[Legacy Of The Force] - 01(75)

And now one of them, a triangular pod known as Narsacc Habitat, had been hired-at the last minute and for an unspecified duration, displacing a suddenly very unhappy convention of airspeeder and swoop manufacturers from around the galaxy-by the government of the Galactic Alliance. The Narsacc Habitat’s crew of stewards, cooks, wait staff, cleaning and maintenance droids, valets, and dressing consultants had been dismissed on full pay for the duration of the GA stay, replaced by carefully screened government employees. The only Toryaz Station employees left were a skeleton crew of security officers, amply reinforced and overseen by GA security specialists.

The first ships to dock with Narsacc Habitat, one large transport each from Coruscant and Corellia, discharged hordes of soldiers and security personnel who immediately began scouring the pod for listening devices, booby traps, and hidden weapons. They found plenty, many of them years or decades old, all apparently left from previous events-the forgotten residue of attempted espionage and treachery in the past. After two days of examination, both sides reported to their respective leaders that there was no sign of ill intent from their opposite number.

Sufficiently reassured that matters could progress, both sides brought in protocol droids and status engineers who examined the habitat’s facilities, comparing them with the events of the conference to come, and immediately began negotiating to make sure that their respective sides would have slightly better-than-equal habitat resources. The views from the suites against the outermost hull were best, therefore the delegates must stay there, despite the fact that this increased demands on the security teams; the spinward edge of that bank of suites got to see each view in turn first, and therefore each side demanded them for its own delegation; in-suite breakfasts would be served simultaneously to the Saxan and Pellaeon suites, with no regard to the preferred breakfasting time of the delegates themselves. This went on for another full day.

Wedge Antilles ignored it all. Off-loaded with the first groups of security experts but not truly part of the Corellian force, he found what he thought was the best spot in the habitat-a lush green water garden beneath a top-hull viewport a hundred meters across, showing glorious starfields during the hours when grow-lights were not activated-and spent most of his time there. No other men or women of the security details intruded except for the occasional perimeter search and weapons scan.

On the morning of the fourth day, as he sat in the dark in a lounger that conformed itself to his body with each of his movements, he heard rustling on the far side of the central clearing. He put his hand on his holstered blaster but did not otherwise move. In moments, another human walked into the clearing, oblivious to the surrounding ferns and the artificial waterfall and pool only a dozen meters away. Ramrod-straight, he wore a Galactic Alliance general’s uniform, its cap tucked under his arm, and his attention was fixed on the stars above. He was about Wedge’s age, with fair hair and a face a little lined by responsibility and old, old sorrow, but not by age. He looked like a prince, with features that could have been coldly aristocratic had the mood ever taken him, but Wedge had never seen him wear an attitude like that.

Wedge grinned and took a deep, silent breath. “Rogue Two!” he snapped. “Break to port!”

Before Wedge was halfway through his shout, the newcomer had dropped, rolled behind a long box planted with glowing woosha plants from Naboo, and then come upright again, his cap missing. His expression would have been ferocious had he been able to keep himself from grinning. “Wedge! Not nice.” He brushed himself off and stepped out from behind the improvised cover.

Wedge rose to take the man’s hand and embrace him. “Tycho. I didn’t know you were going to be part of this merry mess.”

General Tycho Celchu clapped Wedge’s back before releasing him. “I knew you were. But there’s a little problem with sending you messages these days.”

“I know.” Wedge gestured to the lounger next to his, then resumed his original seat.

Tycho sat but remained upright, his posture perfect. The humor gradually left his face, leaving behind a combination of curiosity and regret. “I can’t believe that we’re sitting here wearing different uniforms.”

Wedge felt the way Tycho looked. He nodded. “Me, either.”

“What is that all about?” Tycho sounded almost angry; certainly, he was upset. “I heard about the kidnapping and your escape. That sent a shock wave through Intelligence, and a lot of idiots were busted down in rank on account of it. Which suits me just fine. But what are you doing in that uniform?” Then he narrowed his eyes and looked around. “Or should we be talking here?”