“Well?” Pellaeon lined up a more difficult target, the right-hand spike at the back that required an up-and-over technique to clear the middle row. “Is it going to give me an aneurysm or just provoke spluttering rage?”
“I really think you should read the message, sir, “said Reige. “If only for amazement value.” He held out the unfolded flimsi with a bemused smile, and Pellaeon took it. “You’ll be annoyed, I think.”
It was handwritten, or at least fashioned to look like it. And it was an invitation after all, but not quite the one that he was expecting.
The joint Chiefs of State of the Galactic Alliance respectfully request a meeting to discuss a mutual aid treaty with the Imperial Remnant, and the addition of its assets to the GA Fleet in exchange for substantial benefits.
A translucent green official seal was stamped across Jacen’s signature. No sign that Admiral Niathal had seen this, then; a Mon Cal should have known better than to back a little despot like Solo, so perhaps she wasn’t involved. But then Niathal had her own agenda, and it almost certainly didn’t include Jacen as a valued co-worker for life.
The brat.
Pellaeon had resigned rather than be forced to work with him. It hadn’t been personal when it started; Pellaeon simply objected to the creation of an unaccount-able, slightly-outside-the-chain-of-command, rather seedy secret police force, which was then put under the command of someone who had never worn a uniform in his life. The dislike-now fermented into a full-blown loathing-had come later, nourished simply by watching the holonews and listening to military intelligence reports.
Retired. No, I was forced out. And I haven’t forgotten that.
“No, Jacen, you cannot play with my ships, “he snorted.
“Nor can you buy them.” He crumpled the flimsi in his hand, feeling the fragile seal crack, and tossed it back to Reige. “I can see no merit in aligning the Empire with a regime that has no current bearing on our interests.”
“I’ll return this to the attache as it is, then, shall I, sir?” said Reige, tilting his head slightly to consider it. “I think it’s quite eloquent.”
“A gesture is worth a thousand words, but two often suffice.”
Reige walked back down the hedge-lined path without a sound to deliver the rejection to the attache. A good man; loyal as a son. Pellaeon had long suspected he was-it was all too possible-but was reluctant to seek confirmation and be disappointed, because he missed Mynar terribly. It was a dreadful thing to be unable to acknowledge that Mynar had been his son; Pellaeon felt he had denied him even in death. He wanted no more hopes dashed, and had made generous provision for Reige’s future.
But if somebody didn’t put a dent in Master Solo’s ambitions, the future for Reige and everyone else would be bleak. It wasn’t actually true that the GA had no effect or the Empire. Some things couldn’t be avoided or ignored, however far away.
Perhaps I was a fool not to retire earlier, but I’m not dead yet. I still have some fight in me, and I’ll be hanged before I give in to the whims of a civilian playing soldiers. It’s a pity that his aunt was killed-she’d have lost patience with him eventually, and then he’d have had a good thrashing…. oh yes.
Pellaeon threw the rest of the quoits, enjoying a private fantasy about playing the game the Naboo way, with a shoal of angry blembies cruising in the water, and making Jacen Solo retrieve the misses.
He was definitely not dead yet.
CHIEF OF STATE’S SUITE, SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT: TWO DAYS AFTER THE RETURN OF THE ANAKIN SOLO
Darth Caedus stared at the crumpled note in the tray and wondered what Pellaeon thought of him. It didn’t matter, but he was curious.
“Perhaps I didn’t explain myself clearly enough, “he said. “What do you think, Tahiri?”
She examined the note and shrugged. He wondered if she was trying to sense something from the flimsi, some clue about Pellaeon’s state of mind.
“I think you’re talking to the wrong person, “Tahiri said. “It’s the Moffs’ backing you need, not Pellaeon’s. He’s the last person who’d help you.”
Caedus thought it was more insurance than help, because he had no real sense of being under threat; the Confederation might have looked numerically equal, but numbers often didn’t equate to strength. But he planned to bring the war to a quick end, not to tiptoe along some line of status quo, and for that he needed an injection of numbers. The Imperial Remnant had not only the hulls and hardware, but-more importantly-also the doctrine and high-caliber personnel to make their assets count. They were very much his grandfather’s legacy. The Remnant’s shock troops were said to be as excellent as Vader’s 501st, and that kind of efficiency was what he needed in his order of battle.