XII

Colonel Gen'yaa had just been informed about the losses and damage suffered by the Wolf's Lair. She longed to return to her ship and take charge of the situation, but Admiral Sinessis had forbidden all but the most indispensable trips. Even if that had not been the case, there were no shuttles available on the Brave Soul. All of them were scattered on the recent combat area, looking in vain for extravehicular pilots and evacuation pods. So far they had recovered only the burned corpse of one of Lancer Squadron's pilots. Point for the Corellians, she thought.

While she waited for more news and a chance to abandon the Brave Soul, the Bothan woman analyzed the new situation with the calm and the coldness she applied to almost everything. The Corellians had bet on a single and definitive strike, a blow that should have given them a quick and bloodless, for them, strategic victory. But the sudden arrival of the Liberator had ruined their chances of succeeding, reducing considerably the disadvantage of the New Republic fleet. With the Star Destroyer here, the Corellians wouldn't take the control of the system without suffering important losses, and Gen'yaa didn't believe that they were willing to risk that. They could ask for reinforcements, yes, but the New Republic would do that too, and now they knew it. By sending one of their most capable battleships to Seibergia, Mon Mothma had given a clear message to the Corellian Diktat: we'll fight if that's what it takes. She had managed to force a negotiation and buy some time, but the Corellians still had the stronger position. In case the firepower of their cruisers was not enough to grant them a strength position, they had another valuable card to play with: they had prisoners, and the New Republic did not.

At least the Lair had survived the battle. It was almost incredible. Wumb had managed to temporary disable one of the enemy cruisers as he was ordered, but the Strike Carrier had not been destroyed like they all had expected and feared. That would have happened at the end, had the battle continued, but instead of allowing her ship to be destroyed while trying to escape, Wumb had chosen to fall fighting. Had he been able to put the Lair between the two Corellian Cruisers, as he obviously intended, both capital ships would have received some extra damage. Now that she thought of it, they could have been forced to use ion cannons to avoid damaging age other; in which case the Lair would have been disabled, but not destroyed. Gen'yaa wondered if that was what Wumb had actually been looking for with that apparently mad attack. The Sullustan was good, even better than she acknowledged, and courageous, too. She felt a little punch of envy when she thought of how her second in command had gotten to perform an action that would bring him glory and prestige, but she immediately suppressed it. Gen'yaa was proud of her second and her crew, and, all things considered, a part of the merit of their success in the battle would fall on her shoulders because she was their captain. How ironic. Before the Wolf's Lair was sent to the Viayak cluster, her race to the ranks of generals and admirals promised to be quick and short. And she would have made it--not because her contacts, but mainly because of her work. But now everything was compromised. Not only her career, but the very future of the New Republic.

She had seen it coming. An accident like this had to happen sooner or later, it was just a question of time. But she wished it had not been one of her pilots who had shot down that damned transport. Her investigation had not produced any results so far. The only option to save the New Republic's face remained throwing all the weight of military law on the heads of Commander Gregory and Lieutenant Colonel Schroeder, but the harm might be already done. It was uncertain if that alone could prevent the confrontation with Corellia now that things had gone so far. Unless Counselor Leia was really the negotiation genius that many believed, the New Republic could be forced to retire in shame from the Viayak cluster before giving the Empire what they wanted. Or to stay and fight, which could only benefit the enemy. Nobody could tell what would be worse for the New Republic's future in the long run. As for the people of the Balanish Country, they would be doomed in any case.

Even if what now seemed impossible actually happened, and the war against Corellia was somehow avoided without sacrificing the New Republic's image, all this could still affect her personally. In the same way she benefited from the heroism and good performance of the Wolf's Lair's crew, the actions of Wolfshead Squadron were also related to her, the one who gave them their orders. She participated in their successes and their failures. She had just learned that Gregory and Schroeder were probably dead. Poetic justice, many would call it. Without a trial, there wouldn't be public humiliation for the two pilots, but no chance of their being declared innocent either. Damn it. Her name would appear in the History records beside the names of those who caused, or could have caused, a war between Corellia and the New Republic. Gen'yaa frowned with disgust. A part of her mind rebelled at her lack of consideration for the lives of those pilots who, up to this date, could have been considered heroes of the New Republic for their past actions. They had actually been decorated several times. Did she lament their deaths only because she wanted them to be publicly judged? A trial would have been good. Whatever the verdict, it would be better than this poetic justice, that is, the public assumption that they were guilty of a negligence that killed innocent people. In any case, they didn't have to die for that. Gen'yaa grimaced, mildly surprised by her own feelings. She wondered if that was her human side speaking. But no, not exactly. Dey'jaa was completely Bothan, and he didn't show a boundless ambition like others of their species. Was hers boundless? No, not quite. She didn't want to be the President of the New Republic, like Borsk Fey'laa sure did. Not even to be a councilor or a senator, when the Senate was reconstructed as Mon Mothma had promised already. Gen'yaa knew very well where her place was, and if her getting to it was good for the Bothan people, the better. Was there something bad in hoping that those pilots had survived for something more than their usefulness for her private interest? She had already answered herself a moment ago when she reflected about Wumb's exploits. She respected her crew and the members of Wolfshead Squadron as much as she wanted to be respected by them. She didn't usually recognize it, but she wanted the best for all of them. Neither death, nor defeat, nor humiliation. After all, she was their captain. Gen'yaa smiled without humor. So I'm not such an ice floe like everybody, myself included, believes, am I? But she didn't deceive herself. Supposing that those pilots had survived, if the choice ever were between them and her own career, she would help herself. After all, Gregory had disobeyed her orders, and Schroeder had allowed it.

Her mind returned quickly to the problems facing her. Maybe not everything was lost. She wondered if Dey'jaa had put her plan into practice. If it got the results she had hoped, she could prove what her intuition told her: that the presence of that transport beside a Seibergian mine-deploying convoy was not casual. And if that could be demonstrated, then Schroeder and Gregory could be absolved, even if the last had shot without a positive identification. She wanted them alive and flying again, if that was possible. That would be good for everybody, including herself.

Colonel Gen'yaa," captain's Omicri voice said behind her. "I have a transmission for you from the First Citizen."

"The First Citizen?" The admiral has not flown to the First Citizen, has he? Sinessis had abandoned the Brave Soul's bridge immediately after the battle ended, supposedly to go to the Tactical Room to plan his strategy in case the truce was interrupted by another explosion of violence. "Who may that be?"

"Counselor Organa." The Duros' big red eyes showed no trace of being joking. Gen'yaa stiffened and nodded, following him to the holoprojector area. The illuminated cylinder above the device showed already the image of a dark-haired human woman, wearing a New Republic military flightsuit without rank marks. Counselor Leia Organa. Princess Leia in person.

"Your Highness, I'm Colonel Gen'yaa, captain of the Wolf's Lair."

"Glad to meet you, Colonel, but you better call me Counselor." Without making any perceptible pause, Leia Organa continued. "Although my Corellians hosts had assured me that this is a private and not scanned line, I prefer you not reveal any strategic detail in this conversation."

"I understand, Councilor."

"Well. Before today's disaster, the incident headed by pilots of Wolfshead Squadron had become the entire focus of this crisis. The Corellians still consider it the point of no return."

"What about them blowing up the shuttle carrying the committee investigating that same crisis?"

"Good point, Colonel," In spite of her words, Leia Organa's holographic image frowned at Gen'yaa while she shook her head almost imperceptibly. That was a matter not to be commented in this conversation. "They say that was an accident, caused by the fact that the shuttle coincidentally entered normal space too close to one of their ships, and the automatic defenses reacted considering it a threat. I believe them, Colonel." Me too, but that should make our position a bit stronger, shouldn't it? Everybody can cause an accident, they and us both. "But the question of the destruction of the Balanish transport remains. I've been told that, before these last unfortunate events, you had conducted your own investigation with your personnel. Did you obtain any results?"

"Not yet, Counselor, although we've not finished yet. We...." Gen'yaa got quiet for some instants. She had to tell the Counselor that a serious complication had arisen. But how? If this conversation was being heard as Organa suspected, she could not even mention it. If the Corellians learned that the pilot who killed the refugees and his commander were on Seibergia, dead or alive they would hurry to capture them.

"Yes, Colonel?"

Gen'yaa took a deep breath. "It's something I must ask you. Maybe you can help."

Leia Organa stared at her. She had to be wondering what Gen'yaa was up to, but her expression remained the same. "I hear you."

"Several of my crewmen presented themselves as volunteers, for a period helping in one of our refugees camps on the Balanish Country."

"That's very praiseworthy." The Counselor's tone was completely neutral. Gen'yaa had no way to know whether Organa was informed or not about the fact that the two pilots involved in the incident were going to travel to the Balanish Country. If that was the case, she might take the hint and realize what Gen'yaa was talking about. She had the impression that Organa actually knew. An idea occurred to her and, for the briefest instant, Gen'yaa doubted. She had heard that Leia Organa had Jedi powers, like her supposed brother, Skywalker. While she didn't believe in the Force, Gen'yaa was certain that all the Jedi had paranormal powers. Would Organa be able somehow to read her mind? What if she found out that this volunteering thing had been her fabrication? Gen'yaa dismissed this concern. Organa was a diplomat. If a little deceit helped to avoid a war, she would support it. Nevertheless, it was too late to go back.

"Their shuttle was shot down on the Balanish Country in the first moments of the battle. Four people were aboard, including the Wolf's Lair's chief doctor. I've just learned it myself."

Leia Organa looked sincerely alarmed. "Are they well?"

"We don't know yet. They have told me that the Corellians have warned that any ship entering Seibergia's space again will be considered like an act of war, and the end of the truce."

"That's correct, Colonel, but I don't think they will deny us the permission to send a rescue party. I'll talk to their admiral."

"Thank you very much, Counselor."

"Your concern for your people is well understood and shared, Colonel. Meanwhile, go back to your ship and see if your investigation staff have reached any new conclusion. In that case, contact me immediately through Admiral Sinessis. I'll do the same if we find your people alive."

"Again, thank you, Counselor."

"You are welcome, Colonel. Ah, and on my behalf, congratulate your crew and pilots for their excellent work. If my hosts are casually listening to me, I don't think they should be bothered for me saying this. Organa out."

The image disappeared before Gen'yaa could say thank you for a third time. That last line had sounded like a sort of provocation to the Corellians, in case the transmission was being monitored. There it was another hidden message for the Corellians: Don't abuse of your position. A considerably inferior fleet has been able to put you in trouble and compromise your advance. Now that forces are more balanced, if you try to make your points by violence again, you will have to face the consequences. Gen'yaa had to respect that woman. Her praise of her subordinates also warmed her, whether that was her intention or not. Seemingly, she was not the only one impressed. Duros' facial expression were hardly readable, but when she turned toward Captain Omicri his tone was full of consideration.

"I'll call back one of our shuttles, Colonel. You will be on board your ship in no time."

Night had fallen on the Balanish Country. Rooster couldn't tell when exactly it had happened, because the thick cloud layer allowed very little light to get through. She had never had a clue about where the local sun was, but now darkness was complete. Seibergia had no moons that could illuminate its skies at night, supposing they were clear, which they weren't. With not even a single lantern lit, for fear of betraying their passage to possible Seibergian troops, the refugees advanced in complete obscurity. With the darkness, the cold had become even worse. Rooster didn't complain aloud for shame, although she had to grit her teeth to prevent them from clattering. She was wearing thermal clothes and boots, while the Balanish refugees had only vulgar coats and capes to protect themselves from the chilling wind. This echoed between the cliffs like if the mountain were a sort of giant organ, playing an ominous symphony that brought notes of irrational fear out of her soul. Children, women and old men kept walking, one after the other, carrying their scarce possessions and the packets rescued from the Compassion. Not even a single moan escaped from them, although she saw tears on the faces of some of the women when there was still light enough to distinguish them. Feeling so much grief and suffering around her, and being unable to do anything to help, filled her heart with unbearable anguish. The only people whose pain she could relieve were the wounded ones.

Now there was a second stretcher, tied to the rump of a kalahorse like the doctor's was. The Seibergian stormtrooper was unconscious when Mouse brought him, and Rooster had taken steps to keep him so. The sedative she had applied him would accomplish the double goal of helping him to rest and prevent him from causing any trouble. He had a clean wound on his left armpit caused by a laser bolt that could have burned him to his heart or torn his arm off, but which did neither. The man, young enough judging by his face, had lost a large amount of blood, but Rooster thought he would recover soon. The bacta patches would work better for him than what they did for the poor doctor. The Ithorian needed a surgeon. The exam she had performed on him with the help of a medical scanner had confirmed Al Saruff's self-diagnosis and her worst fears. He had suffered two broken ribs, and one had partially penetrated one of the Ithorian's breathing sacks. Furthermore, the bone splinters had caused critical damage in the surrounding tissues. The internal bleeding seemed to have eased now, but that was only a part of the problem. There was also a breach in his hip and an open fracture in the left leg; but, after immobilizing the limb, reducing the fracture and applying the patches, Rooster believed that Al Saruff wouldn't have any complications. If he survived his internal injuries.

Foxfire had taken leadership of the refugee group as naturally as Moose had adopted the role of guide and escort. Rooster almost envied them. She hated the weight of the blaster they had given her, hanging now on her waist and rubbing her thigh at every step, but understood the need for it. If they ran into another Seibergian group, they'd have to defend themselves. Confronted with the reality of war, Rooster had been forced to accept that some compromises should be taken. Such as carrying a weapon, and even using it if the time came. She preferred not to think of it. She once had shot down a couple of Imperial TIE Fighters that got too close to the Compassion, ignoring the danger that her cannons posed; but that seemed a different thing. She didn't see the faces of the pilots, only their machines, and she could always hope that the automatic ejection mechanism would have saved them from actually dying at her hands. That self-illusion wouldn't work if she had to shoot at somebody and saw the blood emerging from the wounds. Her mind traveled back to the day when the Lumi moon was invaded, and she had to run for her life. The Imperial stormtroopers didn't respect anybody. Many people she loved died that day. They killed Ros'ty, her couple, although he was unarmed. He insisted on staying behind to reason with them. Rooster had seen him fall from the distance. She would have shot back at the Imperials had she had a weapon then. Maybe she'd have to force herself to remember that more often.

Foxfire's voice interrupted her thoughts when she called for a stop. Rooster looked around. It was hard to say, but they seemed to be more and less at the middle of the pass. On both sides, rock walls protected them from the worst of the wind, and the sensation of cold was not so strong. After so many hours of climbing, the ground was almost flat, announcing the descent that awaited them from this point to the boundaries of the camp. But that would wait until the sun rose again. Now it would be far too dangerous to continue downwards in the darkness. If that were not reason enough, these people had to be exhausted; although, no one complained. She for one couldn't take another step, and she had not been walking for so long as they had. She was hungry, as well.

"Rooster," she heard Foxfire again, "help me to distribute the rations. That'll have to be all for tonight. Moose thinks we can't risk making a fire, and I'm of the same opinion."

"What you say. I don't want to see another walker coming after us, nor a group of stormtroopers shooting at us."

"Me neither, that I can tell you. Talking about the devil, what about our uninvited guest? It might be a good idea to interrogate him a bit--he must know if there are more troops around."

"I could give him a stimulant to counteract the sedative, but it would be best to wait a bit more. With the blood he has lost, he;s probably still too weak. I'd give him another synthetic blood bag, but we have so few that..."

"If he is not dying, don't spare any more with him," Foxfire agreed with Rooster's unfinished sentence. "Use that stimulant when you think he will be strong enough to talk."

"All right. How is your arm?"

"Better, thanks to you. It itches a bit, but I guess that's normal."

"Yes, it is. In a bacta tank you would be cured in six hours. With patches it will take a while longer. I'll remove the bandage in three days, and your arm will be like new in a week."

"Great. And the doctor?"

Rooster bit her lower lip before answering. "Bad. I'm really worried about him, Avery. Without some serious medical assistance, he could die soon. I don't know how much time he has. Ithorian are sturdier than humanoids in some ways, but more delicate in others."

"Can't you do anything?"

"No!" Rooster all but cried, attracting some looks from the closest Balanish. "No," she repeated in a calmer tone. "I'm sorry, Avery, I know you didn't mean..."

"You know I didn't."

"Look, we have nothing like an operating theater, and I'm not even remotely a surgeon. You've seen today practically all I know how to do. Applying bacta patches and set broken bones, provided there are only open fractures."

"Don't be too modest, Roo. What you've done today, including that incredible emergency landing, makes you my greatest hero for the rest of my life."

Rooster almost smiled. "Thanks. I'm just afraid it won't be enough. Not for the doctor; not for these people."

"I'm sorry, Rooster?" It was Sdermila the one who approached tentatively in the obscurity. "You are the doctor's assistant, aren't you?"

"Sort of, it seems. How may I assist you, Sdermila?"

"My friend Deveralia. I think she is about to have her baby. Now."

"Oh, my. Are you really sure?"

"Mostly. I had two myself, but she is going for the third one. She says she is coming, and she must know how it feels like."

Foxfire sighed. "I don't think I've actually seen all you know about medicine, yet, Roo." She didn't make it sound quite like a joke.

"We need sterilized water. Avery, you know which containers--find them, then you can distribute those rations. None for me, I'm not hungry any more. Sdermila, you've just said you had two sons. You probably know a lot more than me about what has to be done. Will you help me?"

"Oh. Yes, of course, of course I will."

Three hours later, Sdermila rested at last in one of the salvaged tents. Figor and Lania slept deeply beside her, sharing one of the sleeping bags they had also taken from the downed ship. The two exhausted children had been here since they camped. When they woke up they would learn that they had a new sister. Deveralia and her baby were all right. There they were, near the tent's entrance, the woman silently nursing the child. She wouldn't have any milk until tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, but as Sdermila knew well, the sucking would contribute to accelerate the first rise of milk. Besides it helped to console and calm down the newborn. Sdermila smiled. Rooster was almost paler than the mother when the baby's head showed up, but she composed herself very well. Sdermila had watched, enthralled how those strange appendages that were scattered on her head changed color while she followed the instructions provided by that little talking device she called an autodoc. She had never seen such a thing before. Rooster had asked her to cut the umbilical cord while she made the knot. Deveralia, poor child, had cried when she saw the little girl's face. Tears of joy and grief, because her husband was not there like he had been when her two older sons were born. Sdermila had stayed with Deveralia, giving her the slight consolation of her company, while Rooster went out to watch the doctor. What a strange being he was. Rooster had said he was an Ithorian, and she had called herself a Lumi. Sdermila had never met aliens in her life. She had heard that some of them visited Nurtina's spaceport from time to time, but she was not too curious. She had enough to think about with her sons and her modest plantation, the only source of incomes for the family, which demanded of her full attention. Now, at her age, she discovered that there actually was a whole universe beyond this world filled with interesting people like Rooster and amazing things like an autodoc. She wondered whether she would have been able to help her dear Taigor herself, the damned day when the kalahorse kicked him, had she been provided with one of those devices. But no, even with its help, Rooster had told her that she couldn't cure the Ithorian doctor. Internal damage, she had said. That was the same that the Seibergian doctor said then, after arriving way too late, when Taigor was already dead. He suffered much. One day and a half of agony waiting for a medic that never seemed to come, while her neighbor Kaliga took care of Jeiran and Lania. Kaliga. Now she and her husband were dead too, disintegrated along with their house, because Divanian thought he would be able to stop the Seibergians with his pathetic rifle.

Sdermila wiped a tear off from her face. She cried for Taigor, as always, but also for Kaliga and Divanian, for Deveralia and her sons, for all the suffering she was seeing these days. She hoped that, in spite of what she had said, Rooster would be able to save the doctor. He had come to assist them, and he didn't deserve to die like that. It was the first time she saw her people well treated by complete strangers. When she came out of the tent where Deveralia had given birth to her baby, she found Foxfire there, waiting with a box of energy biscuits, that was how she called them, which Sdermila devoured, surprised to discover how hungry she was. The other man, Moose, was somewhere outside their improvised camp, organizing watch turns with volunteers. Yes, these bizarre people, who preferred to use the names of animals she had never seen instead of their real names, were really here to help. This increased Sdermila's faith on the New Republic they belonged to. She would ask Rooster tomorrow if, after they reached the camp, there could be a way for her to go to Balania. Maybe they could take her with Jeiran, Voeda and the kids. Yes, they would do that. Sdermila smiled in the dark. Suddenly things seemed a lot less desperate than the night before. Sdermila closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep. She dreamt of her family.

Inside the tent he shared with Foxfire and a dozen Balanish, Moose was unable to sleep. Foxfire seemed uneasy, too, tossing and turning. She let a moan escape every time she leaned her weight on her right arm. The insomnia was not surprising, he thought. As hard as all these last days had been, this one had definitely won first prize. They had been shot down, they had crashed, had being attacked by an AT-ST, and then shot at by stormtroopers. The hours that followed those episodes of danger and fear had not let them stop to think about what had happened. Rescuing the doctor, pursuing that wounded stormtrooper who slept sedated in the next tent, walking and walking on the snow, through narrow passes were a new ambush could be waiting at every second, and then organizing the night camp, had all consumed his strength. Even after all that, he still couldn't sleep.

The danger was not over yet. While this was probably the safest place to pitch the camp, on the highest part of this mountain path, there were dozens of ways they could be attacked. It wouldn't be impossible for another AT-ST to get there, although it sure would be spotted by his volunteer watchers with time enough for....For what? Well, to give the alarm and run, if nothing else. Other more subtle approaches wouldn't even allow them that. The rocky walls that surrounded the camp offered plenty of hiding places, from where a whole platoon of stormtroopers could be watching them, even now. One or more snipers could climb through one of the numerous natural chimneys and shoot without impunity at them. A small group of commandos could approach in the darkness, silently slice the throats of the women and old men who now held their few weapons, and then take the rest of the camp by surprise. None of the watchers had any experience with weapons, with the exception of the old crippled man who had taken charge of the sniper blaster. He had introduced himself as Anderas. He addressed Moose as captain since he learned Moose's rank. Anderas had been the first of the Balanish who offered himself to stand watch, informing Moose that he had been recruited by the Empire as local guide forty years ago and received military training. He spat on the snow after spelling the word Empire. That gesture puzzled Moose a bit. For Ibero's explanations, he had understood that the Balanish standard of living had experienced some improvement under the Imperial domination, but obviously not all the Balanish shared that opinion. Anderas explained that he had tried to join the guerilla the night before, but he had been rejected because his crippled leg, not because his age. Anderas seemed so willing to assist that Moose had accepted him as one of his watchers, putting him in the third and last turn. But now he was starting to regret it. Moose remembered that it was Anderas who helped Sdermila to calm her kalahorse, after she had got it to break the Compassion's viewport. When Moose climbed out of the downed walker, there he was, watching intently the AT-ST remains and seemingly containing his urge to inspect it himself. And then again when he returned dragging the body of the stormtrooper, looking at the Seibergian with an infinite hate sparkling in his eyes. Damn, I wouldn't be surprised if he was now on the wounded's tent aiming that blaster at his head and caressing the trigger. That thought made Moose finally stand up and get out from the tent, taking the utmost care not to disturb Foxfire's fitful sleep.

But Anderas was not there. He saw only the two stretchers where Ben Al Saruff and the Seibergian soldier rested and Rooster, curled up beside the doctor. She opened an eye, as if inspecting him, but Moose indicated to her with a gesture that everything was alright and went out. He visited, one after another, each of the five watch positions he had established, intentionally leaving Anderas' for last. None of the young and middle age women were asleep. They took their role very seriously. Prudently, Moose whispered a warning every time he approached any of them. He didn't want to startle them and find himself with a shot on the chest. No, they haven't seen nor heard anything strange, beside the wind blowing between the rocks. Moose thanked every one of them and followed his tour, until he reached Anderas' post. It dominated the beginning of the descent to the other side of the pass, the path they should take to go to the nearest camp. The darkness was so intense that Moose hardly could see anything beyond Anderas' lonely figure.

"At your orders, captain," the old man said in a low voice, when he warned him of his arrival. "Nothing to inform, sir. This has been an uneventful watch."

"Thank you, Anderas," Moose answered, remembering that the man had asked him to call him simply Anderas, and not Mr. Anderas, although he had stubbornly insisted on calling him captain or sir.

"If you don't mind me to point this out, sir, you should be having some rest now. You've been awake for the other two watches."

"How do you know that? No, don't tell me. You were awake too." And dying to have your turn at holding the sniper blaster, I guess.

"We Balanish don't sleep too much, sir." Anderas half smiled. "It's in our genes. Beyond a certain age, we barely need to sleep at all. But you're young enough, captain."

"I slept a lot on the trip here," Moose lied, "before we were so rudely invited to land."

"They made their last mistake, captain. You showed them." Admiration was clear in the old man's voice.

"I was incredibly lucky, that's all."

"God helps His best men."

"Perhaps you're right, thanks." Ibero had included in his report a paragraph about the Balanish' religious beliefs, but even without it, Moose wouldn't have been too surprised at Anderas' wholehearted comment. He had met monotheist believers many times before. The New Republic was such an amalgam of diverse species, cultures and religions, and, after several years of serving on different posts and ships, he had become acquainted with all kinds of beliefs. While the cult to the Force had been the largest in the days of the Old Republic, the Imperial relentless pursuit of the members of the Jedi Order and its supporters had made other religions gain in strength.

"You're welcome, captain," Anderas said, pleased with Moose's apparent acceptance of his beliefs. "It's a honor for me to have a chance of helping a representative of the New Republic. May the day come when the Balanish Country will be admitted in its world brotherhood?"

Why, the man is quite a devoted. Moose didn't want to start a discussion so he didn't say what he thought about that question. That their cause was lost since the beginning. He didn't believe that the Balanish separatists would ever get what they wanted. They would never be citizens of the New Republic, unless their Seibergian neighbors decided to join too, abandoning their Imperial allegiances and their own imperialist dreams. No, Anderas' people would never be independent from Seibergia unless they left Seibergia, and they could hardly do that. Anderas respected his silence, maybe misunderstanding it as agreement, and accompanied him watching the black cliffs, scarcely silhouetted against the slightly less dark dome of the sky. But it was practically impossible to distinguish anything between the shadows that surrounded them.

Something is wrong, Moose thought, although he was unable to decide what. It's probably that I'm getting nervous because I can't see a damned.... Suddenly he remembered the sniper blaster now in Anderas' hands, with its thermal sight. Without a storm falling on their heads, the snow that covered the ground would make for an excellent background of cold, over which any presence of heat would be easily caught by the device.

"Anderas, please, give me the blaster."

"Of course, captain," the Balanish said, although he didn't seem precisely happy giving away the precious weapon.

"Thanks." Moose put his right eye on the sight and closed the left. Now he could see more of the world around them, although it was painted in unreal colors, most of them different shades of blue. He moved the blaster slowly in a 180 degree arc, and then back to the initial position. Moose stopped at mid movement. Had he seen a brown spot moving for the briefest instant, or was it only his imagination? There was nothing now. "Anderas, are there any kind of living beings on these mountains?"

"Not this high. Some wild kalagoats can be found in the valleys, feeding on the bushes that grow there. But here, no, I don't think so." Moose nodded. If he saw something hotter than the stones, chances were that they had visitors. He aimed at the bluffs that they had at both sides, at the chimneys concealed between walls of rock, perceived as black vertical breaches in the middle of extensions of dark blue. Nothing. He spent a quarter of an hour scanning the surroundings without seeing a single touch of a warm color. On his side, Anderas had passed from the excited nervousness of the first minutes to evident boredom. He even yawned once, in spite of his declaration of not needing to sleep. Moose himself was starting to feel drowsy, and a bit stupid for his excessive paranoia. The dawn was close now. He considered the idea of going back to the tent and try to rest if only one hour. And then a male voice that was not Anderas' left him frozen where he was.

"Drop the weapon. Now."

"All right, all right," he said, cursing himself. With the corner of his eye, he saw Anderas rising slowly his hands. "I'm dropping it, don't shoot."

"Moose? Are you?"

It can't be...."Cheetah?"

"Hah, the people you find in these mountains!"

Moose almost jumped for joy, to old Anderas' surprise. They had been found by Lynx Commando, the only friendly force on this world. Cheetah was its captain.

Imperial Center, the world known as Coruscant when it was the capital of the Old Republic, shone in all its splendor before Sate Pestage's eyes. He leaned on the balustrade surrounding the terrace of his private quarters in the Imperial Palace and smiled. The repairs after the revolts that followed the death of Emperor Palpatine had been finished, at least here, in the Imperial District. Only one detail remained: the public inauguration of the reconstructed statue of the late Emperor. Under its base there was the blood of those who dared to tear it down. Two platoons of elite stormtroopers, aided by a phalanx of the Imperial Guard, had massacred them before the dust from the destroyed monument had hit the ground. Wretched idiots. How could they think, if only for an instant, that by killing the Emperor they killed the Empire? Well, the Rebels had his personal gratitude for retiring the old crow, although the only reward they could expect from him was their persecution and extermination. The New Republic they had so happily declared had become stronger in this year, but it was all appearance. The Rebels knew how to fight. That was beyond any doubt, despite all the nonsense he had to hear in meetings and receptions from self-conceited admirals and generals who had never seen what a real battle was like. What the Rebels had no idea about was how to rule a galaxy with thousands of inhabited worlds, all with their local governments and their private disputes. Without an iron military control and an efficient bureaucracy, everything would soon collapse and fall on their heads. It would be nice to hear Mon Mothma talking about freedom and democracy when that happened. Yes, the Rebels would have exactly what they deserved. He would be waiting to give them the coup de grace and reclaim every last system now in their hands. All those blind and stupid peoples, all those despicable aliens, would become a lot more docile after the chaos created by one or two years of New Republic rule.

"Everything will be ready in five minutes, milord."

Sate Pestage turned, startled. Ysanne Isard stood a step behind him, looking at him with her unmatched eyes, one cold blue, one fierce red. Those strange eyes always puzzled him. Isard wore an Intelligence Officer's black uniform without rank marks. The white streak in her long dark hair was the only trace of color besides her eyes. Pestage knew that she had a strident red version of that uniform, which she used to impress her subordinates. He might not be as well and quickly informed as she was, but he was still the Emperor. Everything that happened, not only on Coruscant but in every place of the galaxy that mattered, sooner or later came to his ears. So far Isard had worn only the standard black in his presence. Pestage deduced from that fact that she still didn't consider him a subordinate. How kind coming from her. If he didn't need her so badly, he would order her immediate execution without a second thought. Even without proof, he had no doubt that hers was the hand behind the fall in disgrace and later the death of her father, the previous Director of Imperial Intelligence. But Pestage realized that this woman's privileged mind was probably his best weapon against his enemies, as far as they were her enemies too. The plot she had plotted to put Corellia practically in his hands was brilliant--another show of her unquestionable talent. He had no problems using that talent to his benefit, provided he had always half a dozen of his selected Crimson Guards around every time she was near. With the corner of his eye he saw two of them with their energy spears at ready. He didn't doubt of their loyalty, but he would have some words with their captain about admitting visits in his quarters without a previous announcement. Not even if it was the Director of Imperial Intelligence. Better said, especially not her.

"Madame Director," he said in a controlled tone, concealing his initial surprise at her arrival. More than likely, she had noticed and enjoyed it, though.

"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, Excellency."

"You have not." Bitch. "What is the last news from Seibergia?"

"Organa is still on board the First Citizen, but the tension is nothing but increasing by the second. The Diktat has sent another squad of Gunships escorting the Missionary, his other operative Nova Class Cruiser. They're racing to have their third one ready, but that won't happen any time soon."

Pestage arched an eyebrow. "And that's why?"

"Our agents sabotaged it. Don't worry, the Corellians will never find out, and in case they did, all evidence will point out to the New Republic." Pestage nodded, pleased. Ysanne Isard continued. "Without their Novas, Corellia is now relatively defenseless, Excellency. You could take the system now if you wanted."

"You're not suggesting..."

"Of course not, Excellency," Isard hurried to say. Pestage wondered whether it was his imagination, or he had really seen her smile at his sudden agitation. Bitch, he thought for the second time. "I'm just mentioning a possibility, but I think we both agree that Corellia is more useful for us as an ally than as a scornful and defeated servant."

"Not to mention how many Corellian officers there are in our Armed Forces."

"Yes, Excellency. Some of them are among our best."

"Well. What about the New Republic? What's Mon Mothma doing?"

"The have pulled a M-80 Mon Calamari cruiser from the front, the Rescuer. It is now racing toward the Viayak cluster. The Star Destroyer Borrasca has just arrived."

"Borrasca?"

"It used to be the Black Storm."

"Ah, the one on which the crew mutinied at Iberya."

"And that was the key for our loss of that planet. Yes, Excellency."

"Correct me if I'm wrong but, was not that ship damaged beyond repair? That was what your people wrote in their final report of the battle."

Ysanne Isard arched an eyebrow, but that was the only external sight of her annoyance at the Emperor's suggestion of inefficiency. "We underestimated the resources of the Iberyans. They've proven to be masters at improvisation..."

Sate Pestage dismissed the Intelligence Director's explanations with a gesture, conscious of how that bothered her. "I'm not interested on the details. I'd like to see the Borrasca smashed, along with the so called Liberator. I don't need your help to remember where that one came from." The Liberator had been the Adjudicator, one of the two Imperial Deuce Class Star Destroyers the Rebels captured at Endor. The other one was the Accuser, still under repair in Mon Calamari shipyards, if the most recent reports sent by their agents there were to be believed. That was another 'beyond repair' case, the Emperor snorted. The Rebels were going to rename it Emancipator. If there was something Sate Pestage hated was seeing the Empire's most representative tools stolen and turned against their legitimate owners. It was like a joke in bad taste, an obscenity. But also a warning, one he didn't want to hear: what has been yours, can be turned on you.

"Your wish of seeing those ships destroyed might well be fulfilled, Excellency. Although not without taking with them some of the Corellian's most valued jewels."

Pestage laughed in spite of himself. "That would make the Diktat all that more willing to negotiate his new alliance with the Empire."

"Corellia will join us, Excellency. And as an additional prize, we'll recover the Viayak cluster without shooting a single burst."

"Excellent, Madame Director. Excellent, indeed. And now, tell them to proceed with the ceremony. It's time to pay homage to our mourned Emperor Palpatine."

"For the greater glory of the Empire, and yours, Palpatine's worthy sucessor."

"Thanks, Madame Director." Was there a trace of mocking in the way she had pronounced the word worthy? Already Isard was leaving the room, swinging her hips almost imperceptibly as she passed between the two guards. None of them moved, but it was impossible to know where their eyes were looking, under their mirror like visors. Was it not for her inhuman eyes, Isard could be considered a gorgeous woman. Pestage wondered morosely if, the next time they meet, she would be wearing the red uniform. Or not wearing anything at all. Bitch.