[Legacy Of The Force] - 08(70)

“You’re very honest.”

“I’m too old to want glory. At my age, you worry more about what might be said about you after you’re dead. I’d like to be recalled as an admiral who left the galaxy a little tidier and quieter than he found it.”

“Meaning?”

“Is he going to foul up?”

Niathal looked down at the floor for a moment. “You know he’s a Sith?”

“Force-users do complicate things for us ordinary mortals.”

“I think he might overplay his hand this time. But I might also not be aware of some second plan he’s going to put into operation and leave us all standing.”

“You want me to do something.”

“I’m just sharing my fears that this may well be very costly in terms of lives, and that Jacen can be extravagant. I have elements of the Third Fleet standing by for Fondor. I’m thinking more of enabling withdrawal than pouring personnel into a battle.”

“Ah.” Pellaeon sat back and felt a little cheated. “You want me to stay at home.”

“No, I was genuinely expressing concern and seeking information. Would you prefer not to join him? I know some of the Moffs are more expansionist than you.”

“If I were to say that I wouldn’t shed tears if Jacen were to crash and burn, in any sense, and that I would accept responsibility for cleaning up the mess he’s left, would that answer your questions?”

“So you’ll wait for his next big mistake and go in for the kill.”

“If I felt it stabilized the galaxy.” Pellaeon didn’t think it was the time to explain that he doubted the GA’s ability to hold down the job with or without Jacen, given that it had enabled Jacen to thrive; Niathal probably knew that any-way. “But one thing I’ll promise you is that I have a line I will not cross, and while the Moffs and I might be pursuing the same course at this moment, we don’t all share one ideology.”

“Stiff upper lip and do the decent thing…”

“Yes. If you want to put it that way.”

“I’ll join you in that.”

Pellaeon now knew how she felt but not what she might do. “Let’s hope for a better outcome.”

“Indeed. I’ll be in touch.”

Pellaeon closed the link and sat chewing over Niathal’s words for a while, wondering how much worse Jacen might become if Niathal were taken out of the picture for any reason. She seemed still to be a brake on Jacen-no small measure of her own strength-and Pellaeon could do business with her.

The Imperial interest is served by supporting her. Keeping moderates in power is a lot cheaper all round than battling down despots every few years.

If push came to shove at Fondor, and Niathal was salvageable, then Jacen might find himself alone.

How much support did Solo have from his officers and in the ranks after the Tebut incident? That would be the critical factor. Sith, Jedi, or god, he was still one man.

Pellaeon got up and walked the passages and flats of Bloodfin, noting where fitters were still sealing covers on conduits and engineering droids were busy in shafts.

“Sir? Sir!” The Junior Officer of the Deck-Lieutenant Lamburt on the current watch-strode as fast as he could without committing the sin of actually breaking into a run. “Sir, security has a visitor at the brow asking for you, but she’s reluctant to present ID.”

“Any cause for concern? Armed? Jealous? Blond or redhead?”

The officers laughed politely, seeming to think Pellaeon was joking about his eye for an attractive female, undimmed even now. He couldn’t have known that the blonde-Tahiri-was not someone he wanted on board, however charming, because she was Jacen Solo’s creature, and almost certainly not as sweet as she looked, or that the redhead was probably someone he was very anxious to see indeed.

The OOD let out another nervous laugh. “Good call, sir. The lady has red hair.”

Pellaeon tugged his cuffs to smooth his sleeves and walked aft toward the brow, a renewed man. “Then I shall welcome her on board personally. Have the steward droid serve tisane in my day cabin-perhaps some confits and a decanter of syrspirit, too.”

“Very good, sir.”

There was always a heady sense of optimism in a new ship, and Pellaeon could feel it. Junior ratings pressed flat against bulkheads to let him pass, even though there was quite enough room to walk by. He liked smaller ships. There was something tight and purposeful about them, the difference between a vessel with a starship’s lines and what might as well have been an office tower. The ship’s comple-ment was small enough to get to know all hands properly. This was a ship he wanted to fight, a real warship, just for the exhilaration of being closer to the vibration, noise, and sheer mechanical life of a great fighting beast.