THE BLACK FLEET CRISIS #3 - TYRANTS_TEST Read online

  The next morning, Leia received a visit from the tall, slender

  Rattagagech. He brought with him a balance table and a compartmented

  canister of colored hemispherical weights--the tools of Elomic physical

  calculus.

  "I have come to analyze with you the logic of your circumstances," said

  Rattagagech. "It will give you an opportunity to quantify the

  objective elements in conflict."

  "Please don't trouble yourself, Chairman," said Leia.

  "It is no trouble--it is a welcome opportunity," said Rattagagech,

  setting the transparent table on its floating pylon. "I find the old

  art elegant and the practice of it soothing--it makes me feel very

  young in the presence of minds that are very old and wise." He sat

  down before the table, now balanced on its pylon.

  "Chairman, I thank you for your concern," said

  Leia, stopping him from opening the canister. "But you can't help

  me."

  Rattagagech looked up at her in surprise. Her words verged on an

  insult to his intellect. "President Solo--Princess Leia--physical

  calculus is the foundation of logical analysis, and logical analysis is

  the foundation of Elom civilization. This art raised us from what we

  were to what we are."

  "I respect what the Elomin have accomplished," said Leia. "But

  physical calculus would have told us rebellion against the Empire was

  futile. And logical analysis will always sacrifice one life for many,

  or a few for several, and leave you thinking you've done something

  noble."

  "I must call your attention to the work of Noto-ganarech, who has

  demonstrated that a properly weighted table tilts to support of the

  Rebel Alliance--" "When you already know the outcome." She shook her

  head. "I can't let the tilt of the table decide my course. I just

  don't believe that everything that matters can be quantified for the

  calculus."

  With his indignation undisguised, Rattagagech gathered his tools and

  left.

  Leia had one last visitor from the ranks of the Ruling Council before

  the day was out. Dall Thara Dru--the senator from Raxxa, chairman of

  the Senate Commerce Council, and the only female among the seven--had

  had nothing to say at the last meeting.

  Behn-Kihl-Nahm's head counts included Dru as a supporter, but that made

  Leia even more unsure about what to expect from her.

  "Thank you so much for making time for me," said Dall Thara Dru as she

  glided into Leia's office. "This terrible business--I can't imagine!

  Your life must be completely upside down."

  "I appreciate your sympathy--" "This petition against you is the worst

  kind of foolishness I can think of. I just came from Chairman Beruss's

  office, and I'm afraid I found him quite immovable-stubbornly attached

  to the notion that you are

  the problem. As if it were your fault that there are dead planets all

  across Koornacht Cluster!"

  "I'm grateful for your support--" "Still and all, I'm afraid that Doman

  has influenced enough minds to give you a great deal of trouble when

  the Council meets on the petition. So I've been asking myself, what

  can be done? How do we reassure the others that you have matters well

  in hand? And then I realized that the answer is the question no one

  seems to be asking!"

  "Which is--" "Where is Luke Skywalker?" said Dall Thara Du.

  "Where are the Jedi Knights?"

  "I'm sorry, Senator Dru," said Leia. "I don't understand."

  "Why, Skywalker singlehandedly defeated the Emperor.

  Surely he can handle these Yevetha without any trouble. And if he

  needs help, he's raised an entire army--at New Republic expense, mind

  you!--of wizards like himself. Well, no wonder Beruss objects to

  sending our sons to Koornacht. Why do we have to fight this war?

  Where are our Knights?"

  "The Jedi are not the New Republic's army, Senator Dru--or its

  mercenaries, or its secret weapon," Leia said evenly. "If you're

  suggesting that I come to the Council and say, in effect, 'Don't worry,

  my brother will take care of this for me'--" "Oh, of course," Dru said

  breezily. "I know that you can't tell the chairmen exactly what you

  have planned. Just let them know that the Jedi are standing with

  you-that's not too much to say, is it? We're trying to shore up their

  confidence, after all. And who better to inspire confidence than Luke

  Skywalker?"

  "That is too much to say," Leia said. Her tone was frosty, her words

  blunt. "Chairman Dru, I haven't asked for the help of the Jedi. And

  neither have they offered it. There are no secret plans to conceal.

  The New Republic can and will fight its own battles--as will I. And if

  you're someone who supported my nomination thinking it was a package

  deal--'Hey, we get Luke

  Skywalker for free' I'm sorry to say that you were mistaken."

  There were no more postponements. The next morning, Leia stood in the

  well of the Council chamber, facing Doman Beruss.

  "President Leia Organa Solo, have you read the petition of no

  confidence offered against you?"

  "I have, Chairman." Her voice was steady and strong.

  "Do you understand the charges contained therein?"

  "I do, Chairman."

  "Do you understand the particulars offered in support of the charge?"

  "I do, Chairman."

  "Do you wish to offer a response to the petition?"

  Leia glanced at Behn-Kihl-Nahm, seated to Beruss's right, before

  answering. "Chairman, I contest the petition in its entirety. I'm

  shocked and dismayed that it was ever offered."

  Behn-Kihl-Nahm slumped back in his chair, weariness causing his

  features to gray.

  "It's not only a personal insult, it's a political mistake," Leia

  continued. "I have to wonder if the chairman has started taking his

  counsel from Nil Spaar--because he's the only one who stands to benefit

  from our infighting."

  "There need be no infighting," said Krall Praget.

  "It's clearly better for all if this matter is resolved quickly and

  quietly."

  "Then ask him to withdraw the petition," Leia said, pointing at

  Beruss.

  "This started with him, not with me. It's his fear that's the real

  issue here."

  Beruss said quietly, "The chairman regretfully advises the Council that

  he cannot in conscience withdraw the petition."

  Leia turned her gaze on him. "I don't know why or how Chairman Beruss

  became infected with the creep

  ing timidity that seems to be on the rise here. But if his worry is that Princess Leia will lead the New

  Republic into a war to rescue her husband, I suggest he's worrying over

  the wrong question. And I hope the rest of the Council is about to set

  him straight."

  "Why?" asked Borsk Fey'lya. "How many friends do you think you have

  in this room? Do you think that there's one of us--even your dear

  Bennie--who hasn't had doubts about your fitness in recent months?

  Fire and idealism may be fine qualities for the leader of a revolution,

  but the leader of a great republic needs to be several degrees cooler

  and a good deal more canny."
/>   "Point of order, Chairman Beruss--" said Behn-Kihl-Nahm.

  But Beruss, his eyes darkened by disapproval, was already moving to

  intervene. "The remarks of Chairman Praget and Chairman Fey'lya are

  out of order and will be removed from the record. The floor belongs to

  the President for the purposes of her response to the petition."

  "I've said all I have to say," Leia said.

  Behn-Kihl-Nahm glanced at something lying out of sight on the surface

  in front of Beruss. "Chairman, point of precedence--" "Go ahead."

  "I would like to offer a compromise that I hope may satisfy the

  concerns of all parties," said Behn-Kihl-Nahm, his eyes warning Leia,

  You must help yourself now. "If the President will consent to announce

  that she is taking a brief personal leave, the Council will name

  Chairman Rattagagech to serve as caretaker until she returns."

  It was a judgment call whether Rattagagech or Fey'lya looked more

  startled.

  "We will give the President time to consider this proposal," Beruss

  said. "The debate is suspended. The vote on the petition is tabled

  until we meet in three days."

  He rang the crystal, ending the session, before a startled Fey'lya

  could speak a word.

  Chapter 4

  Colonel Bowman Gavin carried the formal title of director of flight

  personnel, Fifth Fleet Combat Command. But to the more than three

  thousand pilots and weapons officers of the nearly two hundred

  squadrons based on the fleet's carriers and Star Destroyers, Gavin was

  simply fleet air boss.

  The fleet air boss had the final say over every "cheeks on the

  cushions" decision--flight assignments, ratings, transfers, reprimands,

  and promotions, from the greenest backseater to the squadron leaders

  and combat wing commanders. His office was off the hot corridor in

  Intrepid's flag country, fifteen strides from General A'baht at one end

  and eight strides from the combat operations center at the other.

  Despite his high station, Colonel Gavin was a familiar sight on the

  flight decks and in the hangar bays of the fleet. Approachable and

  matter-of-fact, he was by his own admission more comfortable with his

  feet up in pilot country than he was behind his own desk or at A'baht's

  briefing table. Gavin disliked working from reports alone, and would

  not promote or pass judgment on a pilot or a junior officer until he

  had made a personal, firsthand assessment.

  The pilots in turn claimed Gavin as one of their

  own, and trusted him to give them a fair hearing. They knew that he

  knew what it was like to sit in the cockpit of a twisting fighter, guns

  hot and an enemy thundering in from behind. Though Gavin usually chose

  to wear only the "new sun" campaign bar he had earned as a B-wing pilot

  at the Battle of Endor, his service history entitled him to wear most

  of the combat decorations the Alliance and the New Republic had created

  and conferred.

  Administrative chaos had arrived along with the five task forces drawn

  from the other fleets. Gavin had had to suspend his schedule of

  informal visits and keep his appointments to a minimum just to keep up

  with the briefings and reports. It was the closest he had ever come to

  closing his door to the world since being promoted to flag rank, five

  years ago.

  It didn't take many days for the air in his office to thin to half an

  atmosphere and the bulkheads of his office to close in to the

  dimensions of a cell in the brig.

  But by the time Gavin rebelled and began to plot a temporary escape,

  the Fifth Fleet had re-formed into double-strength task forces and

  scattered into the fringes of Koornacht Cluster, taking most of the new

  arrivals out of ready reach.

  But Task Force Gemstone, now attached to the flag task force, offered

  twenty-two possible destinations for Gavin's getaway. Since a visit to

  Commodore Poqua's command ship, the carrier Starpoint, would only

  entangle him in more command-level formalities, Gavin skimmed down the

  list and chose another vessel.

  "Roust my pilot and prep my gig," he said, calling down to Intrepid's

  No. 1 flight deck. "I'm going to pay a visit to Floren."

  "Acknowledged, Colonel. We'll notify flight control."

  With the fleet on level one alert, even Colonel Gavin was obliged to

  don combat flight garb when leaving Intrepid in a smaller craft. Apart

  from the time lost climbing into and out of the five-piece

  high-flexibility pressure suit, Gavin didn't object to the

  requirementand the typically spirited and ribald ready-room chatter

  usually made that time pass quickly enough.

  But at midrotation, the ready room was deserted, and Gavin had to

  struggle with the waist ring without benefit of a helping hand. It was

  not until Gavin was in the middle of the helmet-on pressure test that

  another pilot joined him there--a young alien wearing a purifier pack

  on his chest and the red emblem of a provisional flight officer on his

  Collar.

  Instead of going to one of the lockers, the pilot walked to within two

  meters of Gavin and stopped, as though waiting for him. When the test

  rig chimed its approval, Gavin broke the neck seal and removed his

  helmet.

  "Are you looking for someone, son?" Gavin asked, noting the absence of

  aFifth Fleet insignia on the pilot's uniform.

  The officer saluted belatedly, as though it were an unpracticed

  reflex.

  "Are you Colonel Gavin, sir?"

  "Guilty as charged. And you are--" "Plat Mallar, sir. Sir--they told

  me that you make all the decisions about pilot assignments."

  "They?"

  "The crew of the gig. And the crew chief told me where I might find

  you. I'm one of the ferry pilots from Coruscant."

  "The escort flight for Tampion," Gavin said, nodding.

  "I know that you were all cleared by Intelligence, but I'm a little

  surprised to hear anyone's talking to you.

  Did you ever think they might not be doing you a favor, telling you to

  come see me?"

  "Colonel, you make all the decisions about flight assignments, don't

  you?"

  "Yes."

  "Then who else could I see?"

  Gavin nodded thoughtfully. "What is this about, then?"

  "It's about my orders, sir. There are five of us being sent back to

  Coruscant on the fleet shuttle, as space is

  available. We were brought over from Venture this morning to wait."

  "That's right. What's the problem?"

  "Sir, I don't want to be sent back. I can't be. I want to stay and be

  part of this fight. You have to let me do something."

  "No, I don't," said Gavin, tucking his helmet under his right arm.

  "But I'll give you a chance to convince me that I ought to. Mind you,

  though, I signed off on your orders. To be blunt, we do need pilots,

  but no one wanted you or the others. None of you is experienced enough

  for the squadron leaders who've shorthanded to take a chance on you."

  "If it makes any difference to you, I have another hundred and ninety

  hours in a TIE interceptor that don't show up on my service record."

  "In a TIE?" Gavin raised an eye
brow questioningly.

  "Give me your ID disc."

  The young pilot complied, and Gavin studied the data in a portable

  reader. When he was finished, he looked up and fixed Mallar with a

  quizzical look.

  "Who are you?" he demanded. "I can't figure out what you're doing out

  here in the first place. You have more hours in sims and fewer hours

  in a cockpit than anyone I've ever seen in a combat zone."

  "I've worked as hard as I can, Colonel, so I could have a chance. I

  spent every minute my check pilot could spare me flying. I spent every

  other minute I could training in the simulator. I'll work just as hard

  here, if you don't send me back."

  "Your check pilot, yes," said Gavin, handing the ID disc back. "He

  seems to have run you through primary training in about a third of the

  usual time, even though he graded you not much better than passing.

  What's the missing piece of this picture, Mallar?"

  The question seemed to crush Mallar. "I suppose I should have let the

  admiral put it all in my file, like he wanted to," he said dolefully.