In all the years they’d been married, she’d never looked more radiant. At the moment, she looked far happier and healthier than the month before she died.
He’d long since stopped wondering how he’d been so lucky to have her reenter his life. Now he just smiled up at her. “I’m glad you came.”
“Shh.” She put a finger to her lips, then lowered it to his. “You need to rest. You did so very well today.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes. Don’t ever let anyone ever tell you that you didn’t.” Her tone was almost stern. “You just wait. Soon enough, they’ll all be saying how you took impossible orders and sliced a victory out of them. You’ll be famous. You’ll be promoted to fleet admiral.”
“Yes, dear.”
“No other reward would be acceptable. Anything else would be an insult.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Sleep, Matric.” He did.
CORUSCANT
Two days later, Luke Skywalker, dressed in the full robe array of a Jedi Master, was escorted to a conference chamber within the densest government precincts on Coruscant.
Several invitees to the meeting were already there and seated. At the head of the table was Chief of State Cal Omas, a lean, fair man with thinning hair. The stresses of his office and late middle age had made the man gaunt, even frail looking, but determination kept him upright and lent him dignity. He wore garments cut in the fashion of a formal GA military uniform, but in nonregulation deep purple.
To his right sat Admiral Gilad Pellaeon, acting chief of the GA military. He had been a successful, ferocious space navy officer in the days of the Old Republic and even now, more than sixty years later, still commanded with wit, ingenuity, and uncompromising will. He and Luke exchanged glances, and the faintest of ironic smiles; more than thirty years earlier, the two had been enemies, Luke fighting for the New Republic, and Pellaeon for the remnants of the Empire, and now they served the same cause. Despite his advancing age, Pellaeon still appeared formidable: thick-chested, his white hair still bushy, his mustache still ferocious. His GA admiral’s uniform was as crisp as his manner.
To his right sat Admiral Niathal, a female Mon Calamari. Unlike Ackbar, perhaps the best-known military Mon Cal officer in recent history, she was known for an icy disposition and cutting reprimands. Her outsized eyes followed Luke as he entered the chamber. He spared her a glance and a slight, friendly nod; he did not know her well and had neither affection nor disdain for her.
Elsewhere at the table sat advisers and aides for the three. The composition of meeting attendees told Luke that all the discussion would be about military affairs and their effects on political matters-and that meant the mess at Corellia.
Chief Omas gestured to the unoccupied seat to his left, and Luke took it. “Good to see you, Master Skywalker. Thank you for arriving so quickly.”
“Happy to oblige, sir.” Luke’s arrival had indeed been quick-the transport carrying him, his Jedi teams, and others fresh from Operation Roundabout had landed less than an hour before.
“So.” Omas glanced at Pellaeon. “Admiral, would you care to begin?”
“Yes.” Pellaeon glanced at the datapad before him. “Master Skywalker, how would you describe the Jedi operations that were part of Roundabout?”
“Successful,” Luke said, “but not cleanly so. We had five operations. Slashrat, Purella, Tauntaun, Womp Rat, and Mynock.”
Pellaeon managed a small smile. “Each creature being either bad-tempered or bad smelling.”
“Yes, sir. Slashrat, commanded by Master Corran Horn, was a two-operative team observing Coronet’s main starport for significant starfighter launch activities. Since most of Coronet’s starfighter squadrons had apparently been pulled for Corellia’s fleet action, of course, Slashrat’s usefulness was largely nullified.
“Purella and Tauntaun, respectively commanded by Jaina Solo and Tahiri Veila, were assigned the task of kidnapping Prime Minister Aidel Saxan and Chief of State Thrackan Sal-Solo from their residences.”
One of the aides toward the foot of the table, a male Bothan, cleared his throat. His fur rippled with what Luke interpreted as discomfort. “It’s probably inappropriate,” he said, “to use the word kidnapping.”
Niathal’s eyes twitched and her gaze pinned the speaker. “Master Skywalker isn’t speaking to the public or the press,” she said, her voice harsh and gravelly, “so he isn’t obliged to mince words. In this company, we should be using precise terminology, not your public-relations pablum. Shouldn’t we?”