"Chief Omas, I know hindsight gets us nowhere now, but we might as well be honest with each other, and recognize what we can each contribute."
Niathal was working through her phases of Jacen. First he'd been a useful ally; then an instrument for getting the tougher decisions past Omas. He
was still good for the Alliance, she thought, but he was far more the politician than the soldier lately. His language had changed—less direct, more circumspect. She longed for plain talking.
But she wasn't doing any in front of Jacen now.
"My sources tell me the Corellians failed to recruit the Mandalorians fairly early on," she said. "For some obscure reason, they appear to be staying neutral. Unless they've had some collective lobotomy, I call that interesting."
Omas looked at Jacen pointedly, hands in pockets. "Have we approached them? Have any of your shadowy little operatives signed some of them up? They were pretty handy during the last war, as I recall."
Jacen looked serene—except for his pupils. "No, and I suspect we wouldn't receive a positive response."
"Why? Don't tell me they've discovered pacifism after millennia of pillaging and destroying. They're congenital thugs. Any excuse for a fight that they can get paid for."
You think I don't know what you did, Jacen. Niathal feigned mild interest. But word gets around. Let's see if you play this straight.
Jacen was completely still except for the fact that he meshed his fingers in his lap. It looked like a meditation pose, utterly at odds with his black Galactic Alliance Guard coveralls.
"There's the small matter of the fact that I . . . lost Boba Fett's daughter during an interrogation," he said.
Aha.
"Lost." Omas blinked a few times. "What exactly is lost?"
"She died while I was interrogating her. I had no idea who she was at the time."
Omas looked stunned for a moment but then let out a small involuntary "Hah!" of oddly horrified amusement. "And Fett knows this?"
Jacen's face was as calm and impenetrable as a statue's. "He does now."
"Then I imagine you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life, Colonel."
Jacen looked as if he hadn't thought about that. His composure wobbled for a second as he rearranged his clasped hands. "Asking him for a favor wouldn't be the smartest thing to do, no."
Niathal wondered if Jacen had finally bitten off more than he could chew. Gossip reached her ears, and gossip from Jacen's secret police was a wholly different and much more reliable source than the murmurings in the pleekwood-paneled Senate corridors.
But it didn't suit her plans to have Jacen crash and burn. And she didn't have to like people to work with them.
"I've arranged to meet the ambassadors from Las Lagon and Beris with the diplomatic corps later today," said Omas. "Let's see if we can talk them back inside the fold. I don't want to start a stampede."
"What's their problem?" asked Niathal.
"Unwilling to commit troops."
"Give them a waiver."
"And what kind of message does that send to Corellia? That's backpedaling." Omas seemed indignant. "That's why we went to war in the first place—the principle of pooled defensive capability for the Alliance."
"Las Lagon and Beris between them contribute twenty thousand troops, tops. The diplomatic benefit strikes me as outweighing both the principle and any use they might be." The worst thing in the world, Niathal decided,
was a politician who discovered scrupulous principle halfway through the game. "They're badly trained and poorly equipped, so I don't think I'll miss their military input to the GA."
Jacen eased himself out of his chair and stood up, making it clear he was heading for the door. "Well, at least there's some positive news on the counterterrorism front. It's the second month running that arms seizures are up. We're shutting down their supply routes."
"Are you certain they're all politically motivated, and not just criminals?" Omas asked.
"If you were shot by one of them," Jacen said, "would you care about that fine distinction? Ordinary crime and terror tend to become bedfellows sooner or later. And ask Coruscant Security Force for their latest violent- crime statistics. It's becoming a lot quieter all around."
He gave them both a polite nod and left. Omas watched the doors close behind him and then wandered over to the main window overlooking the plaza to stare out in calculated silence.
"What have we come to, Admiral, that my first thought on hearing that Colonel Solo kills a prisoner is that he might now have enemies big enough to keep him off my back?"
It was a blisteringly frank admission. "You're only human," she said.
Omas didn't see the other side of that verbal coin. "It's an indictment of what we've all become that my inner circle of advisers isn't the security or justice secretary, or even diplomats, but the chief of staff and the head of the secret police." Omas began his ritual amble around the office, leaving faint and short-lived footprints in the pale blue pile of the carpet. "I think about that, you know. I wonder how a colonel rises to be so influential, and I really don't know if I let it happen because he's a Jedi, or because he's GAG."
Niathal thought it was smart of Omas to keep the real discussions to a
handful of people who could be trusted not to shift allegiance to Corellia. There was no telling with some Senators. "In these uncertain times, it's necessary. We can convene all the emergency committees we like, but the conduct of the war is a matter for very few. The war beyond our boundaries, and the war within them."
"Do you think we still have a war within?"
"Enough Coruscanti think we do. There's no such thing as 'only'
thousands dying in terror attacks. Lose a ship with thousands of crew, and civilians say that's too bad, that's what they signed up for. Lose a few civilians, and it's a planetary tragedy." The GAG had smashed most of the terror networks in a matter of months: they were very efficient at tracking down funding and establishing links. But they were still active, and lacking down different doors now—Bothan, Confederation sympathizers, and a few people who just "breached the peace" while emergency powers were in force. "It's as valid to deal with the fear of terrorism as with the reality."
Omas paused to try to look her in the eye. "Admiral, you strike me as an officer raised in the traditions of decency. Honor. The rule of law. That goes out the window all too often in trying times."
"I stick to what I'm tasked to do, and I'm grateful I don't have to get involved in GAG business."
Omas appeared to note the ambivalence. "Nominally, the GAG is under your command."
Nominally . . . "You feel Colonel Solo is exceeding his boundaries and that I should apply them a little more emphatically."
"I'm concerned about his operating procedures with suspects, I'll admit that."
"What do you want—for me to admit I'm concerned, too?"
"Are you?"
"Sometimes."
Omas's brows lifted in a split second of hope. "I appreciate that it's not easy to curb an officer who does so much to reassure the public."
"We all need heroes in difficult times, even if we don't need their protection as much as we think."
"Indeed. And for all their muttering, I do believe the Jedi Council secretly relishes seeing one of their own kind adored for his two-fisted and muscular approach to keeping the peace. It dispels the image of their being passive mystics out of touch with grim reality."
"Success is everyone's child. Failure is an orphan."
Omas smiled ruefully. "Well, he'll either win the war for us ... or bring us down." He went back to his polished plain of a desk, looking somewhat shrunken when he sat behind it now. The small bronzium vase holding a single purple kibo bloom made the desk look all the more vast and empty. "Heroes have a habit of doing that."