor guard which had been accompanying Fel everywhere for the last day. On the other side of the room, Kapp Dendo and the survivors of the New Republic commando team that had infiltrated the World Devastator lined up with parade-perfect formations.
Soontir winced. "A fair point," he conceded. He glanced around. "How is Iella?"
"She's recovering." His voice faded and he sighed. "It can be hard to tell, you know?
"I do."
Wedge looked at him sideways. "How do you feel about the new arrangement?"
"Which part? The Empire's demotion to Barony, or my installation as potentially-hereditary 'Baron'?"
"Either. Both."
Soontir lowered his voice, stepping closer to Wedge and leaning down towards him. "I already defected from the Empire once. Demoting it to a Barony is not a hardship for me, though Ferrouz's concerns are well-founded. But I can promise you this, Wedge—I have absolutely no intention of allowing my children to be put on any throne."
"That's reassuring. I'd hate for my nephew to be stuck with a crown he didn't want."
"Then how do you think I feel about it being my son?" Soontir shook his head. "I never wanted any of this. I'd be happier going back home to the farm."
On either side of them, the Baronal and New Republican honor guards braced to attention. Through the doors behind them walked Iella Wessiri, dressed in a very-civilian outfit. She waved at Kapp, a playful, finger-wagging wage that showed off her very-functional artificial hand.
"Oh good," said Soontir. "You arrived in time. Another minute and I was going to see if I could find Wes Janson to bring you here. At the party he said he was off trying to find an Ewok pilot? But this is more important. I'm sure I could have wrangled him."
"Sir Baron." Iella stopped in front of him, performing a curtsey that could have come right out of the Imperial court at its height—despite her lack of the proper formal attire. "I wouldn't miss it for all the ryshcate on Corellia."
The hangar intercom piped to life. "Baronal Transport arriving!"
Wedge had expected something classically-Imperial, perhaps from the same design lineage as the Lively-class 'frigates' that the UREF had contributed to the battle. Gleaming black hull plating and a triangular shape, probably comfortable for its passengers and hopelessly cramped for its crew. Impossible to do maintenance on.
It wasn't.
The ship that came through the blue forcefield that kept the atmosphere in and the void out was a YT-1760, as Corellian (and old) as Crix Madine. It was painted in a nondescript beige… except for the somewhat conspicuous red stripes on the sides.
It had a name painted on the hull too, and Wedge smiled in amusement despite himself as Zippy Zena settled into its assigned berth perfectly, hydraulics and thrusters hissing their final post-landing adjustments.
Mom would have loved it. She always did appreciate the YT-series. And with those quad lasers and low-profile missile launchers, its teeth are almost as sharp as hers were.
Then, slowly, the ramp began to lower.
Wedge had an odd urge to jog forward to greet the arriving passengers. It had been… hells, it had been two decades since he'd last seen his sister. If he was being honest with himself, there had been many days—most days—when he'd never really expected to see her again.
At the top of the ramp was Syal. She did not look like an Empress at first glance, or even a Baroness. Dressed more like a Corellian smuggler, she too wore a battered flight jacket. Swirling around her in various orbits were five children of various ages and excitement, from the tiniest one in the arms of a top of the line nanny droid, to the oldest, a boy aged around ten, standing in the back.
His sister looked much as she had in the holomessage, somewhat older than he remembered from her films, with a certain exasperated weariness that appeared to come less from being Baroness and more trying to manage four children on a family trip across the spacelanes. Then her eyes met his and her face lost all its practiced poise. They stared at each other for a long moment.
"Daddy, daddy!"
The middle children charged down the ramp at full-tilt. A son and daughter hit Soontir one after another, full of sudden excitement, and the Baron knelt down and came up with his daughter in his arms, his son latched to his leg. "This one is Cherith," he introduced Wedge and Iella with a grin; the brown-haired, blue-eyed Cherith matched Soontir's with her own. "Hi!"
"Hi!" Iella responded brightly. "That's your Uncle Wedge, and I'm Iella. I'm going to be your auntie!"
Cherith seemed very excited by this news. Soontir pointed down to his leg, and the human limpet anchored there. "That one's Jagged."
Syal was next to them now, still looking at Wedge as if she was afraid he'd vanish if she looked away. She cleared her through. "This is Cem," she introduced the toddler the nanny droid was carrying. "And the shy one in the back is Chak."
"Hello, sir."
Wedge found his heart in his throat. He had known that Syal had named one of her sons after their father, but meeting them all still set his world on an entirely new tilt. That experience was only made stranger because Chak, the eldest of the children, was the spitting image of Wedge's father.
Syal flung herself into Wedge's arms. Surprised, Wedge hugged her back, initial uncertainty fading into the memory of hugs shared as children. When she pulled back, her eyes were watery with tears and he knew that his were not far behind. There was a quiver in her lip, a hesitation and uncertainty.
"I never stopped looking for you," Wedge murmured.
That quiver grew. "With Isard and her agents… we couldn't be found. And then Thrawn…" Syal's voice was thick. "I heard that you were shot down in the battle. You're all right?"
Wedge fidgeted. "More a controlled crash than a clean shoot-down. I got my fighter clear of the city, then my droid ejected me."
"I'm so glad you're alive, Wedge." She took a breath. "I don't know what I would've done… to get so close and then lose you again…"
Wedge gathered Syal into a fresh hug. Iella was right— however betrayed and alone he had felt when she left, this was his sister and her children. They were family, returned to him when he'd thought them gone forever. He took the old anger and put it away, unsure if it would ever come out again, and embraced his sister tight. "I missed you too, Sya," he said, burying his nose in her neck. "I missed you, too."
How many years had it been, Gilad Pellaeon wondered, since he had signed up to join the Republic's Judicial Forces? At least forty years, he knew. With a bit of effort, he could probably recall the exact day he had joined.
He went back in his memory, tracing year after year of the eternity that was his service record. No, he thought. No, there was no one moment things had changed. Sure, the Judicial Forces had become the Republic Armed Forces, and the Armed Forces had become the Imperial Starfleet, but those changes had been cosmetic only. The uniforms had changed, the titles had changed, but the service had been the same.
Hadn't it?
The Judicial Forces never ordered me to bombard a planet. The Republic Armed Forces never ordered me to carry captives to labor camps.
Pellaeon rubbed his cheeks with his hands, smoothing his mustache down in a gesture of uncertainty only permitted in private.
He was under no obligation to accept Kerrithrarr's offer. He didn't have to go back to Kashyyyk. He could retire, as Antilles had suggested, and settle on one of the UREF's worlds in the Unknown Regions. Or get a job teaching at one of the academies that would replace Carida. Or just stay in command of Chimaera in the service of the Barony. Whatever crimes the New Republic believed him guilty of, they had agreed not to prosecute him as part of the peace arrangement.
But the knowledge that they thought him a criminal cut him deeply. He had always done his best to ensure that none of the accidents that happened elsewhere in the Empire would happen under his watch. Not on his ship!
Kerrithrarr's alien gaze had been hard for Pellaeon to read, but Solo's had been anything but. His very human eyes had been filled with accusation, as cold as Antilles' gaze burned hot, and even as Pellaeon wanted to rise up and object, to argue in his own defense, he thought back to when he'd been a younger man, overseeing the transports that came from Kashyyyk's surface and vanished into Chimaera's hangar bay.
Cargo collection. Cargo delivery.
His brain started firing off excuses. He hadn't been in command. He had just been following orders. He hadn't really known. Even if he had, his objections would have fallen on deaf ears. But he took each one of those excuses and he boxed them up and put them away, someplace else, refusing to fall back upon them.
In their place was left only the guilt.
A few minutes later, he found Kerrithrarr, talking with a diverse group of aliens who had fought in the battle. They all stopped and turned to look at him as he approached. He kept his back parade straight. "Councilor Kerrithrarr. Upon consideration of your offer, and in the interest of justice, I have decided to accept. I will need time to prepare the fleet to operate in my absence and to schedule an extended leave, but I will be in contact to finalize a schedule."
The wookiee's surprise was obvious, but that surprise was rapidly matched by a perhaps grudging respect as he bark-growled a low, solemn reply.
"The Councilor is very pleased to hear that, Admiral," the golden protocol droid accompanying Kerrithrarr said. "He believes that the experience will be enlightening for you both."