“After being paraded as war prizes before crowds of cheering subhumans,” Sander muttered. “Probably stripped and staked out-“
“There’s no need to be so graphic, Sander,” Hort growled, throwing the other Moff a glare.
“The point needs to be made,” Sander countered. “The Admiral is right: this is precisely the right time to open negotiations. While they can be persuaded that cessation of hostilities is in their own best interests.”
The debate ran on for another hour. In the end, showing the same deep reluctance Pellaeon himself felt, they agreed.
***
The lone guard standing in front of the ornate double doors leading to Moff Disra’s private office was tall, young, and strongly built-the very antithesis, Pellaeon thought irreverently as he approached him, of Disra himself. “Admiral Pellaeon,” he identified himself. “I wish to see Moff Disra.”
“His Excellency left no word-“
“There are surveillance holocams all along this corridor,” Pellaeon interrupted him brusquely. “He knows I’m here. Open the doors.”
The guard’s lip twitched. “Yes, Admiral.” He took two steps to his side; and as he did so the double doors swung ponderously open.
The room was fully as ornate as the doors that sealed it, with the kind of luxury Pellaeon hadn’t seen in a Moff’s palace since the height of the Empire’s power. Disra was seated at a glassy white desk in the center of the room, a youngish military aide with short-cropped dark hair and wearing major’s insignia standing behind him. The aide had a pack of datacards in his hand; apparently, he’d either just arrived or had been preparing to leave.
“Ah-Admiral Pellaeon,” Disra called, beckoning him forward, come in. I’d have thought you’d have been busy organizing your peace envoy.”
“We have time,” Pellaeon said, glancing around the room as he walked toward the desk, mentally adding up the values of the various furnishings. “According to our Intelligence reports, General Bel Iblis won’t be arriving at the Morishim starfighter base for another two weeks.”
“Of course,” Disra said sarcastically. “Surrendering to Bel Iblis is for some reason more palatable than humiliating yourself before anyone else of that rabble?”
“I have a certain respect for General Bel Iblis, yes,” Pellaeon said, stopping a meter away from the desk. It was made of culture-grown ivrooy coral, he noted; from the color, probably of pre-Clone Wars origin. Expensive. “You seem rather bitter at the prospect of peace.”
“I have no aversion to peace,” Disra countered. “It’s the thought of groveling that turns my stomach.”
The aide cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Excellency,” he murmured, laying his stack of datacards on the desk and turning to go.
“No, stay, Major,” Disra said, holding up a hand to stop him. “I’d like you to hear this. You know my aide, Admiral, don’t you? Major Grodin Tierce.”
The corner of Tierce’s mouth might have twitched. Pellaeon couldn’t tell for sure. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, nodding politely to the major.
“Ah. My mistake,” Disra said. “Well. We were discussing capitulation, I believe?”
Pellaeon glanced back at Tierce. But after that maybe-twitch the major’s face had gone impassive, giving no clue to his thoughts. “I’m still open to suggestions, Your Excellency.”
“You already know my suggestions, Admiral,” Disra bit out. “To send in teams to help foment the rising tide of interplanetary and intersector conflict within the New Republic. To use this cloaking shield of yours to plant forces where they’ll be able to take full advantage of such clashes. To expand our military forces wherever and however we can, using whatever means are available.”
Pellaeon felt his lip twist. They’d been over this same ground time and again. “We are the Imperial Fleet,” he told Disra stiffly. “We do not hire mercenaries and pirate gangs from the fringe to fight our battles for us.”
“I suggest you reread your history, Admiral,” Disra shot back. “The Empire has always made use of such scum. Moffs have hired them, so have Grand Moffs-even the Lord Darth Vader himself, when it suited his purposes. And so have the senior officers of your precious and righteously upstanding Fleet. Don’t come all over sanctimonious with me.” He flicked his fingers impatiently. “I’m quite busy, Admiral, and you have groveling to prepare for. Was there something you wanted?”
“One or two things, yes,” Pellaeon said, making a supreme effort to hold on to his temper. “I wanted to talk to you about those SoroSuub Preybirds you’ve been supplying to the Fleet.”