Fliry Vorru had not returned to his villa outside of Coronet since the Battle of Corellia. He had enjoyed the frivolous excess of it, the casual luxury, and he would miss the gardens, but the villa had not felt safe since his encounter with a certain representative of the Corellian resistance. The villa had largely avoided damage during the attacks on the city—the World Devastator and its air wing had concentrated on bombing city centers, rendering entire districts into ruin (a fact which Vorru intended to capitalize on by proposing to reconst the city with huge, sweeping boulevards rather than its previous cul-de-sacs and dead ends)—which meant that it retained impressive resale value… but still, he had no intent to return.

He had spent many hours since the battle carefully insinuating himself in the new corridors of power on Corellia. Vorru's fortune was immense, and doling that wealth out through carefully-concealed donations to the new political factions was a small price to pay for future influence. He didn't dare go near Councilor Midanyl, and he knew CorSec was very aware of his presence on Corellia and his interests, but that was all part of the game, and it was a game that Vorru played very well.

Which made his current guest particularly interesting.

"We can do great things together," Thrackan Sal-Solo said. He sat across from Vorru at the center of a sound-baffled cargo container, looking like a man unaccustomed to being on the wrong end of a vibroblade but quite accustomed to holding one on other people. The former—perhaps current—leader of one of the more prominent pro-Imperial popular militia groups, had approached Vorru through back-channels, requesting a meeting. "We cannot allow traitors like Midanyl to sell our home back to the Republic. They'll bleed us dry!"

Vorru couldn't help but shake his head at the man. Sal-Solo had a superficial resemblance to his relative, General Han Solo, whose command of the fleet that defended Corellia had turned him (once again) into one of their shared homeworld's most loved celebrities. Solo had spent the last week giving interviews with both New Republic and Corellian news outlets where his clear annoyance with stupid questions and passionate advocacy for the proposed peace between the New Republic and Grand Moff Ferrouz's Empire made a few people question why he hadn't sought out politics. Solo always looked uncomfortable in those interviews, which lent him an odd sort of authenticity. He certainly never looked as sausage-squeezed as Sal-Solo currently looked in the tight, Imperial-style collar of his semi-military militia uniform.

"As I understand it, Corellia's admission into the New Republic is under discussion, but not currently being considered," Vorru pointed out calmly. "Corellia needs to organize its new government first, both for the planet and for the system, before it could even be eligible. The new provisional government has declined to be represented by Councilor Midanyl."

"For now!" Sal-Solo retorted. "But just you wait. If we let this get started it'll be much harder to stop it later." He held his hands up, his expression turning almost pleading. It was probably an expression he thought was persuasive, or at least ingratiating to his betters. "Corellia under the Old Republic was a corrupt nightmare. We had to put up with catering to the interests of the alien trash of the galaxy—"

Vorru's lips pressed together with irritation, but he let Thrackan dig himself in deeper

"—and all our wealth was sucked into Coruscant. It glittered while we were impoverished."

There was some truth to that at least. If Eliezer were here, Vorru suspected that the Drall would actually agree with Thrackan on that one point. But Thrackan's previous point would have more than sufficed to destroy any good will the Drall might have had towards Sal-Solo.

Vorru hadn't told Eliezer about this meeting. His old friend lacked the stomach for some of the more painful necessities of their business. And blood was awfully hard to get out of Drall fur.

"You were the Empire's Moff," Thrackan continued. "You served the Emperor. You were an agent of his New Order. So was I, in my own way. If we work together, we can keep it from being destroyed, we can keep Corellia from falling back into decay—"

Finally Vorru had enough. He held up his hand, one finger pointing into the air. Sal-Solo's voice cut short. "You have made one fundamental miscalculation, Thrackan."

Thrackan's expression was part petulant and part surprised.

"I don't care about the Empire. I never cared about the Empire." Vorru leaned in, his hands resting on the bare durasteel desk. "I wanted power, Thrackan. I wanted influence, I wanted the wealth that comes from influence. I used that wealth and influence to improve life on Corellia for everyone… myself included. But service to the Empire was not about my values, or my ideology. It was the only available path to power." He leaned back, steepling his hands together as he gazed at Thrackan. "The Empire is not a path to anything anymore. It certainly is not a path to power. We must all change as the times do."

"I'm a patriot," Thrackan retorted. "I am trying secure the future of Corellia, for true Corellians."

"If you were trying to do what is good for Corellia, you and your militias would have stood down when I told them to. I paid you to keep your forces under control. You were an asset who didn't stay bribed. That's worse than an honest cop."

It seemed to dawn on Thrackan all at once that he was in a great deal more trouble than he had realized. His eyes glanced from side to side; the two, blank-faced Black Sun professionals who served as Vorru's permanent bodyguards standing at the edges of his peripheral vision did not make eye contact.

"I know better than you what is good for Corellia," Vorru continued. "What's good for Corellia is good for me, and for my associates. And right now what is good for my associates is stability. Something the Empire has not been able to provide in a long, long time. Fighting for the Empire's return will create only more chaos."

"You were a Grand Moff of the Empire!" Thrackan's voice was rasp with indignant outrage.

"Was," Vorru agreed. "And I made so many friends that even Palpatine himself dared not kill me. But that title means nothing now. Now I am Underlord."

Sal-Solo's breathing started to sound more like hyperventilating. "I have money. I have property on a dozen worlds in the sector, hidden and secured. If you let me go I'll give you all of it and go into exile, you'll never hear from me again."

Vorru's smile cut like a knife. "Oh, Thrackan. You'll give them to me anyway."

The small Imperial formation that remained in orbit of Corellia for the negotiations included only three ships. At the center of the formation was Pellaeon's Chimaera, which grew steadily through the windows of the shuttle that carried Asori Rogriss from her own Termagant, which guarded Chimaera's starboard flank. To Chimaera's port was Stormhawk, which had remained more because it was no longer capable of independent movement than out of any political statement. Chimaera continued to keep its tractors locked on Stormhawk to ensure that its orbit did not degrade, while Corellian and UREF repair teams worked diligently on her engines to restore the ship's ability to move independently.

But not her wrecked weapon emplacements or shattered shields.

The New Republic formation that remained was far larger. Most worlds had called their fleets home, but dozens of vessels remained. The mass of the Bothan Home fleet had yet to depart, though a small detachment had returned. Asori was sure its ongoing presence was meant as a political statement, but she wasn't sure what that statement was.

Likewise, Ackbar's Garm Bel Iblis remained, in formation with Lusankya and Areta Bell. Among them was Commodore Tabanne's Mirage Formation, including Rendili Vigil. Asori had spent more time than she cared to admit tracking the state of the Mareschal-class Escort Carrier, and lamented the fact that Vigil had officially been declared beyond repair… but that had not made a dent in her soaring sense of relief that Vigil's commanding officer was confirmed alive. The ship, and some of her crew was lost, but at least Atril was not.

Well. There was time enough to worry about all that later.

Chimaera's tower docking bay was busy. Diplomatic transports were constantly flowing in and out—no doubt to the sheer, unadulterated terror of Chimaera's security staff—as the ship had become unexpected host to the negotiations that would hopefully shortly be ending the Galactic Civil War.

The Deep Core Warlords won't be surrendering, but they fight among themselves more than they fight the New Republic, so that's more the Deep Core Civil War than the Galactic Civil War, I'd say.

Asori felt her lips quirk with amusement at the thought. It faded as her shuttle landed and the ramp descended, revealing a Stormtrooper detail and a Lieutenant she'd never met before. "Captain Rogriss, Admiral Pellaeon is waiting for you. If you would accompany us?"

She exhaled, putting some Anaxes iron into her expression. "Of course. I serve at the Admiral's pleasure."

As she had once before, she arrived at Grand Admiral Thrawn's art museum, and, to her relief, her escort left her there. Pellaeon was standing in the dimly lit space, wandering between the art pieces with an emotionless expression. He looked up as she approached. "Captain Rogriss."

She saluted, hand rising to precisely the right angle, and the Old Man didn't wait more than a millisecond to return it. "Admiral."

"It's good to see you in one piece, Captain."

"Likewise, sir. It was a hard-won victory."

Pellaeon nodded slowly. "It was." His expression flattened, his lips pressing together as he looked at her. His expression reminded her of her grandfather… in particular, her grandfather attempting to babysit her and Terek, after they had scattered his datapads all over the living room.

"You know why I asked to see you."

She took a deep breath. "Yes, sir."

"You disobeyed a direct order and hazarded your ship and crew during a crisis situation. You could easily have been killed and your actions may have jeopardized the overall victory. To protect you, resources were forced to take additional risks. Pilots were killed protecting your escape. Rendili Vigil was lost."

"Yes, sir," she said quietly.

"Why?"

"I believed the lives I could save were worth saving, sir."

"You believed you could save those lives on the word of an elderly gas miner with no combat experience and no direct communication with the people you were trying to rescue. You allowed him to take command of your vessel and fly it through hazardous space, despite having no experience at its helm. His plan to rescue the infiltration team was to fly in close and establish an energy cylinder, expecting the team—whose presence he could not even confirm—to use that to escape."

She did not point out that it had worked. "Yes, sir," she said instead.

"The fact that it worked is immaterial," Pellaeon said. "You had no reason to believe any of that would work."

"I don't agree with that, sir," she said.

Both of Pellaeon's eyebrows rose.

"I had experience with the other Jedi on Nar Shaddaa," she said. "I had seen them act on nothing more than intuition, and that intuition allowed them to achieve mission objectives that I would have deemed impossible."

He pressed his lips together. "Unfortunately, in the Imperial Starfleet, the intuition of Jedi is not weighted more than the orders from a superior officer."

"Yes, sir," she agreed quietly. "I know that, sir." She reached to her chest and carefully removed her rank plaque. She looked at it for a moment, at the accumulated years of experience and the memories they represented. At the history of Anaxes and its expectations, its celebration of service. She placed it in the small velvet box that she had brought, knowing she would need it. Then she handed it to the Admiral. "I know you need to take this, sir."

To her surprise, Pellaeon handed the plaque back. "An honorable discharge, Captain," he said after a moment. "No doubt the old Empire would insist on punitive action, but the old Empire is dead and the Starfleet is now mine. Your retirement is with full honors, and a pension."

It was more than she expected. "Thank you, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"No," said Pellaeon. "I have been in consultation with Baron Fel. I wanted to tell you that the UREF intends to construct two new command ships. One will be named Prince Irek, and the second Admiral Rogriss."

Something must have shown on her face. Pellaeon blinked with consternation—he must have been expecting this would ameliorate the pain from being kicked out of the fleet, honors or not. "Is something wrong, Captain?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

She fought to find the words. Finally, she just touched the uniform she still wore. "This uniform killed my father, sir. His absence may have killed my mother. I kept it on for as long as I did because taking it off could have killed us both, and my brother, and my friends."

Pellaeon's expression remained still, but she could see the sudden tension—and pain—behind his eyes. He did not say a word, so she continued. "I believe my father would want to remember more than his own service, sir. He loved his ship and crew. I know the UREF is not fond of names reminiscent of the old Empire, but please tell Baron Fel that my father would feel more honored if the ship were named Agonizer instead."

For a long moment, the only sound between them was that of the very quiet fans that kept air slowly circulating through Thrawn's gallery.

"Very well. I will discuss it with the Baron and Moff Ferrouz. You are dismissed, Captain."

"It was an honor to serve under your command, sir." She saluted, a perfect Imperial salute, then performed a parade-perfect turn and headed for the exit, her uniform boot heels clicking on the floor and her rank plaque in her hand.

It wasn't hard to pack for her departure from Termagant. Most important was the book she had stolen from her father during her final visit to Agonizer. With the ship destroyed, and her childhood home likely long gone, it was the last thing she had of his.

Now that she'd given up her rank and position, it was quite possibly the last possession that she truly cared about.

Her quarters terminal beeped. With some trepidation, she moved to her desk to check for new messages. There was one in particular that stood out, with an origination code from the New Republic government.

INVITATION TO PEACE CONFERENCE, the subject line read.

She reviewed it quickly. Apparently, her efforts during and before the Battle of Corellia had not gone unremarked. Someone—she guessed Luke Skywalker, but there were… other possibilities—had gone out of their way to procure an invitation for her to attend the peace negotiations aboard the Garm Bel Iblis. She reviewed more, silently debating whether she would attend or not—it wasn't like she would have much to contribute—when…

Her heart leapt with sudden, relieved joy. Her patron wasn't Luke Skywalker after all. Listed on the bottom of the form was the name Commodore Atril Tabanne.

This is foolish, Asori reminded herself. Idiotic, even.

Still, that didn't stop her from using her last act as Termagant's commanding officer to book herself a shuttle flight.

The halls of the Garm Bel Iblis were packed with dignitaries, and Asori did her best to wind her way through them without drawing excessive attention to herself. Relatively few wore Imperial uniforms as she did, though she was far from the only one. Collections of senior Imperial officers wandered, mostly talking amongst themselves, though some were talking with various New Republic and Corellian officials. Garm Bel Iblis had enormous suites meant for diplomatic purposes built into the core of the ship: huge, sweeping hallways with numerous side-rooms for private discussions and larger, convention-sized ballrooms for larger gatherings. There were water displays practically everywhere, with various collections of fresh or saltwater plants and creatures living what seemed to be contented lives. The displays seemed to be in every wall, leaving some walls transparent, though still soundproof.

"Captain Rogriss?"

That was General Antilles, she recognized the voice immediately. She turned, instinctively tensing for a salute to a superior officer—though, of course, Antilles was neither her superior nor was she an officer.

"Just a moment," Wedge said. To her surprise, he craned his head up, peering as best he could over the sea of heads that steadily flowed and whirred around them. Then he joined that flow, leaving her presence, before emerging again from a slightly different direction. In his hands, he had a bottle of Corellian whiskey. "Whyren's Reserve, Corellia's best mid-range whiskey," Wedge said.

She had no idea what to say. "Yes sir?"

Wedge led her to a small table, which had yet to be tended to by the service droids. He pushed the cups aside and placed two glasses down, pouring two healthy shots into them. "I've been meaning to speak with you," he said seriously. "I was sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man."

She blinked, surprised yet again. The fact that her father's former enemies seemed to him as well, if not better, than his former friends… well, that was the Empire, she supposed. "Yes, sir," she agreed, accepting one of the glasses and clinking it against Antilles'. She drank the shot, too—it wasn't quite as strong as she had feared it would be.

"Soontir told me that you rescued Luke's team," Wedge added. "That was one hell of a leap of faith, and you saved a lot of people who are very important to me."

There was an odd depth to the sincerity in those words. Had there been some rumor that Wedge had a relationship with some member of them? She didn't remember, maybe her XO had said something to that effect, but after the battle she'd had a hard time focusing.

"I might have heard you're looking for work," Antilles added. The words processed slowly then all at once, and she stared at him. She'd only been out of the fleet for maybe an hour! And she'd come directly from Pellaeon's office here. How could he possibly know that? "Call me if you need anything, or if you just want to talk. I have friends in the New Republic who have gone through similar experiences to yours—I'm sure General Madine would be willing to counsel you."

Throat suddenly thick and at a total loss for words, Asori just nodded. Antilles waited a moment, waiting to see if she would speak. When she didn't, and the swell of emotion in her chest threatened to overwhelm her, he just offered her a smile. "When you're ready, of course," he consoled. Then, with a final nod, he allowed himself to be swept back into the flow of people.

"Captain Rogriss!" a new, far more familiar voice called.

Mastering herself again, Asori poked her head up, rising onto her toes and searching for the voice. Unsurprisingly, Dreyf found her before she found him. "Captain Rogriss," he greeted her with a wide smile. "I'm glad you could make it."

"It's just Asori now," she told him, gesturing to the empty place on her uniform where her rank plaque had once been. "I've decided to exit the service."

That gave Dreyf pause, though he recovered smoothly. "I'm sorry to hear that, Asori," he said seriously. "It was an honor to serve with you."

"Likewise," she nodded her thanks. She hesitated, but decided there was no point in belaboring the question. "Have you had news from any Poln Major survivors?"

Dreyf offered her an exhausted smile. "Yes, thank you for remembering. My mother was evacuated aboard Basilisk and relocated to Dowager's Rest. I just got a message from her a few hours ago. She's shaken up, but alive." His smile faded. "That's more than I can say for many of Poln Major's people," he added. "But if not for Talon Karrde and Commodore Tabanne, it would have been much worse."

Asori tried not to show her reaction to the mention of Atril, and suspected that to a man as observant as Dreyf she had failed. "I'm happy for you. Ah, I know Rendili Vigil was seriously damaged during the battle," she said.

"I've seen some of the New Republic repair lists, and Vigil is formally listed as unsalvageable," Dreyf agreed. Asori wasn't sure, but she felt as if Dreyf was rather carefully not pointing out her reaction… and it hadn't helped that instead of changing topics she'd further mentioned the Commodore. "I know Vigil sustained personnel losses, but I believe Commodore Tabanne herself avoided serious injury."

His tone was just a little too reassuring. She sighed and tried not to blush, once again feeling stupid. She forced herself to change the topic. "What about the peace negotiations? Do you think they'll be successful?"

Instead of immediately answering, Dreyf placed his hand on her arm and drew her into one of the smaller, more private, sound-proofed rooms. "Councilor Organa Solo has been pushing hard ever since the battle," he murmured conspiratorially. "There are a lot of factions within the New Republic's Inner Council, and some see it in their interest to demand a more punitive peace, but there's a lot of good will towards Grand Moff Ferrouz at the moment. I hate to say it, but the destruction of Poln Major—" he winced, but only slightly "—has earned Ferrouz a lot of sympathy, and his timely arrival aboard Chimaera to help at the Battle of Corellia earned him a lot of good will."

"So you think the war is over?"

"I think it might be," Dreyf hedged. "The New Republic badly wanted to have some Moffs or senior ISB people to try for war crimes—to sate the desire of their public for either vengeance or justice, depending on who you talk to. Daala's… liquidation… of them prior to the battle has actually been a hindrance, because it leaves almost no one left to hang. They're trying to split the difference by agreeing to deliver to the New Republic all the available records, so that guilt can at least be established and publicized after the fact."

"So the peace will just be with Ferrouz and the UREF?" she asked cautiously. "What about the rest of the Empire's territories?"

Dreyf shook his head. "With the fleet entirely loyal to Pellaeon and Daala now, there aren't many. All the Empire's territories outside the Deep Core have formally acknowledged Ferrouz as the legitimate Grand Moff, and he and Fel are negotiating collectively." He lowered his voice even more, forcing her to lean in. "There's speculation that Fel will be elevated to Emperor, in a largely ceremonial role, and the two of them will rule together."

She had become so comfortable in the UREF's territories. Living in that small pocket, like the Empire in many ways and yet fundamentally different from it in so many others, had been freeing. If the Empire and the UREF merged with Ferrouz in command, would that mean the Empire became more like the UREF, or would the UREF become more like the Empire? She hadn't even yet begun thinking about what she would do now that she had left the Starfleet, and her options were increasingly constrained by factors both outside her control and that she did not even understand.

Maybe she would join Dreyf's mother on Dowager's Rest and become one of the many refugees there building a new home after the destruction of the last one. There was something oddly appealing to that idea.

"Whatever the arrangement," Dreyf continued, "it's clear the New Republic is looking for an option that doesn't involve a protracted military campaign. Their losses at Corellia were significant as well, and I think the member worlds would rather peace with a reformed Empire to continued war. But it's just as clear that the New Republic's Inner Council wants to ensure that a reformed Empire is really a reformed Empire."

"Do you think I can go home?" she asked, the words coming unprompted. "Will the New Republic military let me travel to worlds under their control, I mean? Can I go back to Anaxes, perhaps reclaim the family household and have a funeral for my father? Once the peace is signed, I mean."

"It's something being discussed," Dreyf said after a moment, his dark eyes regarding her thoughtfully. "I think that the New Republic can't make any official promises about property, because different worlds made different decisions about how to handle such things. I don't know how Anaxes dispensed of the property possessed by Imperial officers after the world fell into the New Republic's hands, but I can look into it for you." He leaned in closer. "But, Asori, you saved Luke Skywalker's life. You saved General Antilles' paramour. I think you could ask for just about anything you wanted and someone would feel obliged to help you."

"Maybe," she said with a weary smile. "Can't resist a bit of intelligence work for me, Commander?"

"Always, Captain," he agreed. "And speaking of intelligence work, check your six."

She glanced behind her. Garm Bel Iblis' aquarium-walls made for distorted vision, but through the transparent, fish-filled wall behind her she saw a willowy brunette in a full dress uniform, leaning heavily on a single crutch. Atril Tabanne's shoulder-length brown hair had been cut back along the right side of her head, with a bacta bandage that probably covering a nasty wound.

Dreyf cleared his throat. "May I give you some advice, ma'am?"

"I'm not your superior officer anymore, Commander."

"I know that. Nonetheless…" Dreyf smiled, patting Asori on the shoulder. "The war is over, and you'd be a fool not to start the peace off right."

Asori snorted, then sighed. "In more ways than one."

"I hope for your sake one way in particular, ma'am."

Dreyf tossed her a playful salute then, as was his custom, vanished skillfully into the crowd just as Atril wound her way around into Asori's little semi-hideaway. The New Republic officer looked good—wounded and exhausted, but good—though Asori knew that perhaps her opinion was influenced by damnedly adolescent infatuation. On Atril's good arm was a large, professional bag that matched her blue-and-brown New Republic fleet uniform, clearly holding some kind of box.

"Captain Rogriss," Atril greeted her. She offered Asori a smile. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Thank you for the invitation, Commodore," Asori replied, leaning heavily on her academy training and discipline. "It's just Asori now, though."

Atril's surprise was evident but passed quickly. "Pellaeon drummed you out for disobeying orders?" she guessed, her expression sympathetic.

Asori just nodded. "Something like that. Wouldn't change my mind about it, and I got to keep my pension, if you can believe that. Whatever Imperial credits are worth these days. It's still more than I really expected. If it were pre-Endor, I'd probably just have been shot." She paused, gathering her strength before continuing. "Thank you for the rescue by the way. I know you lost your ship."

To Asori's surprise, Atril smiled. "It wasn't just me that came to bail you out, Asori. Colonel Celchu brought a full formation of E-wings, and I don't know if you noticed, but the Smugglers' Alliance covered your exit—I saw Pulsar Skate personally blast a few TIEs off your engines. And the reason they came for you was because you risked everything to help a few of the New Republic's greatest heroes escape certain death. It's thanks to you that I'm going to get to attend Wedge's wedding rather than a bunch more funerals. Speaking of, I have a gift for you."

Atril reached into her shoulderbag and withdrew a good-sized, ornately decorated wooden box, then handed it to Asori. Asori took it—it was surprisingly heavy—and popped it open. Inside was a bottle of wine and two glasses. "What's this?"

"Call the wine a thank you for everything you did during the battle," Atril said. "And an invitation to share it."

Despite the seclusion of her immediate surroundings, Asori struggled not to blush. I'm an ex-Imperial officer, not some blushing schoolgirl.

She sure felt like one, though, and decided to focus on that before the prospect of employment. "Like a date?"

Atril Tabanne arched an eyebrow. "Like a date." She offered Asori an arm. "I know just the place to break open the bottle, too. Neither of us is needed for these negotiations, after all, and they'll call us if they want to honor us. Why not sit and take some time together?"

"Why wait?" asked Asori, heart thudding like an overcharged engine turbine as she closed the box with suddenly nerveless hands and tried, as gently as possible, to set it aside.

Luckily, she didn't hear anything break, and as she straightened up, In that brief moment, Atril had closed the distance. In unexpected proximity, Asori looked up at the other woman, each one smiling awkwardly and uncertain of who would make the first move, until, with a flash of mischief in Atril's eyes, she tilted her head slightly down.

"Yeah," murmured Atril. "Why wait?"

Asori practically climbed her to kiss her, remembering at the last moment to avoid her injury, and the two of them thudded up against the cloudy viewport.

Maybe it was just the heat of the moment, and maybe it was the product of post-battle decompression, and maybe it was all a battle-born infatuation that couldn't possibly last, but that first kiss was every bit as sweet as Asori had thought it would be.