AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is a novel in two parts: one set before the 'Legacy of the Force' series and one set during the war between the Empire and New Republic. Jason Fry's Essential Guide to Warfare expanded on a lot of details about previously unexplored corners of the conflict and it was a lot of fun dramatizing those for the 'flashback' parts of the novel. The 'present day' parts take a look at old enemies who find themselves working together, and a crisis that makes everyone re-examine loyalties.

This one is for fans of Pellaeon, the X-wing books, and the military side of the Star Wars in general. And for people like the author, who spend way too much time looking up battles and warship specifications on Wookiepeedia.

-{}-

The narrow prow of the super star destroyer Guardian slipped through space. Its grey-and-black dagger, nineteen kilometers long, passed in front of Corellia's primary sun and draped a blurred narrow shadow across the cloudy face of the world's northern hemisphere.

A squadron of starfighters from Corellia's local defense force broke free of the planet's orbit and vectored directly toward the massive warship. They remained on an intercept course until the very last minute, when they swung their noses ninety degrees, kicked their afterburners to full, and lanced forward. They trailed ribbons of vapors that ignited under engine-flares and glowed brilliant, twisting streaks of red and white as they raced past the ship's mid-section observation deck. The starfighters finally slowed to settle in two graceful columns just beyond Guardian's bow, dangling flashing light-streams behind them.

It was an understated but graceful honor guard, Corellia's contribution to the funeral procession that would lead its most honored son home.

As he stood on the transparisteel-domed observation deck built into Guardian's forward superstructure, Grand Admiral Gilad Pellaeon watched those twirling lights and allowed himself the grim indulgence of wondering what kind of funeral he would get when his time came.

Like the man they laid to rest today, Pellaeon had been born on Corellia, but unlike him, he'd spent most of his life disconnected from the planet. He'd lived on other worlds- Coruscant, Anaxes, Carida, Bastion- but his real home was always the ships he'd commanded over a career spanning almost sixty years.

Not Guardian, though. The beautiful giant was, best anyone knew, the last surviving vessel of the Executor-class to roll off the Empire's shipyards, but she had been abandoned by her owners, later captured and slowly refitted by the New Republic. Now she was the largest ship in the Galactic Alliance navy, though her armor and armaments were nothing like what they'd been when she was first built. There was no need for them. She guarded a galaxy at peace.

Gilad Pellaeon stood at the head of an assembly that gathered too many legends and luminaries to count. It seemed like they had converged on Corellia from all corners and governments across the galaxy. It was historic, just having them all here.

Down at the end of the line there was Wedge Antilles in the red-sashed Alliance dress uniform he must have pulled out of the closet of whatever home he'd been enjoying retirement in down on Corellia. Next to him was his inseparable partner Tycho Celchu, still acting as a senior advisor in the Alliance navy.

Beside those old men were the newer breed: Cha Niathal and Nek Bwa'tu, Mon Calamari and Bothan, symbols of the influence of their two races but also highly talented admirals in their own right and the best to come up through the Alliance ranks since the end of the Yuuzhan Vong War seven years ago.

And there were others in the line, all members of the Galactic Alliance but wearing the uniforms of their constituent navies. There was Admiral Lenola Baas, tall and stately in the blue uniform of the Hapan Royal Navy. Further back, the thick-bodied, violet-skinned Dornean General Etahn A'baht. Part of a long-lived race, A'baht probably represented more years of combat experience than anyone assembled today, even Pellaeon himself. Beside him was another Bothan, the white-furred Traest Kre'fey, who had been caught between political pressures after the end of the Yuuzhan Vong War and resigned his Alliance com-mission. He wore a trim black civilian suit that contrasted greatly with his snowy fur.

Pellaeon wore his white Grand Admiral's uniform, complete with gold epaulets. The cut of the uniform was standard Imperial design but the rank badge on his chest bore the marks of the Supreme Commander of the Galactic Alliance Armed Forces. Standing beside him was Turr Phennir. Like Antilles, the retired fighter ace must have dug his uniform out of a closet. Imperial in design, it was colored deep black save for the red bloodstripes running down either side, marking the owner as part of the elite 181st Fighter Wing.

Pellaeon and Phennir were the only two repre-sentatives wearing the uniforms of the Galactic Empire today, or as the other beings here usually called it (though rarely to his face) the Imperial Remnant. The vast union that had once encompassed most of the known galaxy had been reduced to two drops in an ocean, and Pellaeon was no longer sure he regretted it.

He didn't speak his thoughts to Phennir. He didn't speak to the man at all as they waited for the funeral ceremony to begin. Even when they'd fought on the same campaigns, there's been little for them to speak about. They had always been two different kinds of Imperial.

Thankfully, Pellaeon didn't have to stand awkwardly beside Phennir for long. The murmured conversations in the assembled crowd hushed to nothing as three humans walked onto the stage at the front of the observation deck.

Against a wonderful backdrop of stars, gleaming exhaust-trails, and Corellia's soft glow, they took their places at the podium. On one side, Cal Omas, Chief of State of the Galactic Alliance. On the other, Aidel Saxan, Prime Minister of the Five Worlds of the Corellian System. And finally, in the center stood Leia Organa Solo.

It had been forty years since Pellaeon had watched holo-broadcasts of the willful young woman giving speeches before the Imperial Senate. Decades had turned her hair gray and wrote wrinkles on her face, but she still possessed the poise and confidence she had as a precocious teenager.

"We are gathered here today," she said, "To commemorate the life of the last great leader of the Rebel Alliance."

Phennir made an unhappy sound deep in his throat. Pellaeon understood the feeling, but said nothing.

Behind the podium, a holo-image blazed to life and loomed over the crowd. It was a head-and-shoulders view of a man none of them would ever forget. The holo, taken somewhere in the waning of the man's middle age, showed a wide mouth beneath a gray mustache, a forehead creased in concentration, and thick eyebrows drawn together over a pair of intent, probing eyes.

"In losing Garm Bel Iblis," Leia said, "The galaxy loses its last living reminder of the great bravery it took to stand against the oppression of Emperor Palpatine. Bel Iblis was a senator famed and respected across the galaxy before I was even born. He was a close ally to my father, and a constant inspiration to me since childhood. He inspires me still the same way he did fifty years ago, through his principled stands, his brave actions, his sharp intelligence and deep wisdom.

"In losing Garm Bel Iblis we've lost an essential piece of history, but the galaxy we live in today is one he created, along with my father and Mon Mothma, when they signed the Corellian Treaty and formally created the Alliance to Restore the Republic.

"We are not here today to grieve. Garm Bel Iblis lived a long life and died peacefully in a galaxy that was peaceful and free. We are here to commemorate this great man, and celebrate that we now live his dream."

As Leia stepped back from the podium, the crowd began to applaud. The old rebels like Antilles and Celchu clapped the loudest; the young ones like Bwa'tu and Niathal were only slightly less enthusiastic. Ones without direct experience in the Imperial-Alliance war, like Admiral Baas, applauded more dutifully. Pellaeon glanced askance and saw Phennir with his hands at his side, back stiff, watching the podium with an unreadable expression.

A part of Pellaeon wanted to join the applause. It was an overwhelming rush that threatened to sweep him along, but he held himself. On one level, it felt like a mockery that he was here at all, celebrating the life of a man who'd brought down the government he'd served for over fifty years. On another level, it felt right to pay respect. Bel Iblis had been an honorable man and a capable adversary. If an enemy was ever deserving of respect, it was Bel Iblis.

But because Phennir did not applaud, he didn't either. If nothing else, it would save him embarrassment back on Bastion, where the Moff Council was surely watching the broadcast of this event with gnashing teeth and seething anger at yet another reminder of how far the Empire had fallen.

Leia was replaced at the podium by Prime Minister Saxan. She gave a very fine speech of her own, extolling Garm Bel Iblis from a specifically Corellian point of view. She spoke of how he embodied the bold spirit of his homeworld and the willingness to cooperate, negotiate, and promote ideas of unity that kept both the Five Worlds and the Galactic Alliance together.

It was all true enough, but Pellaeon felt she went on a bit longer than necessary. After all, Bel Iblis hadn't always been a unifier. After a split with Mon Mothma, he'd fought a separate, private war against the Empire for over ten years, and had only relinquished his grudge when Coruscant itself was under siege by Grand Admiral Thrawn.

Stubbornness was, of course, another famed Corellian trait, but not one Saxan wished to emphasize right then. Suspecting he wasn't the target audience for this speech, Pellaeon subtly scanned the crowd of dignitaries for representatives of the Corellian government.

He quickly spotted Saxan's Minister of Defense, Thrackan Sal-Solo. Looking like an older, gray-bearded version of his mildly less roguish cousin, Sal-Solo listened with his arms crossed over his chest and an impatient look on his face. When Saxan finished her talk, everyone gave another big round of applause, even Phennir, since this speech didn't praise the Rebellion as much. Pellaeon joined in, but as he glimpsed Sal-Solo from the corner of his eye, he watched the man give a few very lazy claps before re-crossing his arm, very stubbornly.

Finally, Cal Omas stepped up to give the final speech. His piece was thankfully short and direct.

"There's no way to put my admiration and respect for Garm Bel Iblis into words," Omas said, "So I won't even try. What I will do is give this great man something close to the send-off he richly deserves. As per his request, his body has been loaded into a capsule that will now be fired from Guardian's forward torpedo bay and shot into the heart of Corellia's sun."

The holo-image of Bel Iblis winked out, making the star-sea behind Omas visible once more. Their speeches had apparently been better timed that Pellaeon expected; right above Omas, directly beyond Guardian's pointed stern, was the bright white glare of Corellia's primary.

"As Counselor Organa Solo so eloquently put it," said Omas, "We are now living Garm Bel Iblis' dream of freedom and peace. We honor that dream today, so we might continue to live it in the future."

Omas turned to face Corellia's sun and raised one hand. On that signal, a single projectile shot out from Guardian's most forward cannon. It had apparently been fitted with the same energy-streamers as the Correllian fighters still keeping honor guard, and its twirling red and white tails flailed behind it as it shot toward the sun.

As he watched that projectile dwindle into nothing, taking the body of the great man with it, Pellaeon wondered again what his funeral would be like.

He hoped it would be something like this. He hoped he left a galaxy that was peaceful and secure. He hoped he died like Bel Iblis, in his bed.

His mind rolled back through all the other legends and luminaries who had gone before. It seemed like the former rebels had gotten, as a whole, better deaths than their Imperial counterparts. There'd been some except-ions, of course: Pellaeon's predecessor as Supreme Commander of the combined Alliance fleets, Sien Sovv, had died in a spacecraft accident, and Bail Organa had perished with Alderaan, but so many others had passed away calmly like Bel Iblis. Mon Mothma had died before the Yuuzhan Vong War tore up much of what she'd spent her life trying to accom-plish, as had old warhorses like Jan Dodonna, Adar Tallon, Firmus Nantz, and Hiram Drayson. Ackbar had slipped away in his pool on Mon Calamari.

As for the Imperials, it seemed like they'd all ended badly. Palpatine and Vader and Tarkin, of course, but also Thrawn and the other grand admirals, thirteen in whole, had all died violently. Pestage had abdicated but been murdered anyway. Isard had been gunned down. Kaine's shuttle had been intercepted by rebel assassins. Krennel and Zsinj had been vaporized with their warships. All those old Deep Core warlords like Harrsk, Teradoc, and Delvardus had been poisoned while Pellaeon had been forced to watch.

Others, like that mysterious High Inquisitor Jerec, had gotten themselves killed trying to best the resurgent Jedi Order. Yes, he knew others who'd died in bed- Aren Dorja had kicked it just last year, and wily old Villim Disra had clung on even through the Vong invasion- but they often felt like the exception, not the rule, and the rule seemed to stretch from Palpatine himself all the way down to all the stormtroopers and pilots lost through the attrition of seemingly endless warfare.

Men like his son.

All in all, Pellaeon knew it didn't bode well for his own future, which was why he clung to Bel Iblis' dream as he watched the man's coffin dwindle to nothing and be swallowed up by the light of Corellia's sun.

It had never been his dream, but it was all he had left.

-{}-

After the ceremony came the socializing. The mood wasn't a sorrowful one; Garm Bel Iblis had lived long, died peacefully, and left behind a stable union. It was as happy an ending as any being could want, so the plates of food and glasses and wine didn't feel out-of-place. Even the holo-news crews, flitting around and asking for short words from the assembled luminaries, didn't seem crass.

Once the podium was cleared, the beings gathered in orderly rows on the deck of Guardian's observation dome fractured into disparate clusters. The speeches in honor of Bel Iblis had extolled the need for unity, and the fact that so many representatives from so many governments across the galaxy were here to respect him was a sign that his dream was, in fact, being pursued; however, beings fractured nonetheless, and for Tycho Celchu, it was interesting to see who fell in with whom, and which beings avoided each other.

Most of the representatives from Corellia's government, for example, fell into a tight circle and talked amongst themselves. Wedge Antilles, a little dutifully, grabbed some wine and food and went over to join them. Prime Minister Saxan, however, fell into talking with Cal Omas and after that moved around the deck, exchanging well-wishes with other beings but without dipping into the circle of her fellow Corellians.

Tycho wondered how much that had to do with her defense minister. It was well-known that Saxan and Sal-Solo didn't see eye-to-eye personally or politically, and that she'd only appointed him to her cabinet to appease his vocal minority of supporters. Sal-Solo had been a troublemaker for decades, usually at the head of some human-first and isolationist populist party, and Tycho was a little surprised to see him present at all. He supposed, even if the rest of the galaxy saw Bel Iblis as an Alliance hero first and a Corellian one second, Corellians (or at least Sal-Solo's supporters) saw it the other way around.

Tycho noticed certain other systems forming their own little groups. The Hapans hadn't sent their queen, but their admiral, Lenola Baas, was surrounded by a cluster of similarly statuesque, aristocratic-looking women.

At the same time, there were odd pairings. Etahn A'baht and Traest Kre'fey talked together at the edge of the chamber; A'baht was the only Dornean present and Kre'fey seemed to be keeping his distance from the other Bothans in the room, probably because of the convoluted political differences Tycho had always had a hard time keeping track of. The two odd men out seemed to have fallen in together.

And then, of course, there were the Imperials. Grand Admiral Pellaeon, now Supreme Commander of the entire Alliance military, seemed to have fallen into easy conversation with Bwa'tu and Niathal. General Phennir stood at the edge of the conversation, saying nothing, a look of mild distaste on his scarred face. Tycho wondered if it was because he was in a conversation so-called rebels, so-called subhumans, or both.

Whatever Phennir's issue. Pellaeon didn't seem to have had it. Tycho was glad of that. It had been almost two years since Omas had asked Pellaeon to take command of the military after the untimely death of Admiral Sovv. Many beings, Tycho included, had felt alarmed at giving such a role to a former Imperial, even one as skilled, experienced, and generally friendly toward former rebels as Pellaeon. He'd even offered his hesitation in private conversation with Omas, to which the Chief of State had replied that if there was a more respected serving military officer in the galaxy, he hadn't heard of one.

Omas had been right. Pellaeon had been a capable administrator and confidence-inspiring leader, both during the Swarm War and in the peacetime afterward. The fact that he was talking with Bwa'tu and Niathal now, while Phennir looked on sourly, was proof enough that Pellaeon was more than just an Imperial now.

"Are you all right, Tycho?" asked the woman beside him.

Jarred from his reverie, Tycho looked down and blinked. He was standing next to Leia Organa Solo, with Prime Minister Saxan herself in front of him, and he'd let his mind drift embarrassingly far from either

Tycho put on the polite smile he'd gradually honed as his rank improved, "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I was just asking after Winter," Leia said. "I feel like it's been ages since we've talked."

"Winter's doing very well, thank you. Alliance Intel still keeps her in reserve, but she's mostly retired."

"Ah, retirement," Leia savored the word. "I'm surprised she hasn't dragged you down that path yourself. I know she's been trying."

"It was a personal request from Cal Omas, believe it or not." Tycho tipped his wine-glass in the direction of the Chief of State, who was making conversation with the Hapans. "He promised me I'd just be overseeing and training new pilots. He said he wanted the best, and that it would be non-active service only. So far, he's been true to his word."

Shifting her attention to Saxan, Leia explained, "General Celchu is married to a very good friend of mine. We've known each other since we were growing up on Alderaan and she helped raise my children."

"I can imagine you've had your hands full," Saxan nodded. She was taller than Leia but about the same age, and possessed the same assured elegance. "Politics and family life tend to step on each other's toes, don't they?"

"Do you have children, Minister Saxan?" Tycho asked.

She shook her head. "No. In fact, I divorced five years ago."

"Oh." Tycho blinked. Leia said nothing, showed nothing; she'd probably already heard. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be." Saxan turned and gestured to the circle of Corellians which, Tycho noted, was now bereft of a certain Antilles. "Do you see the gentleman with dark hair, two to the left of Sal-Solo?"

Tycho nodded. He looked a good decade younger than Saxan herself. "I do."

"That is Denjax Teppler, now my Vice Minister."

"And your ex-husband?"

"We're much better political partners than we were any other kind."

Tycho didn't understand how that worked and knew he never would, so he didn't even bother to try. Honed diplomatic skill deserted him; all he could say was, "Well, I'm glad it worked out."

"With a tight little smile, Saxan asked, "And what about you, General? Do you have children?"

"Oh, no," Tycho waved a hand. "Winter and I, well, we've had plenty of other things to keep us busy."

"Including my children," Leia added.

Tycho was about to ask where Leia's own Corellian husband when Wedge Antilles, wine-glass refilled, slipped into the circle. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything serious," he said.

"We were just talking about children, actually," Tycho said with a little smile.

"Ah, well, I guess I know a few things about that."

"Are your two daughters well, General?" Saxan asked. As Prime Minister of the Five Worlds, it wasn't surprising that she knew more about the local hero, retired or not, than Tycho himself.

"They're doing well, thank you. So is my wife. I'm sorry she couldn't make it."

"It's all right," Tycho said, "Winter was busy too."

They both glanced at Leia, asking wordlessly where her husband (at this point, probably the most famous living Corellian) was instead of Bel Iblis' funeral.

Before she gave an answer, Saxan asked, "Your daughters are getting old enough to start choosing their own paths, aren't they? Do they plan on following your life path or your wife's?"

Wedge seemed to hesitate a bit before responding. He glanced sideways at Tycho, as if he already knew the answer, but Tycho didn't. They hadn't seen each other for almost six months before meeting on Guardian just before the funeral ceremony began, and Tycho had reserved a few days' leave to go down to Corellia and visit the Antilles home where his old friend was enjoying peaceful retirement.

Before Wedge could muster a response, the sound of applause, selectively localized, reverberated from one corner of the deck.

All eyes, and all the holo-cameras, swiveled to watch as Thrackan Sal-Solo hopped on top of a chair and raised his glass for a toast. He was ringed by clapping supporters (Teppler, Tycho noted, not among them) and before he spoke he tugged at the rim of his collar and mussed his hair, giving a slightly roguish tint to his formal look that was as calculated as this seemingly-impromptu speech.

"I want to thank all you for coming here," Sal-Solo boomed, loud enough for the whole deck to hear him without a speaker-phone. "I also want to say how proud I am to be here and honor the greatest son Corellia's ever had!"

That got loud clapping from his supporters, and more polite applause from the large chunk of the audience that was too confused to do anything else.

"Garm Bel Iblis was a great man," Sal-Solo insisted, "The kind that embodied all the things that make Corellia great. When the Empire stepped in and wanted Corellia to play by its rules, he said no. When Mon Mothma wanted him to change the way he fought his war, he said no. When Borsk Fe'lya told him to stand back and let the Vong run amok over the whole fragging galaxy, he said no and fought 'em back on his own terms without any help from the rest of the Alliance."

Leia had dropped into a mask of practiced restraint; so had Saxan, but it looked like her mask was about to break in half and reveal an angry katarn beneath.

Still standing on his chair, glass raised high, Sal-Solo went on. "He was his own man through and through and he let no one, and I mean no one, tell him what to do. If that didn't make him the walking fragging embodiment of all that's good and bold in the Corellian spirit, well, I don't know what does!"

After another burst of applause, he raised his glass a little higher and said, "Here's one to you, General. We'll try not to let you down."

He toasted, he drank, he got his applause. Then he ruffled his gray hair again, making it even more messy and rakish, and hopped back down to the deck.

"Hmm," Tycho muttered, "That could have gone worse."

"You want to know why my husband isn't here?" Leia frowned as Sal-Solo descended back into a ring of admirers and grinned at the journalists scampering to interview him. "That's why."

-{}-

"Well," Turr Phennir said as he watched the reporters flock to Sal-Solo, "That was suitably distasteful."

It was the first thing Phennir had said in fifteen minutes, but neither Niathal nor Bwa'tu seemed taken aback.

"That man does have a talent for grabbing attention," Cha Niathal said. The Mon Calamari's gravelly tones held as much contempt as Phennir's had.

"It was a well-played gambit." Bwa'tu observed. Always attuned to politics, even if he didn't like them, the Bothan continued, "Prime Minister Saxan refused him a speech, but he got his in with a way that's sure to grab more attention than anyone else's. And he didn't say anything actively treasonous."

"Or false," Niathal said. "It was true, every word. Bel Iblis could be… inconstant."

Pellaeon wasn't surprised to hear a little condemnation in the admiral's voice. Niathal had a sharper edge than rebel commanders of old. She expected beings to fall into line when ordered and hated when they didn't, even if the rogues were honorable heroes like Bel Iblis.

Bwa'tu, though, said, "Bel Iblis was a great man, and now that he's gone, everyone's going to be trying to claim a piece of his legacy. Sal-Solo is an ambitious one. It's no surprise he'd stake his claim fast."

"He's a dangerous man," Niathal said.

Bwa'tu nodded slightly. "We should be glad we have Saxan to keep him in check for now."

Niathal made a noise deep in her throat, like she didn't really believe that.

For the second time, Phennir spoke up. "If the Alliance lets men rise to positions of power while proclaiming themselves enemies of everything the Alliance stands for, it has only itself to blame when the trouble starts."

"Then we make sure that he stays in check," Niathal said.

Not for the first time, Pellaeon thought that Niathal would have made a decent Imperial admiral. A sideways glance at Phennir told him the old starfighter pilot had just had the same thought, and was surprised by it.

Pellaeon cleared his throat and said, "For the moment, at least, we have more immediate concerns than Thrackan Sal-Solo."

"I look froward to testing my mettle against yours next week, Grand Admiral." Bwa'tu flashed a very toothy, very Bothan smile.

"We'll be holding exercises next week," Pellaeon explained to Phennir.

"I've heard. You'll be using Megador," Phennir said, naming the largest vessel still in Imperial service. Phennir may have been retired, but clearly still had friends with ears in the military.

"It will be a joint operation," Pellaeon allowed. "The Hapans will be involved as well, along with as small samples from other local defense fleets. The Bothans, the Dorneans, even the Corellians."

"A team-building exercise," Phennir said evenly, though Pellaeon could hear the tired disdain in his voice.

"It's important that our units can work together cohesively," Niathal said. "During the Yuuzhan Vong invasion, the New Republic's navy fractured. We can't make that mistake again."

"Well, then, I hope they have a firm hand to guide them." Phennir swallowed the last of his wine. "Grand Admiral, if you'll excuse me, I have appointments to keep back in Imperial space."

"So soon?" Pellaeon raise an eyebrow.

Phennir simply nodded and gave no explanation. "Good luck with your exercises, Grand Admiral."

He didn't salute but he did offer one hand for a shake. Pellaeon took it and squeezed it more firmly than Phennir squeezed back. He watched the man turn and go, watched red-banded shoulders and short-cropped hair- blond fading to white- disappear in the crowd.

When he turned back to the admirals he found another had joined them, the older Admiral Klauskin. They were already starting a new conversation and Pellaeon excused himself. He felt, if anything, relieved that Phennir was gone, even if it left him the only Imperial in the room. Somehow, he'd come to feel more comfortable among aliens like Bwa'tu and Niathal than his own kind. That bothered him, but only when he stopped and dwelled on it.

Pellaeon went over to the refreshments table and refilled his wine glass. Back in the day he'd been able to put away whiskey like nobody else, but at his age he had to pace himself; it was already making him slightly weak in the legs.

As he turned away from the table he found himself facing two more alien faces: Traest Kre'fey and Etahn A'baht. Both were officers who had served in the New Republic Navy but were now retired. Pellaeon had forged a good working relationship with Kre'fey during the Yuuzhan Vong War, but A'baht was a more difficult case. Pellaeon had never served alongside him but at Celanon, almost twenty-five years ago now, the Dornean general had delivered him and the Empire a blow from which they'd never truly recovered.

A little awkwardly, Pellaeon extended his hand and shook theirs. "I'm glad the two of you could make it. This funeral has become something of an old officer's reunion."

"Well, it was only appropriate to pay respects," Kre'fey said. "I don't mind seeing familiar faces either."

"And you, General," Pellaeon shifted to A'baht. "I understand you've come all the way from Dornea."

A'baht nodded. "That's right, but I was planning to come Coreward anyway. The timing was… a useful coincidence."

"What were you coming in for, General?" As far as Pellaeon knew, A'baht had settled into retirement in some very private estate on his homeworld and very rarely ventured into space any more.

"The commander of the Dornean element to your war game exercises is an old friend of mine," A'baht explained. "He requested I come and observe."

"I see." Pellaeon stared into those small inscrutable eyes, deep-set on a wide alien face. "I look forward to your participation."

"It will be… interesting," A'baht said vaguely and gave nothing more.

Kre'fey was no fool; he surely knew about Celanon, so he interjected, "I've worked with the leader of the Bothan compliment. I assure you he's a fine officer. I look forward to seeing how he handles himself against Bwa'tu."

Kre'fey and Bwa'tu made another bit of awkwardness, one Pellaeon didn't understand as well; Bothan internal politics made the ones in the Empire look positively straightforward.

He asked, "Will you be joining us, Admiral? Even as an observer?"

Kre'fey waved a white paw. "I'm not an admiral. I'm not anything any more, just an old Bothan."

"Comfortably retired, it seems," A'baht said.

"Old soldiers deserve rest, even if I'm not on your level, or that of the, ah, honored dead." Kre'fey titled his wine glass toward the transparisteel dome, through which the glow of Corellia's primary was still visible. "The question is, Grand Admiral, when are you going to retire?"

"One day, perhaps," Pellaeon allowed, smiling a little beneath his white mustache. "But not quite yet."

"Well, whenever that day comes, you'll surely deserve it." He raised his glass and held it between the three of them. "To Bel Iblis' dream, gentlemen."

It was certainly worthy of a toast. Pellaeon gently tapped his glass against the good Bothan's. To the other side was A'baht's, and Pellaeon hesitated for a moment before the being who had fought him and cost him so much.

But he tapped A'baht's glass anyway, and they drank. Pellaeon was almost ninety years old and he'd learned how to put things behind him. With the life he'd lived, the strife he'd seen, the wars he'd fought, it was the only way for a man to stay sane.