"Ready."

Medrit pressed the switches and the ferrocrete vat erupted with cold vapor and loud hisses as gas escaped-Fett thought it was noisier than he remembered, and then he realized it wasn't the escaping by-products of the thaw but the weak panting squeals of a woman in agony.

Beluine dived forward, blocking his path, and reached into the miniature storm that had formed above the vat.

"It's okay, Ba'buir, it's okay, it's okay..." Mirta leaned in, too, taking the spent hypo from Beluine's hand while he applied the breather.

Sintas wasn't screaming-she'd never been a weakling, not her-but the sounds she was making were incoherent, the panic of any terrified animal with something unfamiliar pressed to its mouth by a stranger. "You're safe, it's okay. You're going to be all right."

When the vapor dissipated, Mirta held Sintas's hand while Beluine slapped a monitor on her arm. Sintas was thrashing about, trying to sit up, and staring totally unco-ordinated, eyes rolling. She pulled her arm away from Beluine, grabbing blindly for anything. Mirta caught her arm.

"You're among friends, "she said quietly. "Easy. Udesii. Just relax and let the doctor take a look at you."

Sintas looked right through Fett, her face all white terror made more stark by the ink-black Kiffar tattoos, the qukuuf. She was blind. He was ready for that, but he wasn't ready to look into her eyes again, dark blue, at once both everything he thought he'd ever wanted and the deserved judgment on what he hadn't given her. The last fifty years collapsed in on themselves leaving Fett nineteen again; be-sotted for a brief while, and then an older, numbed man wondering why the only thing he could manage was to walk away to leave her in some filthy alley, knowing he was abandoning his daughter again, too.

I didn't even ask about Ailyn. I just gave Sintas the holo-gram and told her not to lose it again.

"Well, she can move, "Beluine said. "No paralysis. Excellent."

"Shab, he's a sharp one, "Medrit muttered. "I'd never have diagnosed that in a million years."

Mirta and Beviin lifted Sintas and laid her on a repulsor trolley, wrapping her in blankets. She was calming down now, or at least exhausting herself into a quieter state. Fett dared to step closer.

Beviin put a discreet hand on his back to steady him.

"Madam, "Beluine said. "Can you hear me?" He checked the device on her arm. "Can you tell me your name?"

She jerked her head in the direction of the doctor's voice. "I...

heard..."

"That's good. Let's try again. Can you tell me your name?"

Sintas seemed totally distracted by the question. She settled on her back, eyes open and apparently staring at the workshop ceiling.

"I... I don't know. Don't know.... who are you? Where's... oh stang I don't know who..."

Sintas had been frozen in her midthirties. She was a shuddering wreck coming out of the agony of carbonite suspension, but she was still a beautiful woman.

I owe her. She's not my wife now, but I owe her some-thing for all those years I was never a husband or a father.

Fett had no way of articulating that aloud, because he'd never learned to go beyond that single, all-defining father-son relationship, but he wouldn't abandon her this time. At least he had some breathing s.p.a.ce now to work out how to fill in her missing history.

If she'd been in her fifties, sixties, seventies, he'd have done things differently, he swore it. But she wasn't. She wasn't even old enough to be Mirta's mother. Mirta looked stricken but her eyes were dry.

She was a Fett, all right.

"Let's get her to her room, "Fett said. "Dr. Beluine needs to carry out his examination."

"Amnesia's really common in carbonite cases, "Beviin said kindly, following the repulsor into the main body of the house. "But how much of the past would you want her to forget for good?"

"It's not her who needs to forget, "Fett said. "It's me."

Chapter 4.

Sweetheart, are you okay? Don't take any stupid risks. You're not responsible for saving the Galactic Alliance single-handed.

-Shula Shevu, newly married, in an encrypted message to her husband BASTION, IMPERIAL REMNANT: MOFF a.s.sEMBLY HALL AT RAVELIN It was always sobering to be a spectator at your own funeral.

Pellaeon stood at the window overlooking the parade ground and watched the ornate cannon carriage that would carry his remains. Like him, it was a survivor from a different age, archaic in design but still able to fulfill its function in war. The paired bloodfins drawing it came to a halt at precisely the center of the paved expanse, remained motionless for a count of ten, and then wheeled right to follow a perfectly straight line through the archway and out into the streets of the capital, the brilliant scarlet crests that earned them the name bobbing like flames in the morning sunlight. Pellaeon was sure they were a subspecies of ghannoidal certecyes, but they had that striking red crest like the marine predator, and bloodfin was much easier to p.r.o.nounce. A token platoon of Imperial Guards marched behind in their everyday number five uniforms, not parade best.

However many times Pellaeon saw the rehearsal, it was impressive.

Bloodfins were notoriously hard to train in the art of dressage or precise cavalry displays. He made a mental note to congratulate the ceremonial staff; the carnivorous quadrupeds were formidable mounts, quite capable of fighting on their own even when their rider was dead, and they were not known for their obedience off the battlefield.

Bastion had to rehea.r.s.e the state funeral regularly be-cause such magnificent displays of pomp and precision didn't happen overnight. A leader might die at any time, and Bastion liked to be prepared. Pellaeon sipped his caf, aware of the hum of conversation at his back, and watched the carriage and the guard platoon vanish into Ravelin's early-morning quiet.

"Doesn't that depress you, sir?" asked Reige.

"Only if I'm taking part." Pellaeon held out the translucent cup for a refill. "I'll worry when I see hundreds of guards in their parade best." He watched the reflection of the room behind him in the transparisteel sheet of the window, and noted each Moff's arrival and whom he huddled with to chat before the meeting started. "Two minutes, Vitor, and then we begin."

It was a regular weekly a.s.sembly of the Moff Council of the Empire, nothing extraordinary or unscheduled, but in the last twenty-four hours Pellaeon had been made aware of activity on the informal diplomatic front. He could still rely on Moff Sarreti to keep him up to speed on backroom politics even though the man was retired.

All those Moffs, and so very little Empire to play in. It was bound to make them restless.

Pellaeon glanced around the table during the meeting, playing the game of working out which of the Moffs wanted to a.s.sa.s.sinate him, and which saw some advantage in keeping him alive. Luckily, the only ones who were com-petent to take him on were also the most militarily able, and so were his allies. Nature had her checks and balances. They broke for caf.

All you need is patience, gentlemen. I'm ninety-two. Just sit it out.

"Admiral, may I refill your cup?" Lecersen was one of the old-school Moffs, a man who believed in duty. He even kept himself combat-fit and clipped his hair extra-short to a suede-like bloom across his skull.

"I think this meeting is going to last a little longer than usual."

Pellaeon sipped thoughtfully. "Did I ever tell you I was psychic?"

"I believe not."

"Oh, I am. I believe a great opportunity is going to come our way, one that will change our destiny."

Lecersen stifled a smile. "It's very general, sir."

"I'll go out on a limb. I predict that at least one of our colleagues here has heard of a wondrous potential connected to the ongoing nastiness between the Galactic Al-liance and the Confederation."

Lecersen allowed the full grin to take over his face, and cast a cautious eye over the cl.u.s.ter of men who treated Grand Moff Quille as a center of gravity. "I must remember to ask you to advise me when placing odupiendo racing bets."

Pellaeon didn't know Jacen Solo as well as he would have liked, but one thing he did know was that the man was both manipulative and impatient, a combination that meant he tended to start playing his games early. It was only a matter of time before the rebuff of his offer to talk about joining the Galactic Alliance camp was countered with a discreet word to the Moffs about what luscious op-portunities their senile leader had pa.s.sed up without telling them. In fact, if Jacen didn't do it, Pellaeon would lose his faith in the enduring power of self-interest, which had kept the galaxy turning about its core since the planets had cooled enough to support bacteria. Where Niathal stood in this he wasn't yet sure; but he knew her well enough to judge that her failing was her inability to stop Jacen, not her active sanction of Jacen's excesses as joint Chief of State.

"Admiral, something significant has come to our attention, "Quille said. "I wonder if we might discuss it in the wider context of the war."

"The Empire has managed to stay out of the conflict so far, "said Pellaeon. Thank goodness for that, Jacen Solo. Faith is restored, and the galactic disk still turns. "What do you mean by context?"

"Threats and opportunities, Admiral. The war is sucking in more worlds, and the Jedi Council has upped sticks and moved out of Coruscant, which is a worrying development. It suggests more fragmentation in existing alliances, and that might make our neighboring sectors unstable.

But it might also give us an opportunity to expand our sphere of influence."

Pellaeon took a spoonful of jhen honey and held it above his cup, letting a long ribbon of the viscous amber run off the spoon into the caf, then twirled it with a practiced wrist while he waited for Quille to go on. It wasn't the first time he'd used the silent routine on a meeting of the Moffs. They never seemed able to resist it, though, and by the time his spoon emerged shining and clean from the caf, they were getting uncomfortable and looking to Quille to fill the long gap.

"Do go on, "said Lecersen.

"Our diplomatic sources say that the GA is recruiting allies from outside its usual sphere of influence, "said Quille. "When the war is over, the map of the galaxy will look very different."

Lecersen smiled. It always made him look more disturbing than when he frowned. "Well, there's a big gap near Corellia where Centerpoint used to be, for a start."

There was a ripple of laughter. Quille pressed on. "Rewards may be there for the taking, gentlemen."

"In exchange for fighting Jacen Solo's war for him, "said Rosset.

"Is there anything we want badly enough for that?"

The discussion began rambling over the possibilities in a tapestry of voices. "Niathal's war, too..."

"Oh, let's not forget the admiral, shall we?"

"If an admiral was running it, it would be over by now."

"Solo could always lose the war, of course."

"If the GA is thinking this way, then perhaps the Confederation is, too, and maybe they've got a better offer."

"Is there an offer?"

The silence was sudden. It was an excellent question. Pellaeon thought it was time to remind them that he was not senile, that he was not a figurehead, and that he did not lack informants.

"Bilbringi and Borleias, if we commit troops and ships to the GA."

Pellaeon let the names sink in. He still enjoyed that silent moment of revelation he could create in a meeting. Yes, it was vulgar theater to reveal what he knew of the offer leaked to the Moffs in that way, but it was also a shot across the bows of any Moff who thought he could best the old man. "And, of course, my question would be, what's in it for us? Both those worlds are in the GA's gift to give, but there's still a small population in both systems, and we still might have to fight to take them. If it's the latter, then all the GA is doing is turning a blind eye to any expansion on our part in exchange for our blood, and that seems to me like paying twice. If we wanted to expand, Solo would be in no position to stop us anyway while he's so thinly stretched in this war, and we would need to commit nothing to his land-grab expeditions."

"Then the question is whether we want to expand the Empire, "Lecersen said. "Do we?"

"I would be inclined to wait and see what's left of the galaxy before we decide what we want, "said Rosset. "It flight be the difference between snapping up a bargain at a sale, and taking on a charity case that saps our resources."

Pellaeon felt the surge of old emotions again. This was about duty.

Wars left the galaxy in tatters, and the galaxy's wounds were freshly healed after the Yuuzhan Vong War. It would take very little to tear the new tissue apart and make healing harder next time; some worlds had recovered very little in a decade. This was the situation an empire could avoid, could stabilize, could heal, but if it meant working with the likes of Jacen Solo-no, Pellaeon could never see that lasting. He might do business with Niathal, but not anyone as volatile and mystic as Solo.

We are the Empire. We bring order and justice for the common good.

The irony wasn't lost on him; this was clearly Jacen Solo's ideology, too.

"My problem with Solo, "Pellaeon said carefully, knowing that his exact words would reach Jacen sooner or later, and wondering if it was worth the effort to track the route, "is that he has no background in government or the military. Jedi are very good at being in opposition, being the conscience on the shoulder of leaders and keeping them on their toes, or even playing peacekeeping shock troops when needed, but they do not run things well. They're doers, not managers... although I suspect Princess Leia has excellent leadership skills. Sadly, she's not the one running the junta. How different life might be then."

"Solo seems to be winning rather a lot for a man whose first uniform was a colonel's, "Quille said.

"There's a Mon Cal admiral in a shiny white suit to whom he owes at least some of that, I suspect." Pellaeon realized Jacen was not a textbook Jedi and, from the rumors he was hearing, probably dabbled in the dark side, but the principle stood. The Jedi Council was part think tank, part special forces, part mystical rea.s.surance for the ruling cla.s.s; Jedi could nudge and steer, and even block, but they were used to being a small weight added to tip the scales. Jacen was from that tradition, but trying to be an emperor. He wasn't up to the task.

"Are we taking a vote on this?" asked Rosset.

"There's no formal offer, and so no motion on the table." Lecersen drew the questions away from Pellaeon. "I would simply suggest that we keep a watching brief on the situation, and if an opportunity arises to clarify what Chief of State Solo has in mind, then we look to Admiral Pel-laeon to explore it if he so wishes. The admiral has unique experience in seeing history repeat itself."

He had to hand it to Lecersen; the Moff had a superbly a.n.a.lytical mind, and didn't need to hear the gossip about Jacen Solo's parallel course with his grandfather's to predict certain outcomes. Had Jacen but known it, though, he was doing what every flawed and ideologically committed leader throughout history had done. His vision was all-consuming, and in time he would become so dazzled by it and so embedded in it that he would ignore and then simply not see the warning signs.

There was always one more bold act, always one more final push, that would vindicate him and make everything work.

They all did it. The innovators and visionaries who had brilliant ideas and could get things moving had very different psyches to what was needed to reach and maintain stability. They simply looked for more glorious revolution to spark. It was hardwired. It was doomed to self-destruct. And it cost lives.

Sooner or later-sooner, probably-Jacen Solo would overstretch himself, and then the battlefield would be open to those who could pick up the pieces and bring back quiet order. It would be left to the Empire.

The Moffs filed out. Pellaeon hung back with Reige until the grand room was empty except for them and a house-keeping droid who hovered around clearing the splendid pleek table.

"I love it when you drop a full payload on them, sir, "Reige said.

"That'll teach them to think I'm deaf. The bloodfins aren't hauling me away yet."

But this was just the opening salvo. Jacen Solo would not give up.

Pellaeon wanted to see if anything of genuine substance was on the table before he made a more formal refusal. And he would not play by Jacen's despotic rules. One Palpatine was enough for a lifetime.

There was still caf left in the pot, and Pellaeon was in no hurry now. He chatted with Reige about the temperaments of pedigree bloodfins, and whether they could ever be safe for children to ride, given their propensity to devour whatever fell in front of them in the heat of the moment. He turned aside the droid when it attempted to clear away those tasty little xirlia pastries. He felt clean and in control again.

Then his comlink chirped. He recognized the incoming code.

"Excuse me, my boy, "he said. "I must see what my Cor-uscant bureau has to tell me."

It wasn't spying; Pellaeon was welcome to return to the capital anytime as a respected veteran. He was simply keeping in touch with old friends. The message wasn't voice, but text; and it was very short.

Rumors-from impeccable sources-said that Jacen Solo had lost his temper after a skirmish and Force-choked a junior officer to death in full view of the bridge crew.

"Oh, it's just like old times, "said Pellaeon, finding that making light of enormities preserved his blood pressure for those times when he really needed to be angry. "We're all back in harness, reprising the glory days of our youth. Myself, Princess Leia and young Skywalker, Master Fett.. and now little Lord Vader."

The military had adored Jacen for throwing his lot in with them and looking after them. How long they might keep that up if he made a habit of killing underlings, Pel-laeon wasn't sure. Jacen still had a fund of goodwill to squander yet.

No, Pellaeon would very definitely not be playing by Jacen Solo's rules.