[Legacy Of The Force] - 08(53)
Pellaeon waited for the Moffs to gather in the meeting room, and tried to think like Jacen. The man wasn’t a fool, but could he see the galaxy through Fondorian eyes? Did he know which battle he was trying to win? He seemed to see worlds as controlled by a few stubborn leaders, whose removal would free the population to see things his way. He didn’t see that the general population didn’t want to do things the GA way, either.
If you wanted to build an empire…. well, the trick was to leave the population to get on with their lives. Pellaeon got up and walked across to the cabinet that housed hundreds of datapads, antique bound flimsi, and even ancient animal-skin scrolls, military histories from a thousand worlds spanning millennia. He knew that if he picked one at random, any history at all, he would find much the same story as the one he was living through today: seizure of power, the desire for expansion, and the inevitable inability to hold all that had been grabbed. The only variable was how long it took to fall apart. The longest-lived empires were those with the lightest hand on the reins.
“Empire can be different, “he muttered aloud. “Provided we shoot all the lunatics who enjoy the idea.”
Where that left him-no, he was purged of ambition at ninety-two. He simply wanted to leave the galaxy tidy and clean when he left it for the last time. That was what government was about, and the military was its instrument to achieve it.
The Moffs, predictably, were mostly split between enthusiasm for the Jacen Solo plan, ill defined as it was, and those like Rosset who wanted to know more before signing up.
“I’m with you on this, Admiral, “said Rosset, sitting opposite him across the mirror-polished table. “Putting orbital yards out of action is a very different proposition from subduing the planet itself. Are we going to end up policing Fondor for Jacen Solo until Mustafar freezes over?”
Pellaeon was fascinated to note how Admiral Niathal had been erased from the scene. It was seen as Jacen’s war. The Mon Cal schemer would probably be happy about that, he thought. She could step in when Jacen hit the buffers, hands relatively clean. “How badly do we want Bilbringi? Borleias?”
“They’re not going to be costly to take, “said Quille. “Very small population on Borleias post-Yuuzhan Vong, probably happier to have someone like us look after them than not. Bilbringi might require some military effort, though.”
“Like I mentioned before, “Rosset said, “we could take both systems if we wanted to without committing anything to the GA, because I don’t think Jacen’s in a position to stop us.”
Quille had an expression of almost religious epiphany on his face. “But the GA isn’t going to be able to hold Fondor without us, because that’ll require an occupying army after it surrenders. Poor old GA, short of hands-and we offer to look after the place while it’s busy hammering more wayward systems back into the Alliance fold. We end up staying. And…. possession is nine-tenths of the law, after all.”
Rosset let out a long breath. “I think they’ll notice we tried to steal Fondor from under their noses.”
“I don’t think they’ll see it like that.”
Pellaeon interrupted. He was wary about agreeing with Quille even about the time of day, but the Moff had a point. And if Jacen was going to fall sooner or later anyway, when he stretched himself just that little bit too far - “If we have both Borleias and Bilbringi, then that gives us a platform from which to maintain a presence on Fon-dor, and then we’ll have expanded down past the Core again.”
Pellaeon didn’t have to elaborate on that at all. Every Moff understood the potential.
“Are we all agreed, then, gentlemen? We accept the GA’s invitation, subject to their sharing the Fondor plan with us, and our being able to resource our role?”
Normal practice was to go around the table and record votes for and against, but the Moffs paused in silence for a moment and then all burst into spontaneous applause. Pellaeon wasn’t sure if they were applauding him, or simply overwhelmed with martial emotion at the prospect of being back in the saddle.
“You’re not entirely happy about this, are you, Admiral?” Reige said as he made Pellaeon’s nightcap, a mix of two parts Corellian brandy to one part water. “You’ve never appeased the Moffs before, and Jacen Solo is…”
“Anathema to me? Yes. And I’m not appeasing the Moffs now.” Pellaeon stood on the balcony of his chambers, looking out over the parkland beneath. The Imperial cavalry’s ceremonial troop was exercising the bloodfins, cantering in a neat line along the rise and skylined for a moment against the sunset that passed for evening at this time of the year on Bastion. For a few weeks, the sun didn’t set fully and night never moved beyond a glowing dusk. It was a fine moment to sip a brandy and savor the fresh scent of cut grass on the breeze. “I’m trying to make the best of a situation that Jacen Solo will impose on the galaxy whether we join him or not. If we don’t, all the recovery ef-fort after the last war will be for nothing. I anticipate that he will go the way of most despots, and fall, or even hang. If that happens-when that happens-we shall be there to pick up the pieces. I have no faith in the GA to run anything beyond their Coruscant front garden, let alone a galaxy.”