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    THE BLACK FLEET CRISIS #3 - TYRANTS_TEST

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      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.

     


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