INVIDIOUS

After escaping the Orron system and plotting a route out of the Corporate Sector, Leonia Tavira had decided the first thing she needed was a shower.

The one inside Captain Morux's quarters was excellent, with a warm temperature and a steady soothing water-stream. Before going in she scoured the rest of his cabin too. Based on his belongings, the man had been a sabacc enthusiast, an amateur blitzball player, and, a little surprisingly, a collector of fine wines. Tavira decided the last would make a good start in rebuilding her collection of spirits.

As happy as she was to have Invidious, a part of her mourned the loss of Courtesan, and not only for the spoils she'd kept aboard. The corvette had been small but agile, pretty but durable, easily underestimated but considerably dangerous. That was how she liked to think of herself too, which was probably why she'd taken to it.

Still, she'd traded the lesser ship for the greater one and had no regrets. She was disappointed to have lost Captain Wukh, as well as Van Tyrac. The latter had been ambitious and wouldn't probably have tried to betray her eventually, so in that sense it was good he was gone. Still, his Force powers were useful, and she made a mental note to seek out his homeworld. He'd said it was still under an Imperial heel, but she'd find a way to make that work for her. She always did.

She'd set a time to meet with Billibango to go over all the repairs and work that needed to be done on the ship, but Captain Morux's shower had been so soothing she'd lost track of time. She'd scrambled to dry herself off and, realizing nothing in Morux's wardrobe would fit, simply threw on the jacket of her old Moff's uniform before dashing barefoot out the door.

She found the Xexto slicer waiting for her on the bridge. Rossk and his enforcers had cleared out all its former crew and, aside from Tavira and Billibango, the whole deck was yawning and empty.

Billigango took her over to one of the operating stations and started showing her schematics of the ship, explaining what kind of damage they'd taken and what they'd need to do to repair it.

"Finding replacement parts for a stolen star destroyer won't be easy," he warned her.

"I know. I'm willing to take time to patch this ship up, even if it means laying low for a time."

"It's also designed for a crew of over thirty thousand beings. After losing Courtesan, we've got less than two hundred."

"We have ourselves a star destroyer, Billibango. Pirates from across the galaxy will flock to this ship. We only need to hold our own until we build up a good crew. How are the automated systems?"

"They can get us from place to place but not much more. We barely made it through that fight, and only because a lot of the Imperial crew realized they had to help us or die." Billibango turned away from the display and looked straight at her. "What do we do with thirty thousands captives?"

"Sell them for necessary materials, I imagine."

"Slaves, then?"

"Yes. I was thinking Hutt space. They're still in the market and I'm sure they'd have resources to fix Invidious."

Billibango nodded. "All right. I'll see who has contacts."

Tavira smiled at him. "You're quite industrious. How would you like to be my new first officer?"

He blinked in surprise and looked around the big, empty bridge. "Captain, I'd be honored."

"I thought as much. Now, what else did you have planned?"

"I also wanted to go down to the hangar bay. It's full of TIE fighters and other equipment that need beings who can work them."

"I understand. We'll have to work on recruited starfighter pilots." She looked around the empty bridge. "Go on ahead, Billibango. I'll catch up with you shortly."

The Xexto nodded and walked off the bridge. She watched him until he was gone, then spun in a slow circle and took in everything. She walked down the center aisle of the bridge, savoring every touch of cool deck plating on her bare feet. She continued up to the forward viewport and looked out at the off-white spread of a star destroyer stretching out a mile ahead of her. Stars spanned in every direction like infinite possibilities.

It was everything she'd ever wanted. Tavira started laugh-ing, alone on the empty bridge. She keeled forward and braced herself against the viewport, palms flat on vacuum-cooled transparisteel. Everything she'd ever done, from her childhood on Eiattu onward, felt like had been leading to this moment. Everything had been means to this end, even the Imperial uniform she'd worn.

She realized that now, finally, she had no need of it. She'd surpassed it. She hastily tore open her jacket and cast it off, throwing it into the crew pit. With a wide-eyed and joyous smile, she pressed the naked skin of her back against the transparisteel and felt the cold of space seep through. She spread bare arms and legs flat against it and felt all the stars spread out behind her while the heart of this beautiful ship lay before her, quietly waiting to give her anything she wanted.

She kept smiling an enraptured smile and knew deep down it was the happiest she'd ever be.

REAPER

The shuttle from Oriflamme set down in the middle of Reaper's vast hangar bay and was met with more than appropriate splendor. As he walked down the landing ramp and onto the deck Grant did a quick count: ten rows of stormtroopers on either side of the central aisle and twelve soldiers per row. In comparison to all that pomp. Grand Moff Kaine looked positively humble as he stood alone at the base of the ramp.

"Welcome aboard, Octavian," Kaine said warmly. "Welcome to the Pentastar Alignment."

Grant stopped in front of Kaine, hesitated for a moment, then decided to salute. Their brief conversations since Orron III hadn't determined the exact nature of their arrangement, but it felt like the right thing to do. Grant might be the Alignment's new supreme military commander, but Kaine was still its governor.

"Walk with me, please," Kaine said, and they began strolling past the lines of stormtroopers. "I just wanted to say again how pleased I am you came to join us."

"It was the wisest course of action," Grant said simply. His failure to either capture Starflare or kill Thrawn at Orron III had been just the first blow. Then had come the news of the Rebel leaders' escape from Etti IV and Captain Sysco's desertion. Where he'd taken the battered Vengeance, nobody seemed to know, but to lose a super star destroyer right after gaining it would have left Isard murderously angry.

Finally had come the news of Grand Admiral Makati's assassination. Every loss until then had left Grant feeling hollow. That had left him angry. The man had performed brilliantly in battle once again, only be be murdered by Rebel sabotage. The news had also left Grant afraid; as the last grand admiral the Rebels knew about, there was no doubt they'd throw their assassins at him next, and Makati's killing showed they weren't to be underestimated. Given the pact Kaine had just made with the so-called New Republic leaders, the Pentastar Alignment had suddenly become the safest place in the galaxy, at least for Octavian Grant. So he'd ordered Captain Bremel to set a course and hailed Ardus Kaine requesting asylum and offering his services. Kaine had acted very pleased but Grant still felt like a beggar.

That was the worst part about Kaine's warm mood and the grandiose reception. Deep down, Grant knew he didn't deserve it.

Kaine didn't bother to show off his super star destroyer as before. Instead they went up to his personal cabin and shared a bottle of that golden Sartinaynian brew.

"I'll keep these quarters furnished for when I visit Reaper," Kaine said as he poured, "But I intend to conduct most of my business from Sartinaynian now. You'll have your own quarters prepared as you like them, of course."

Grant sat back in his chair and sipped from his glass. "Very well. If I can be blunt, what will I actually use this ship for?"

"Patrol the border. Uphold our territorial integrity."

"This isn't a warship. It's a deterrent."

"That's right. But as I mentioned before, so much of our fleet is otherwise… lacking. We've taken to refitting lots of Vindicator-type pickets because we don't have enough star destroyers. You can be very creative Octavian. I want you to find new ways to get the rest of our fleet in fighting shape."

"Fighting whom?"

"No one in the near future, I hope."

It was a smart, prudent, careful policy, but they both knew that one day someone would come for them. Once Zsinj, Isard, and the Rebels were done fighting each other the Pentastar Alignment would suddenly find itself with the same enemy on all sides. When that day came Grant would find himself a marked man yet again, and he'd have to make another decision as to where his future lay.

Kaine tapped a set of controls on his desk and projected a holo-image on the far wall. It showed a massive arena with the Imperial City skyline in the background. Armored storm-troopers, countless more than had just greeted Grant, filled the parade ground. Long lines of people were moving slowly along the central aisle, to and from a podium at the far end. The rectangular box of a coffin was so tiny it was barely visible.

"This is a live feed," Kaine explained. "They're giving him a full state funeral. I heard they've already started construct-ion for a memorial on Monument Plaza."

Grant sighed and settled back in his chair. "He was a better man than I."

Kaine looked at his sharply. "You're the one who survived."

"Survival," Grant said, "is what I'm good at."

The grand admiral took another mouthful of his drink, let warm melancholy fill him, and watched the ceremony go on.

HOME ONE

The Empire was determined to give Grand Admiral Makati a hero's send-off, and his funeral ceremony was easy to watch, even aboard a New Republic warship. Hiram Drayson had been watching the first half-hour of the procession, wonder-ing whether to open the bottom drawer of his desk, when the buzzer at his door went off.

Without checking to see who it was, he unlocked the door and let Borsk Fey'lya inside. He immediately turned off the holo-broadcast and sat straight upright in his chair.

"Councilor," Drayson nodded. "I'm glad to see you're in good health. What can I do for you?"

"You can start by answering a few questions," Fey'lya said. He stepped in front of Drayson's desk but didn't take the seat beside him. "I had an aide to my diplomatic team on Etti IV. I was wondering you could help me find him."

Drayson's throat went dry. Somehow, the Councilor knew. On instinct, he tried to deny it. "I'm not sure if that's my purview. Shouldn't you be contacting Bothan Diplomatic Corps?"

"Don't be coy with me, Admiral. He admitted to me that he worked for you."

Drayson couldn't think of anything to say, so he said nothing at all.

"When he explained to me that he was on a critical mission I let him go. I offered any help I could. As you should know, I have utmost respect for our intelligence agents." Fey'lya planted his paws on the desktop and leaned closer. "Every-thing looked different after Grand Admiral Makati laid seige to Etti IV. I can think of only one explanation to that chain of events, Admiral. Do you want to hear it?"

No, there wasn't a point in denial, not any more. "Your aide, Reyan Dey'rylan, was part of a plan to kill Grand Admiral Makati. We'd planned to lure him to Bonadan with false claims you were meeting CSA officials there. How he learned you were on Etti IV, I don't know."

Fey'lya's fur stood on end. "I don't know which is more offensive, Admiral. That you used me as bait for your ploy, or that you screwed up and nearly got me killed." Drayson opened his mouth, but Fey'lya snapped, "Don't apologize, Admiral. I don't want to hear it. Tell me, who authorized this scheme? Admiral Ackbar?"

"Ackbar knew nothing of it. Admiral Burke, Dey'rylan and I came up with it."

The councilor looked honestly disappointed; he'd probably hoped to use this debacle to force his Mon Cal rival off the Provisional Council. When he spoke next he was quiet but still harsh. "You should know that I won't forget this, Admiral Drayson. I won't forget the kind of work you do."

"Did," Drayson corrected. "Dey'rylan and his entire team died on that mission."

Fey'lya's fur flattened. "Truly?"

"I wish it were otherwise."

The Bothan's gaze went distant. Softer than before he said, "I see. Well. At least they got their man."

"So it seems." Drayson just wished knew how they'd done it, but he never would, just like he'd never know how that alien assassin had sneaked aboard Emancipator and killed Admiral Burke.

Thoughtfully, Fey'lya said, "You know we Bothans honor our martyrs."

"The details of this operation will never be made public. You know that."

For a second, it seemed like, impossibly, Borsk Fey'lya didn't know what to say. Then he whispered, "I'll always remember what Dey'rylan did, Admiral. And you."

He looked at Drayson darkly for a moment, then turned away. He left without a word. Drayson stared at the closed door without feeling anything. Then he turned the holo back on and kept watching the funeral ceremony. People were still lined up to see Makati's coffin and the commentators were talking about the memorial they were going to build for the murdered hero. He still didn't feel anything.

Not ten minutes later, there was another knock on the door. Drayson checked the security cam this time, saw Admiral Ackbar, and let him in.

"Greetings," the Mon Cal said as he took a seat in front of Drayson's desk. "I wanted to speak with you in person now that you're back aboard."

Drayson had already given the admiral a full report on Burke's assassination via commlink, though there hadn't been much to tell. "Thank you for coming to see me. I was just… watching the procession." He touched the remote control and muted the audio from the broadcast, though it continued to play soundlessly.

Ackbar swung his bulbous eyes to watch it for a moment, then turned back to Drayson. He asked plainly, "Admiral, did you have a hand in that?"

Drayson considered denying it. He'd known that technically Fey'lya had had no power to punish him for his recent actions, but as Supreme Commander of the entire armed forces, Ackbar definitely could. He could and he should, because Drayson had gone behind his back, because they'd used Fey'lya and Organa as bait, because Drayson himself was the only one left alive that could be punished.

Ackbar would never trust him again if he knew; if he denied it, Ackbar still wouldn't trust him. So he told the truth. He let all of it spill, from his first hypothetical discussion with Dey'rylan to his talk with Fey'lya ten minutes ago.

When it was all over, Ackbar leaned back in his chair and folded his webbed hands in his lap. The first thing he said was, "You should have told me."

"I thought you'd shoot it down, sir."

"Yes, I certainly would have. And if I had, then Willham Burke would still be alive and so would Alpha Black. We might even be starting a new alliance with the Corporate Sector." Ackbar paused, then added, "And Makati would still be a threat."

"I'm not going to argue it was worth it, sir," said Drayson. "But I won't say it wasn't either."

In a contemplative tone, Ackbar said, "That is something we aren't able to judge now. Maybe we never will be able to judge. The question is what to do with the future."

Drayson nodded wordlessly. He had a hard time meeting the admiral's eyes.

"Alpha Black is over. General Cracken just reported that Grand Admiral Grant has fled to the Pentastar Alignment. Per our treaty with Kaine, the last grand admiral is beyond our justice now."

Drayson stared at his desk. It felt like such an anticlimax. He didn't know what to say.

"We still have much work to do," Ackbar continued. "Without Makati, Grant, or that super star destroyer, Isard is more weakened than ever. We must act fast to take advantage of that. And we'll need capable intelligence officers."

"Admiral, I apologize," Drayson blurted. "For all of this."

Ackbar nodded. "I know, Hiram. We'll need your services in the days ahead. I want you to promise me something."

"Yes, Admiral."

"No matter what scheme you think up, no matter what plan you have, you need to trust me. And you need to keep me informed. Do you understand?"

It almost sounded like forgiveness. Drayson nodded, "I do, sir. I understand."

"Then we'll speak again. I have another wayward soldier to speak with. Good day."

Ackbar rose and left the room. Drayson waited, then reached for the controls to turn on the holo-projector's sound. He froze, then pulled his hand back. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out on glass and a single bottle of Atrivis ale.

The booze had come from Jekk Karr, the glass from Kasck Fre'leir. Reyan Dey'rylan had sliced into Drayson's office and left it in his desk shortly before leaving for Etti IV. It had been a gift, and a promise to return.

Drayson stared at the holo-broadcast. The camera was zooming in on Makati's open coffin as he lay in state, his beautiful white uniform hiding all signs of violent death.

Drayson poured a mouthful of amber liquid into his glass. He thought of Dey'rylan, Kasck, Karr, Sheer, Ekrhine, Torr. He raised his cup and toasted the empty air, the silent room.

"Here's to you, gents," he said quietly, then drank.

-{}-

It was Wedge's third debriefing since flying back to Home One. The first had been with some of Cracken's agents, then Cracken himself. That was when he'd been informed that Tycho Celchu had been captured during his spy mission to Coruscant. He'd already been so hollowed by his other losses that he'd barely felt a thing.

This last talk was in Ackbar's office. The admiral had explained everything that had happened to the Rogue Squadron he'd left behind, including Avan and Feylis both crash-landing and getting retrieved during the battle.

"Flight Officer Ardele parachuted safely and is in good physical condition," Ackbar was saying. "Avan Beruss is a trickier matter. The doctors on Emancipator had to amputate his leg." Wedge winced, but Ackbar went on, "He'll be fitted with a prosthetic, but we can't say for certain that his reflexes will be as good as they initially were. He'll have to undergo months of therapy before we know for sure. There are also… political implications in this."

"What did his aunt say?"

"She raised… private concerns to me. Hers, and those of the boy's father. They were never comfortable with the idea of young Beruss flying combat missions. She also questioned the wisdom of letting two combat pilots in the same unit form romantic attachments."

Wedge had had the same doubts when it had first become clear that Avan and Feylis were involved, but there was no regulation against intra-squad romantic pairings; furthermore, he'd been happy for them and hadn't wanted to spoil it. Looking back now, it seemed like another failure.

"Avan was a good pilot," Wedge said, "But he was never… Well, he was never a natural."

"Never one of your best."

Wedge nodded. He didn't want to sound cruel.

Ackbar sighed and said, "Commander Antilles, it should noted that, without Celchu, Beruss, or Fel, Rouge Squadron is down to half a full roster. If it's going to fly again it's going to need substantial rebuilding."

Wedge heard the stress on that if. He was ready, then, when Ackbar said, "I've made the decision to disband Rouge Squadron. Rest assured, your pilots will land on their feet. I know Lieutenants Janson and Klivian already have outstand-ing offers to lead training units."

Wedge blinked. Janson and Hobbie hadn't mentioned anything of the kind. But then, they wouldn't have.

"Admiral, sir… I'm glad you're taking care of my people. But I have to ask. What about me?"

Ackbar considered him with those large, unreadable eyes. "I'm not certain yet, Commander, but some one is going to have to rebuild Rogue Squadron one day. Since General Skywalker has already resigned his commission, that leaves you as the most senior Rogue left."

Wedge stared, dumbfounded. "Sir… Our conversation, when you asked me to let Tycho fly..."

"I meant what I said."

"Exactly. I chose my family over the Republic. Sir, I don't deserve my uniform."

Ackbar took a deep, deep breath. "The events at Orron III are going to remain highly classified. Cracken is still investigating things you reported, including Leonia Tavria's return. He's also trying to find out what happened to Captain Celchu. But for now, the actions you took there must also be kept secret."

"I know that, sir… But I'm a deserter."

"I know. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't shake my trust in you." Wedge lowered his head. The admiral went on, "That is why, for the foreseeable future, we'll be working closely together. You'll be serving me in a role of strategic advisory while we lay down a battle plan for an invasion of the Core."

"But sir, after what we lost at Etti IV-"

"Isard had lost more, including her best ship and her best commanders. This war doesn't wait for us to sort out our personal problems."

Wedge knew that all too well. He thought over his new assignment and said, "It sounds like you're trying to keep me away from a cockpit."

Ackbar didn't deny it. "Until I know I can trust you again, yes. Until then, you stay by my side."

It was better than he deserved. "Thank you, sir."

"And when I do decide to trust you again, we will rebuild Rogue Squadron. Together."

That when echoed in Wedge's thoughts after he left Ackbar's office and walked down to Home One's main hangar bay. He found what was left of Rouge Squadron down there, docked against the far wall. It was down to five X-wings now, and it would soon be none. Now that he'd been pulled off active flight duty, he wondered what would happen to his personal X-wing, the one with Death Star kill marker. It was something he'd never had to wonder about before.

After that he wandered to the squadron's locker room. When he stepped inside he was surprised to find Winter sitting on the bench in front of the open door to Tycho's locker; Leia stood over her shoulder. Both looked up to meet him and he froze in place. He felt ashamed to be seen by either of them.

Leia, though, went right to him and put her arms around his shoulders.

"Oh, Wedge," she said, "It's so good to see you."

"Leia, I'm so sorry," he breathed against her shoulder.

"Sorry for what?" she pulled back to look at him.

"At Etti IV, I left. I chased Fel and-" he stopped, shook his head. Leia stared at him quizzically. He realized that she hadn't heard a thing.

"You know that Fel is gone, don't you?"

She nodded grimly. "I heard Isard got him."

"I think so. What happened… Well, it's a long story. And very classified."

"I understand, Wedge."

She couldn't. She had no idea what he'd been through on Orron III; what he'd recovered for a few brief minutes and lost all over again. He put both hands on her shoulders and said, "Leia… I had to make a choice. The kind of choice we talked about earlier, do you remember?"

Her eyes went soft, her voice quiet. "I do."

"I made my choice. And it didn't matter." He laughed, dry and bitter. "None of it mattered. They're all gone."

She cupped his hand with a soft palm and looked into his eyes. Understanding passed without words. She nodded slowly, sadly.

They stepped apart. Finally, Wedge forced himself to look at Winter. He saw that she had Tycho's dress uniform folded on her lap; in her hand, she held a battered crest with the Empire's circular logo on it. Wedge recognized it as the badge they handed out to pilots after graduating the Imperial flight academy.

"He wanted to remember," said Winter, and Wedge knew she forgot nothing; not Alderaan, not Tycho, nohing. "Just like he still remembered Nyiestra, and his family… It was important to him, remembering."

"Cracken's doing everything he can to find Tycho," Wedge said weakly.

But he'd probably told her that himself. She looked up at Wedge and their eyes met; both immediately looked away. Wedge wouldn't blame her if she held him responsible for what happened to Tycho. He'd never know for sure if she did. If he asked, she'd deny it, and if she said no, he wouldn't believe her. He didn't believe it himself.

He wondered if they'd ever be able to look each other in the eye again.

"He remembered," she said as she looked back at the old academy crest. "Everything he'd done, good and bad. Everything he'd lost. All the mistakes he'd made. Every time he felt empty and alone inside. He never wanted to forget any of that."

The room dropped into grim silence. Softly, Leia asked, "Why?"

"Because something always comes next. Something always changes. You remember, and you keep moving. That's what Tycho did. It's what we all do, whether you want to or not. Remember. And keep moving."

"We don't know if he's..." Wedge began, but couldn't say the last word. For a moment he was struck dizzy by everything that had happened to him: how close he'd come to gaining what he'd never dared hope for, only to lose more than he could ever imagine.

Finally, he croaked, "We don't know what happened to him."

Winter picked up Tycho's uniform, held it to her face, and breathed deep. Her eyes were low and her voice muffled as she said once more, "It's what we all do. Remember. And keep moving."

CORUSCANT

When his captors let go of him, Tycho Celchu was dropped hard onto the tile floor. He broke his fall with his palms but couldn't lift his head. Pain shot up through his kneecaps, but it gave him the focus he needed to break through the numbed drug-induced haze he'd been trapped in since his capture.

His eyes focused ahead of him. He saw the edges of two scarlet robes; then, in front of them, a pair of polished black calf-high boot, topped by scarlet trousers.

It couldn't be her. It couldn't be anyone else.

With effort, he raised his head and looked up at the scowling face of Ysanne Isard.

As her red-and-blue glare held his, she asked, "Do you feel lucky to be alive?"

Tycho opened his mouth but no sounds came. He tried to force words through but they came out as a hacking caught. Hands caught his shoulders and pulled him back so he knelt upright before Isard.

"Do you?" she asked again.

"Not particularly," Words felt like knives in his throat.

"As well it shouldn't. Do you have idea what has happened to your Rebel Alliance since you've been away?"

He shook his head.

"We traced two of your Rebel leaders, Borsk Fey'lya and Leia Organa, to a secret meeting with Corporate Sector officials on Etti IV." Tycho's heart sank as she continued, "Grand Admirals Makati and Grant trapped them there. Your rebel fleet put up a fight, so Grant was forced to open fire on the planet's surface using the full power of our new super star destroyer Vengeance. After that, the rest of the fleet was annihilated as well. Needless to say, there were no survivors."

Her words meant the death of everything he cared about: of Wedge and Hobbie and Janson of the Rouges, of Leia and Winter, of the New Republic itself. It was awful beyond words.

But when he looked up at Isard, she was still scowling.

"Liar," he said.

Her scowl deepened. "Excuse me?"

"You're wrong. You're lying. You're trying to trick me."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because," he tried to smile. "Lies are all you do."

Her foot snapped up before he could react. Instead of catching him in the face or the chin, her boot-tip stabbed into his right shoulder. He cried out, but the unseen guards behind him grabbed his back and kept him from falling.

As he winced so hard it brought tears to his eyes, Isard continued, "What, pray, do you think really happened? Please, I'm curious."

"Well," he panted, "You seem pretty mad… So I'm guessing… We killed a grand admiral?"

"Pull him up," Isard ordered, and Tycho's captors hoisted him upright. His legs were still too wobbly to stand so he dangled between them, helpless as Isard took a step closer.

"Well?" Tycho asked, struggling to meet her eyes. "Who was it? Did we get Makati?"

She reached out and squeezed his chin between the fingers of her black-gloved hand. She squeezed so hard it hurt but Tycho managed to say, "We did it, didn't we? We really… outfought him…."

"Makati was not beaten," she said. "He was murdered by rebel assassins."

The news almost made him giddy. "Good enough for me."

She released his chin, formed her hand into a fist, and punched him in the stomach. Tycho sagged in his captors' arms and gasped for breath.

"Do not be too happy with your victory," Isard warned. "You should know that the two rebel spies you met with, Marya and Shome, have been captured by my agents."

Suddenly Tycho didn't feel giddy at all. He sagged lower and prayed a silent prayer that somehow, one of their packets of information had gotten back to General Cracken; for the sake of the war effort, for the sake of his best friend.

"I've taken them to a special facility of mine," Isard went on. "It's where I put my... special cases. They'll soon be joined by a very important person. The Prex- I should say former- Prex of the Corporate Sector Authority. I'm eager to see what secrets the Rebels told him before his capture."

Tycho said nothing. He'd been wondering how long poor Marya and Shome would last in Isard's dungeons. The bit about the Prex- he wasn't sure what to make of it. More mind games, probably. Or maybe she really had captured the officials Leia and Winter had gone to meet, and that might mean-

Tycho couldn't let himself think it. He had to assume everything Isard said was a lie. He had to trust that the war was still going on, that Wedge and Winter and everyone he cared about were safe.

It was the only way he'd die a sane man.

Isard grabbed him by the hair; he yelped as she tugged his head upright. She looked down at him with that same scowl and said, "You will be joining them too, Commander Celchu. Yes, I think you'll make a very fine addition to my Lusankya..."

The name meant nothing to him. Everything she'd said rattled in his drug-addled brain and one thing stood out, not because she'd said it, but because she hadn't.

Through bared teeth, Tycho wheezed, "Baron Fel… you lost him… didn't you?"

She punched him, hard. Pain tore across his right cheek. She brought up a knee, right into his diaphragm. As he sputtered and tried to breathe she hit him a third time, right in the jaw. Teeth split open his lower lip and blood rolled down his chin. He tried to focus his eyes even as his head felt like it was going to split apart.

"Take him to Lusankya," he heard Isard declare. He felt his captors pull him away, felt the floor move beneath his feet.

The pain threatened to overwhelm him, but he clung to the pain, held it to his heart. Pain told him that Fel had escaped, that Makati was dead, that Winter and Leia and Wedge and everyone else was safe.

As they dragged Tycho into the dark, pain was the only hope he had.

ADMONITOR

After their escape from Orron III, it was a long way home.

First, their shuttle rendezvoused with the interdictor cruiser Corvus, which had already packed itself full with refugees from the destroyer Grey Wolf. Next, they swung around the Outer Rim to an obscure, polluted planet Soontir Fel had never heard of. The Noghri commandos who'd been accom-panying Thrawn left there, and though Fel wasn't privy to their leavetaking, he had the sense it was to be temporary rather than permanent.

After that, they began the long journey to the Unknown Regions. Fel had a lot of time to talk with his wife, with the stormtroopers who'd rescued him, and with the men and women, human and aliens, who'd been working together to crew Corvus and Grey Wolf.

By the time they rendezvoused with the star destroyer Admonitor, Fel had a good idea how of his conversation with Thrawn was going to go. He was taken to the grand admiral's personal chamber on the destroyer; the alien sat in a dark room, lit only by the glowing pinpoints of starlight on a map. Fel couldn't recognize the star systems from their pattern, and knew it had to be somewhere in their destination, in what he'd always called the Unknown Regions.

Thrawn began by saying, "I want you to know that I allow few people in these chambers. Captain Parck, whom you've just met, is one. So was Dagon Niriz."

He'd heard that name already. "The captain of Grey Wolf."

"Niriz was a loyal soldier of the Empire. On his first mission under my command he almost attempted mutiny." Despite his words, his voice sounded wistful, faintly nostalgic. "Naturally, his opinions evolved in time. Others, such as Daric LaRone and his men, were more like you. They'd already fallen out with the Empire as they knew it and were searching for something else to serve."

"I see," Fel said, then added, "I appreciate your trust. I'm not sure what I've done to earn it. Frankly, admiral, I'm not sure what I've done to deserve any of this. What your men sacrificed, just to rescue me and me wife…" He closed his eyes and saw the face of Daric LaRone as he stood resolute in the landing lights of the troop transport on Orron III. He could only take it for a second, then opened them again. "Admiral, I'm in your debt."

"I don't want to be in your debt. Do you now the kind of war I've been fighting in the uncharted corners of the galaxy?"

"I've heard, sir."

"Then you know what kind of a battle is ahead of you. You should want to fight that battle."

He allowed himself to imagine his future: flying again, leading fighter wings again, engaging in ugly battles against hideous alien warlords to save alien populations he'd never heard of. He could imagine chaos upon chaos, battle after battle, without interludes of peace.

But his wife was by his side, finally, and soon he would have a child. Somehow, that made all the difference.

Fel examined his thoughts and chose his words carefully. "I think… What I've believed in, what I've wanted to fight for, that's never changed. I'm a soldier, and I've always been willing to fight for a cause. That's never changed either. I've just needed two things."

Thrawn raised an eyebrow, expectant.

"I need Syal by my side. And I need a cause I can really believe in, a cause that doesn't use soldiers like me as pawns and throw them away."

"You will get that in my service, Baron Fel. I promise."

"I want to believe you, sir."

"Then believe. See, listen, and judge for yourself."

He'd already seen a man he barely knew throw himself in front of a blaster-shot to save his life. He'd heard stories from Grey Wolf's surviving crew about brave Captain Niriz. No one had made them give their lives for the cause. They'd chosen to. That said everything.

Fel asked, "Shouldn't we be going, sir?"

Thrawn nodded and rose from his chair, and together they walked out of the chamber.

The remembrance ceremony on Admonitor's broad forward observation deck was crammed with people: many human, some blue-skinned aliens like Thrawn or green-skinned ones like Vaantaar, plus other races from planets Fel had never heard of.

He followed Thrawn to the front of the chamber, where Syal stood waiting alongside Brightwater, Marcross, Quiller, and Grave. She wore a blue robe that matches her eyes; her face was clean and bright and her short-cut hair was back to its natural gold.

He took her hand as they stood for the ceremony. It was briefer than he'd been expecting; Thrawn was apparently not one for speeches since he stood to the side and let Captain Parck make his own statement, which was also brief. He spoke of the courage of men who lived their lives in wartime, and the value of sacrifice. It was the kind of speech Fel had heard in years serving the Empire, and later the Republic, but somehow it felt different this time.

When Parck's short words were done, forty-seven cargo containers were jettisoned toward the nameless sun shining past the viewport. Fel knew many more had died aboard Grey Wolf whose bodies they'd been unable to recover. He also knew that somewhere, hopefully in the front row, was the body of Daric LaRone.

From Syal's other side he heard Brightwater whisper, very softly, "Clear sailing, Boss."

When the ceremony was done, beings began to file out. Parck stepped up to Fel and shook his hand, then did the same for Syal and the others. Thrawn remained where he was, back to the viewport, watching everyone else leave. His glowing eyes, alien and unreadable, met Fel's. His head inclined in a slight nod, and Fel nodded back. Then Syal took his arm and turned him away.

"Hey, Baron," said Brighwater, "We were going to do something special, something private for LaRone."

"I see." Fel had never gotten the impression that the four men blamed him for their leader's death, but he still felt uncomfortable around them.

Syal squeezed his arm and said, "I think we should go, Soontir."

"Listen to your woman, Baron," said Quiller. "She knows the score."

Fel shot his wife a questioning look; she returned with a tiny smile, one of the few he'd seen from since Orron III. They'd talked about finding some way to let Wedge know that they were both all right and not in Isard's clutches, but they also knew Thrawn's people would never allow contact with Republic forces, no matter how limited. They'd already sailed past charted space and the galaxy they'd known.

Syal showed regret about Wedge, but not about this new situation she'd ended up in. She'd lost her old life completely when Fel had defected; everything they had together now was a miracle, and they both knew it.

They were led to a small, simple ready-room. Grave reached up to the top shelf of a cupboard and brought down six glasses, while Brightwater went into another bin and pulled out a bottle of some blue ale.

"I don't suppose that's from a planet I've heard of," Fel deadpanned.

"Probably not," agreed Brightwater as he poured out the glasses.

"You should probably stick with five cups," Marcross said and nodded at Syal.

She cupped her stomach and said, "I can manage one sip. A small one, for LaRone."

"He'd like that. This was his favorite," said Marcross. They stood around the table and he lifted his glass for a toast. The other troopers did too, and then Syal. Fel felt his self-consciousness dissolve as he picked up his own and raised it to match theirs.

For a second nobody spoke. Glances passed around the table, and Fel realized nobody knew what to say.

He'd barely met LaRone. Even Syal had known him better. Still, words came to him, and he raised his cup a little higher. "I'm standing here today because of other peoples' sacrifices, people who didn't even now me and were just doing their duty. I can't say how humbling that is. I want to respect them. I need to respect them."

He hesitated, but when Syal squeezed his free hand he found more words. "I want to make a toast to Daric LaRone, Dagon Niriz, and many more I'll never hear of. To all the good soldiers."

They echoed his last words, even Syal. They tipped up their glasses and drank. It was like nothing Fel had ever tasted before, and whatever his expression was, it made Syal burst out laughing. She sagged against him as the others all started talking, and soon they were telling jokes and stories from all the missions they'd done together, but Fel barely heard them.

He put on arm across Syal's shoulder, rested his head against hers, and closed his eyes. He felt the warmth of his wife, the warmth of whatever he'd just drunk, the warmth of this boisterous room. And beyond that, he knew, was cold space and all those scattered stars, and a lifetime of battles upon battles waiting to be fought.

"But not today," he whispered to his wife, without prelude or explanation.

But as always, Syal understood. She reached up to stroke his face and whispered in his ear, "No. Not today."