“Thrackan’s trying to get himself killed,” Leia whispered.
Han nodded. “Let’s go next door and wish him luck.”
“Shush.”
Thrackan said, “Antilles, you’ve refused a direct order given during a military crisis, and I have it on record. Should I choose to, I can have security agents haul you away right now. I can conduct your trial within the hour and have you executed by morning.”
“Of course you can.” Wedge stood and stretched, extending his arms over his head and flexing his back, a gesture of supreme unconcern. Leia could almost hear the popping from his vertebrae and joints. Then Wedge relaxed into a more normal standing position. “You could also have me assassinated in a time of peace for having nicer hair than you. If I worried about that sort of thing, I’d never get any sleep. And now I’m going to explain to you why it would be a bad, bad mistake for you to do this.”
“Go ahead.”
“If I refuse, which I have, and you have me murdered, you’ve traded a senior officer for whatever opportunities at sabotage and information gathering a very junior officer could provide you. It’s not a smart trade. I’m no Garm Bel Iblis, but I’m the best strategist you have available. I also have friends in positions of power and influence all over the galaxy, and if I’m executed, I can’t use them to your advantage-can’t issue recommendations that they use their own influence to swing their planetary governments to the Corellian viewpoint, for instance.”
“What’s the difference between your doing that and your doing what I just recommended?”
“Ordered, Minister, not recommended. The difference is that asking, say, Wes Janson to put in a good word about our cause to the military or government of his world of Taanab is honorable. Asking my daughter to violate the oaths she took when she became an officer and to participate in treachery is not. Have I communicated the difference sufficiently?”
“Don’t condescend to me, Antilles.”
“Leave my family out of things, Sal-Solo.”
“I’m going to communicate with your daughter. I’ll convince her to do what I say.”
“Go ahead.” Wedge shrugged.
“You’re not worried that. I’ll succeed?”
“You might succeed. But I won’t be party to it.”
There was no reply. A few seconds later, the light from Thrackan’s chamber, still spilling in a distorted rectangle across the main table below, switched off.
Wedge walked toward the exit and disappeared out of sight below Thrackan’s chamber.
“Wedge just got himself killed,” Leia said.
Han nodded. “He’s too smart not to know that. It won’t be soon, though. Thrackan needs Wedge for now.”
“But as soon as he gets angry enough to overcome his self-interest-“
“Yeah.”
RELLIDIR, TRALUS
“I am not happy,” Jaina said.
She stood under sunny blue skies on a flat green lawn. Gentle breezes stirred her hair and cooled her. Beside her stood Zekk, offering silent support … and occasional twinges of amusement as her mood whipped from one position to another.
In the distance ahead was the white Navos Center for the Performing Arts with its eight beautifully fluted towers. Closer at hand, on a patch of grass unmarked by duracrete walking trails, were the nine X-wings of Luke’s Hardpoint Squadron.
Undefended.
Well, not entirely. In the astromech slot of Luke’s own X-wing sat R2-D2, and the little droid offered a plaintive trill in counterpoint to Jaina’s statement.
“Where are the pilots, Artoo?” Jaina asked.
R2-D2’s top dome swiveled, bringing his main eye cam to bear on the distant performing arts building.
“And the security detail for these snubfighters?” she asked.
The astromech turned his main eye on her and issued a series of rapid beeps and tones.
“Reassigned.” Jaina shook her head, exasperated.
“Want me to do this one?” Zekk asked.
“Please.”
Zekk smiled and brought a comlink out from a pouch at his belt. “Artoo, would you give me the squadron frequency?”
The astromech beeped his compliance.
“Thanks.” Zekk activated the comlink. “Zekk to Hardpoint Squadron. Your new squadron commander is on-site and wishes to see you immediately at your X-wings. Immediately means ninety seconds from the end of my transmission. No one will he punished for arriving in dirty robes, formal gowns, or bubbles and bathwater, but no one wants to arrive late. That is all. Out.” He pocketed the comlink.
“Nicely done,” Jaina said. “Effective, but with a potential for humor.”