III: Safe and Terrible
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The Great Temple, which they called the Praxeum, was not his home. In important ways, that title was now held by the Palace of the Woolamander and his quiet little garden within. His home, his true home, lay hundreds of years and galactic radii away, built over and buried under and unrecognizable. Ikrit missed the Jedi Temple of Coruscant - and the satellite Temples he had visited - but the ache was a mild one and muted one, tempered by his long somnolence and the strange, half-remembered dreams that buoyed him through the generations.
In fact, many days now would pass without Ikrit remembering or reflecting on what he had lost, but it returned to him now, with some intensity, as he padded the Massassi stone halls of the Great Temple. Master Skywalker's Jedi bustled about, carrying keepsakes and crates in hands and in the intangible grasp of the Force. The motorpool, on the ground floor, rumbled and whined and hummed as the small collection of shuttles were prepared and loaded. Younglings treated it as a game, playing games of hide-and-don't-squeak among the growing mountains of old containers and boxes made of cast-plast and stamped with weathered old symbols of the Rebel Alliance. The older Jedi were more solemn and Ikrit felt their melancholy, felt the way they paused as they entered chambers and took moments of quiet to take in what they feared they might not see again.
It was that ache that woke his own nostalgia and loss within him, that stirred memories of the vaulted, echoing spaces of the Coruscant Temple. Chambers whose ceilings vanished into the gloom, lit by gentle, bobbing lumes and forests of humming lightsabers as hundreds stepped through meditative martial forms. Archives and libraries, filled with hum of datastack and crinkle of flimsy as ancient and thoughtful lessons were reviewed. Gardens ten thousand years old with trees as ancient as the Republic and clear, babbling water that generation upon generation upon generation of Jedi meditated alongside.
Places where the Force sank so deeply and so richly into the bones of the Temple that all the millions of Jedi who came before Ikrit could be felt and smelt and heard in susurrus and pleased, proud presence at his shoulder.
All lost. As much as he mourned for his own home, he wept that these new Jedi could never experience such peaceful, wholesome wonders.
He hoped against hope that these Jedi would be able to return to the Great Temple again. So short a time, but already the character of Master Skywalker's Jedi steeped into the stone and sunk into the jungle, forging a refreshing and interesting melange of community and camaraderie and family that interwove and moderated and dare he say redeemed the longer, darker, colder histories of these Sith-raised temples.
Young Anakin was apart from his other half, working with his astromech to prepare his X-Wing for solo flight. Tahiri was with Sannah, the older girl working tirelessly to distract the young Melodie from her churning thoughts and stomach-twisting turmoil. Ikrit's heart went out to the younger girl, for no child should need to bear that manner of weight on her shoulders, that sort of knowledge. Were it Ikrit's decision, the rest of the Melodies would have been informed immediately, but he recognized Master Skywalker's far greater experience with Sith affairs than he.
He basked in the feel of the living Temple around him. The Masters Solusar - a marriage unheard of, in his own time, but clearly a positive influence - shepherding their charges. Master Katarn, with the foreign 'Astartes' Aeonid Thiel, practicing meditation-in-motion as they sparred. The anomalous and peculiar presence of the other Astartes, who arrived ahead of the coming starship that would whisk them all away from the moon.
Alebmos. Called a 'Lexicanium', a 'psyker', one of a tradition called a 'Librarius'. Alien words. Alien words in an alien tongue, never before spoken in this galaxy before.
Ikrit still doubted the truth of this 'Warp'. He had felt the children's memories, reopened and allowed to pour forth when they spoke with him of their trials on Yavin 8. He felt Anakin's surety of something unfamiliar, he sniffed around Tahiri's conviction of wrongness. A foul apparition, without question. A Sith spirit, clinging to unnatural life? Truly an atrocity.
Yet the Dark side was an avenue that led to many unnatural things and twisted creations beyond the imaginings of Jedi. Could any have dreamt that a Sith would conjure the Golden Globe and trap all the souls of young Massassi away in it? Could any have dreamt of the ancient Thought-bomb, which devastated Ruusan? Or the mysteries of ancient Sith, who burst stars and twisted life into obscene patterns?
So many traditions, for good or ill, in all the years of history in this galaxy. Who knew what wonders and terrors would be wrought by hands shaping the Force in another galaxy?
Ikrit had poked and probed around the strange wards erected by the Lexicanium when he quizzed the children about their trial. They were half-seen and slippery, oblique to his senses and flitted from Ikrit's attempts to peer at them. Not to pry or push, but just to observe them.
Even now, as Ikrit padded up the left-open ramp of the large Imperial shuttle - their Thunderhawk - his feel for the Librarian through the Force remained peculiar.
Alebmos felt muffled but strangely broadened, like afterimages flowed and echoed around the large human. For Aeonid Thiel, the Captain was sharp as broken transparisteel and as solid as durasteel, a steely presence that rebuffed even the gentlest observation and leaked out only highly processed, nearly tangible scraps and scads of feeling and thought and emotion. Thiel's mental discipline was fit for an old, trained Master…but for the clear disunity and disarray held nearly hidden behind those walls.
Alebmos felt like no mind at all. Ikrit watched the Librarian work, no doubt preparing for his coming trip to Yavin 8 and his further studies of the Sith temple there. Watching the Astartes move with his eyes was as interesting as with the Force. Alebmos was calm and confident and in contrast to Aeonid Thiel, remarkably comfortable with the Great Temple and the Jedi within. In the single day since arriving with Aeonid, Alebmos had introduced himself to each Master and even observed, at a remove, one of the morning classes for the younglings. He was polite and articulate and made all the more eerie for the fact that not a single scrap of intention, emotion or thought leaked from the man.
Ikrit had not met one of the Yuuzhan Vong yet, so only had the experiences of his young student recounted at remove to rely on. The Kushiban Master could not imagine what such a thing would be like to encounter: a living being, a thinking, feeling being that was as a blank spot in the Force. Anakin swore up and down that the Yuuzhan Vong weren't even a 'hole', in any sense, denying similarities to what Ikrit had experienced - that being the furry ysalamiri that young Luke kept on hand for particular lessons. The vong were invisible, which Ikrit just could not fathom.
Alebmos was how Ikrit imagined they might be. The Imperial Astartes spoke and his mouth moved, his weathered, leathery face morphed into recognizable expressions, but nothing existed behind that flesh. It was a skin-mask, a facade, and when Ikrit focused harder, he was almost convinced he saw ghost images of Alebmos just under the skin, saying other words and making other motions.
It made watching Alebmos inventory devices and avioid-stamped crates into something that in time, would stir a headache.
Instead, Ikrit tamped down on his sense of the Force, channeling instead into a mildly telekinetically fueled bound that delivered him atop one of the stacked crates. Alebmos dipped his head in welcome and in recognition, dark eyes piercing from where they sat in sun-weathered face.
"Ah, Master Ikrit. Are you here to ask after your pupils?"
Affecting nonchalance and leaning into expectations built around his species, Ikrit idly licked at the back of one paw, grooming the already silken fur yet further.
"You are a strange man and a new visitor and you spoke to them for some time," he said finally.
"On the allowance of Master Skywalker and Jedi Solo both."
Ikrit studied the Lexicanium as the Astartes straightened up, looming far above the already diminutive Kushiban despite his elevated perch.
"Young Luke does like to respect the experience of other traditions," Ikrit mused. "It's one of his great strengths. Sometimes - a great weakness."
"Every Legion of the Legiones Astartes approached the arts of the mind in their own way. It led to much learning…and some disputes." Alebmos agreed.
"No different than studies of the Force. Jensaarai, Fallanassi, Jedi…" Ikrit tensed, coiling up strength in his rear legs as he tugged on the Force again. Alebmos stiffened, reading the change in body language. He aimed well, alighting exactly on Alebmos' broad pauldron.
"I'm not convinced yet that your 'Warp' isn't an understanding that the Jedi haven't seen. The Yuuzhan Vong, the ysalamiri…even the spectres and spirits of the Sith here on this very moon; all things I could never have dreamt of in my youth. Could I have believed the Force could be perverted in so twisted a way that a thousand children's souls could be stolen away? I think many of the most learned Masters of the Order would not have believed it."
His head turned to watch Ikrit, now having to look up to meet the Kushiban's lambent green eyes, Alebmos' jaw muscles bunched.
"I will not speak on your Force, as you should not speak on the Warp."
"It threatens my students, Lexicanium, so I will speak however I wish."
It was young Luke's prerogative to invite the Exiles, it was his decision to have Aeonid Thiel trained and it was his choice to allow this 'Lexicanium' to examine the three youths for some metaphysical spoor. As ever, Ikrit offered guidance and he offered advice, but here kept his counsel close. He could feel young Skywalker's optimism. He could feel his interest.
He feared that in the wake of the unanswerable question of the vong, that Luke may have leapt at the first opportunity to embrace a problem he could solve - the salvation of the spirit of the Imperium.
Ikrit's brush-fluff tail flicked left, right, left again.
"Luke Skywalker trusts you. Anakin trusts me. He tells me everything, Lexicanium. He tells me of your promise of 'mercy' if the children had not met your standards."
Alebmos did not visibly react.
"It would have been my recommendation. Corruption from the warp is fate no being should suffer, let alone a child," Alebmos retorted, borrowing Ikrit's word.
Ikrit did not blink, boring his wide, yellow-green eyes into Alebmos'.
"A recommendation? Or a promise? If you had found…whatever you feared, would you have let them leave, Alebmos? Walk out of that chamber? If young Skywalker had told you he would stay his hand and work to save his nephew and his students from whatever…corruptive…force had hold of them, what then?"
The Astartes spoke precisely, his accented Basic clear and exact.
"That would be his decision."
Ikrit leaned closer, crouching lower, until less than half a meter separated their faces.
"A very safe and very terrible answer, Imperial."
Ikrit leapt away, the Force bouying him in a long and arcing jump that delivered him from Alebmos' shoulder to the stained duracrete of the hangar floor, right at the end of the Thunderhawk's open ramp. Alebmos seemed to flicker with potentials. A gauntleted hand raised a pistol, another grabbed at knife-hilt, another glowed violet and black. Alebmos merely stared down at the diminutive Jedi Master, impassive.
"Never underestimate the surety of a Jedi when the Force is their ally," Ikrit hissed, hackles raising for the first time in centuries. Too many facts stung at Ikrit. This 'psyker', here to 'test' the children. Here to tell them, to their very faces, that he would condemn them to death. The coming starship, fit to burn worlds. The 'investigation' they wished to launch into the Melodies and Yavin 8. The words of their bitter Primarch to the Senate, when he admitted to hands bathed in oceans of blood.
Ikrit trusted Luke. How could he not? He had faced challenges no Jedi had for millennium and held to the goodness of his spirit.
But no one was infallible.
Centuries ago, Ikrit had sealed himself away to save the souls of innocent children he had never met. He had failed them, with his work done by another. It stung even still, though his heart swelled with pride at everything Anakin had done. So young, but so bright and unbowed.
Alebmos' lip curled, slight.
"Never underestimate the resolve of the Imperium, either." he countered. Ikrit padded away without a backward glance.
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Temerity was not a Legion vessel nor even a very large one. In fact, it was the smallest warship Zalthis had yet sailed aboard. The corridors were cramped and ill-suited to Astartesian proportions and none of the ratings were used to transhumans. The five of them remained in the areas around the embarkation deck, spending time maintaining their wargear, their Storm Eagle, sparring and training against each other. No practice cages, no Legion chambers - Zalthis admitted they were, perhaps, a little spoiled.
They were, all five of them, perhaps a little bored. Along with Solidian - for as his brother joked, they were as inseparable as a combibolter - their 'escort' squad also numbered Tercinax and Varien along with Amalius. Zalthis remembered the first two well from the lightning raid on the Yuuzhan Vong cruiser just before the action at Fondor. Tercinax was eldest of the demisquad, an old salt veteran of orkish waaughs and dozens of compliances. Deprecatingly, he called himself 'a leather-eater, through and through', claiming he never wanted for more than a boltgun and blade and a Sergeant to tell him what to do. Varien was younger, perhaps twice the age of Zalthis, with a propensity for blade work and in curious contrast, long-distance marksmanship.
The fifth, Amalius, Zalthis had only begun to know. In time, they would all be as firm brothers as he and Sol were - for this was their new squad.
Caedos Quintus was their Sergeant, though he had delegated authority to Tercinax for this mission. A hero of the Second Battle of the Honour, Zalthis was honored to serve under Sergeant Quintus, though they'd had only a brief moment to meet before Temerity was sent away.
His hearts beat faster each time Zalthis was reminded that his assignment was one of selection, hand-selection, picked out specifically by Aeonid Thiel himself. Captain Thiel. In his hands, Zalthis eyed his crimson painted helmet, polished bright with lenses dark. Mark IV, like the rest of his plate, in all other ways matching the noble colors of the XIIIth Legion. Only the helms of the First Adaptive Tactics Company marked them out as different. The other Battalions were choosing now their own schemes, beginning the divergence from the base form of Ultramarine. He'd read the Primarch's documents, the ones outlining the Battalions Founded and the alterations to Principia Belicosa that were demanded.
Zalthis understood the theoreticals, but secretly he was pleased that the First Adaptive would not be adopting new colors. All his young life he strived to wear the Ultramarine plate of the XIIIth and he was not sure he would bear altered colors and heraldry well.
Solidian thumped down beside Zalthis, clad in his plate from waist down, upper body encased only in his bodyglove. The small embarkation deck, scarcely large enough for perhaps two Stormbirds side-by-side, seemed larger with only their Storm Eagle and a few small navy lighters resting about. Tercinax and Amalius were sparring in fatigues while Varien watched and shouted insult and encouragement both.
Sol settled a large rotary cannon in his lap, nudging Zalthis' shoulder as he settled.
'Deep thoughts, Zal?' his brother asked, hands already moving to begin to fiddle with the rotary cannon. In general shape and form, it still resembled the Republican heavy blaster it started life as, though each day that slid by slowly aboard Temerity mutated it in subtle ways. Already, Sol had swapped out the energy cells with those of a hot-shot las, added mounting rails and a slab of ceramite as a gun shield.
A tiny name was etched into the bare metal grip.
'Thinking of Anakin.' He had not been, but the Jedi Knight did occasionally cross his mind. Sol grunted, brows furrowed as he focused on the rotary cannon.
'The boy left an impression on you.'
'He's of age with us, I think,' Zal retorted. Sol shrugged.
'Age isn't everything.' Sol screwed one of the long barrels of the cannon, gently setting it aside on oilcloth.
'Experience is,' Zalthis conceded. 'Which means Anakin might have us matched.'
Sol grimaced.
'Nothing can match Calth.'
'Nothing can match Calth.'
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, after Zalthis set aside his helm and picked up his right pauldron, adjusting his pot of lapping powder.
'Still!' Sol exclaimed. 'You've had your chance to spar with the boy - I'd like to cross blades with him as well. If he's even a tenth of the swordsman his uncle is…'
The duel between Captain Thiel and Master Skywalker had left an impression in all present. A mortal matching an Astartes, with ease.
'His style is interesting. Dynamic. Instinctual, I would say.'
Sol hummed, turning the rotary cannon over in his lap, peering at the partially dismantled weapon from other angles.
'Well, if you could beat him, I'm not so sure I'd find a challenge.'
Zal snorted.
'Truly? Our count is almost equal, Sol.'
'Almost only applies to krak grenades and nova bombs, Zal. Besides - I have the greater tally. Which means your almost is still my victory.'
They bickered back and forth, good natured. Tercinax and Amalius' spar drew to a close, with Amalius eking out a final point. The older marine swore and grumbled, wandering off to an ablutorium. Varien, his entertainment over, ambled over to the two of them.
'Ah, little brothers.'
'Varien,' Sol greeted. Zal inclined his head.
'I heard you speaking about the Jedi. You've fought with them, on that athenaeum world.'
'Obroa-skai,' Zalthis clarified.
Varien nodded.
'Yes, that's the one.'
Varien poked and prodded for their impressions. It was not as if the briefing had been unclear, but there was air to fill and time to slay, so Zalthis was all too willing to recount, again, the ambush on Obroa-skai. It grew, somehow, with each telling, though the facts never wavered. It was the distance, maybe, in time, that elevated that first mission. Their last as neophytes. The last for their Sergeant.
'They confuse me,' Sol admitted, some time later. The rotary cannon was now fully dismantled, each part laid out precisely and carefully. No manual or instruction had come with it, so Sol's main project had been learning each component and every function - from working to maintenance. 'Knight Solo turned on Zal for killing a mind-controlled slave. Used his 'Force' to crush him to his knees.'
Zalthis scowled, bearing down just a little too hard with his cloth on his plastron plate. The memory was as vivid as any other post ascension. He could still feel the way the air seemed to turn to thick sludge as invisible, irresistible force bore him down.
'The slaves were already dead,' Sol explained further. 'Dead on their feet and starving. Killing them was a mercy, if you asked me. The Jedi, though, it's as if they fear death. All the same, Knight Solo personally slew a dozen vong that I witnessed personally! Without hesitation!'
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Solidian huffed a complicated blend of a sigh and a chuckle, shaking his head. Scars webbed across half his scalp, bereft of hair. The grutchins on Fondor had not quite managed to scalp his brother, but they had come close. A terrifically ugly looking wound, but in truth barely even cosmetic. Scalp injuries bled ferociously, but if Sol's skull - famously dense - hadn't been breached, then there was no possible lasting injury.
'Anakin explained some of their philosophy to me. As he described it, I believe that the Jedi almost follow a practical and theoretical framework as we do.'
Sol raised an eyebrow, while Varien leaned forward, intrigued.
'They say that they worship life.'
Sol nodded in agreement.
Zal shrugged. 'It's a noble enough idea. We've all read al Garuntz and Hagior.'
'And Guilliman,' Varien noted.
'And Guilliman,' Zal agreed with a smile. 'And others. Moral responsibilities always include some acceptance of an intrinsic value to life.'
'Though extending that beyond the human realm…' Varien trailed off. Sol shifted in place, a strange look crossing his brother's face.
'Anakin and I discussed that. I constructed the proper theoretical and practical and offered it to him. He seemed to agree.' Zalthis cast back, remembering when he and the Jedi debated the Order's philosophy, over a meal in one of Samothrace's many cafeteria.
'The theoretical is that all life is unique and precious. The practical is that life creates conflict, and conflict requires resolution that may require taking that life.'
It seemed a good summation and Anakin agreed, though said it lacked a lot of nuance. That was fine - the practical/theoretical paradigm was just to prepare an argument, not to conclude one.
Sol shifted again, eyes darting over his dissembled rotary cannon. Varien pursed his lips, eyes narrowing.
'It's a noble ideal,' Varien admitted. 'Naive. But noble.'
'I said similarly,' Zal said. The Primarch insisted on philosophy as a requirement for all Ultramarines, beginning even during their time as aspirants and neophytes. Ascratus, as much as he drilled them ferociously in blade and bolt, also required essays on social contract theory and ideal war.
Sol often japed that he should have been a Space Wolf, as he'd never have to study again. Being as he would be, of course, quite illiterate.
Zal cuffed him for that, but laughed all the same.
'That seems to summarize this galaxy,' Varien continued. 'Naive, but noble. Like the stories of before Old Night. During the Dark Age of Technology.'
All three paused a moment, the names of those grim ages bearing entirely different weights.
'The practical means that for all their idealism, the Jedi are fearfully dangerous.'
'A boy matched a veteran Sergeant for kills,' Sol agreed. 'Baseline humans should not move like Jedi do.'
Varien's eyes grew hooded.
'It's their Force,' the older Ultramarine spat. 'Their witchery.'
Uneasily, Zal and Sol glanced to each other. The grox in the room, the uncomfortable fact of the Jedi, impossible to ignore for all that the warriors were swiftly earning the admiration of at least some of the Ultramarines. The Edict was inculcated into all of them, the warning of the empyrean, the threat of the mind. Witchery, psykery, sorcery - whatever it was called. The Black Ships plied the stars for the blank women who could resist the powers of the Warp, the Edict chained back the Librarius and across the span of the galaxy, the Legiones themselves persecuted mutants and deviants with the greatest of zeal.
Old Night had been forged of many things. All grew from the same source.
The Warp.
Again, Zal felt the ghostly recollection of the power and oppressive weight of Anakin's regard as he went to his knees on Obroa-skai.
'Codicier Rubio doesn't believe the Warp and Force are the same.'
Zal looked to his brother, surprised. Sol had never defended the Jedi before.
Varien scoffed.
'Psykery is psykery. I'll be on my guard on that moon, you can be sure of it. You both should be as well.'
Sol rolled his broad shoulders.
'We're Ultramarine. When aren't we?'
Varien took his leave shortly after, apparently satisfied with what he'd learned. Sol produced a small chapbook and an ink pen, sketching out parts of the rotary cannon and in conjoined shorthand scrawled notes and instructions. Zalthis continued to work through the parts of his armor, leaving each gleaming and spotless, parade-ready. Varien's suspicions aside, they were representing the XIIIth and the Primarch. It wouldn't do to arrive in any other condition but spotless and perfect.
'You'll be a fine Sergeant, you know.'
Zalthis started, peering at his brother. Sol remained focused on his dismantled cannon, leaving his scarred face in profile.
'Pardon?'
'You're changing, Zal. This galaxy is changing you.'
Rather pointedly, he stared at the detached handle and the small etched name upon it. Solidian followed his gaze and sighed.
'This is different. This is a single act of honor, but it changes nothing. The gun would be a waste to leave behind, as well. It's effective.'
'I am not being changed, Sol.'
'You are, Zal. I can see it. I know you. It feels like we grew up together. We did.' Sol shook his head. 'You think too much and it's changing you.'
'All we are doing is following the Primarch's orders. Nothing else.'
'No, Zal. I'm following the Primarch's orders. You believe in them.'
Zal lowered his greave, slowly putting his burnishing cloth aside. Sol's words struck and struck hard. Did he believe? He'd thought of Anakin since Obroa-skai. The Jedi Knight made for interesting conversation and was a challenging opponent. He'd not balked at Lieutenant Optarch's decision to put him in command of the neophyte squad at Fondor, nor at working with the Fondorian natives. It was prudent. It was practical. It was what the Primarch ordered, or would have ordered.
'I do what I'm told. You're the thinker. Not me. That's why you'll make a fine Sergeant.'
Zalthis tried to imagine himself with the markings Ascratus did, that Quintus. An old dream of his, an image burned into his mind. It seemed so far away, even for the speed and constant change of the 4711th.
'I'm honored you imagine so…'
'The 4711th - no, the Thirteenth, is changing. We have Battalions now. They won't even look the same. We're fighting for and with aliens, Zal. Aliens! The Primarch is changing us. You're changing with it.' Sol shook his head. 'The future will need a Sergeant like you.'
'You'll have your own squad too, Sol,' Zal promised. It was an old promise - Sergeants Zalthis and Solidian, with their own squads, bringing the glorious fight of the Crusade to worlds near and far.
'Maybe.' Slowly, Sol began to reassemble the rotary cannon, returning often to add new notes and sketches. Zalthis did not resume buffing his armor, too caught up in thought and possibilities. He finally found what Sol's words felt like.
'You sound resigned.'
His brother nodded.
'We shouldn't need to change,' Sol said lowly. His hand rested on the handle of the cannon. 'The Emperor made us. We are Ultramarines. The galaxy should change for us.'
With eighteen Legions, with the Emperor, with the Primarchs and all the worlds of the Imperium, Solidian could never be more right. With the galaxy about them and the dwindling count of their brothers…the realization struck Zalthis like a Stormbird. His instinct, his reflex, was to argue against Solidian. To argue against the Imperial Truth.
This galaxy was too large, too vast, too full. They had to change. They had to adapt. The theoretical was obvious. The practical, concerning as it was, was clear.
Sol was openly studying him. Zalthis found he could not quite think of what to say.
'That's why you will be an excellent Sergeant,' Sol sighed. 'There's a place for you in this new world.'
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The woman who sat across from him had dark rings under her eyes, almost perfectly concealed with cosmetics. Her tunic was just on the presentable side of ruffled and her hair was not quite as glossy as it ought to be. Still, there was solid durasteel in her spine and her brown eyes were as sharp as ever.
In short, Leia Organa Solo appeared much as she had for the past decade.
Some things changed, Borsk Feyl'ya considered, but many more stayed the same.
"Leia," he said by way of greeting. "I'm pleased we could make this meeting today."
"Borsk," she returned, because she never used his title save in the most public of times. "I appreciate you seeing me on short notice."
The Bothan lifted a brow, carefully folding his hands together atop his desk.
"Duro's fallen and CorDuro betrayed everyone. The vong Warmaster is proposing a ceasefire and it's because of your son. Pardon me for saying so, but I'd be a sithspawned idiot not to see you."
Leia grimaced, new wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth crinkling.
"I'll take responsibility. SELCORE should've investigated CorDuro. The amount of embezzlement that went on…" Leia shook her head, her braid waggling. "There isn't an excuse."
Ah, there was the martyr.
"No one else discovered it, not even NRI." He kept his tone assuring and gentle. It'd be best if Leia didn't try to throw herself on a vibroblade. For all her exit from 'politics', she still retained a great deal of influence and popularity in the Senate. SELCORE was her creature and truly what a creature it was, but the deal with the Exiled Imperium was beginning to show serious results. The relief valve of millions of refugees - human and near-human - being diverted and removed from the ever-swelling count of those fleeing the Rim and Mid Rim, was giving tangible results on stability across several sectors.
It was partially why Borsk decided to support the proposal for Allied Region status. Part of the stipulations that the Exiles wanted was the ability to expand their 'territory' into unclaimed systems or at the invite of non Republic worlds. And if the Exiles had more space, then they could take even more refugees in…
Some in the Senate were raising concerns about the Exiles suddenly gaining an ever growing base of workers, most of which were skilled. Fleeing worlds ahead of the invasion was not exactly cheap nor easy, making a plurality of the refugees those who had the means, money or access to starships and placing them into a higher echelon of skilled labor.
Borsk, in private discussions with some wavering on the bill, revealed NRI predictions on the long-term stability of the Exiled Imperium.
In short: it was bad.
Let them be an Allied Region, let them be a relief valve for a while, and then when they inevitably fold under the oppressive and xenophobic ideology they espoused, the New Republic could incorporate them right back in.
"Duro was a mistake but it wasn't yours." Borsk assured. Leia peered at him skeptically. Fair enough. They had never seen eye to eye. "It was still a catastrophe and I expect an inquest into how a known Yuuzhan Vong agent could, apparently, manage to masquerade as a chief geneticist for weeks. But I can't condemn SELCORE without condemning half of our intelligence apparati."
Leia blew out a sigh.
"What do you want, Borsk?"
He grinned, toothy. Another positive to working mostly against Leia for as long as he had - they understood each other.
"SELCORE has been underappreciated," he began. "Missteps aside, you've been handling the flood of refugees better than anyone could have expected." As a Bothan, lying came as easily as breathing. "Duro and Fondor are a wake-up call to the Colonies and the Core. I'm sure you see the same numbers that I do. The Warmaster's ceasefire isn't the breathing room everyone thinks it is."
Leia sneered.
"A relief at the cost of the Jedi," she retorted. "My brother's Jedi."
"A tragedy, each and every one," Borsk said blandly. It actually was, but if he had a credit for every time the Jedi faced a tragedy, he could buy several new battlecruisers. "But this lull in combat has emboldened an entirely new wave fleeing the threatened sectors. We'd be facing more, except that the Tapani Sector is actually showing a downturn in expat flight. We suspect it's the continued presence of the Imperial battlegroup over Fondor."
Borsk studied Leia closely as he mentioned the Exiles. Opinions on the brash newcomers was as varied and numerous as the stars in the sky. Some, like Shesh, were enthralled to the point of obsession. Others, like Gron Marrab or Chelch Dravvad, were on a scale from heavily suspicious to entirely uninterested. Luke Skywalker publicly met with their Primarch for a one-on-one while sending his own Jedi to escort Shesh.
Leia's lips thinned and her face darkened.
Ah. As he expected. Hoped.
"SELCORE has been underfunded and undersupported. I'm sure that's why you were willing to turn to the Exiles."
"It was prudent," Leia said, and Borsk internally applauded how professionally stoic her sabacc face was. They may have butted heads throughout the years, they might have different views on the New Republic and Leia might be a relic of a time better left in the past, but Borsk would choke before denying Leia Organa Solo's dedication to the concept of a republic. Willingly cutting deals with the Imperium had to chew at her. "The numbers speak for themselves. Even with CorDuro's embezzlement, Duro is an example of the extra resources we've been able to gather. Raltiir was willing to rethink their support, because SELCORE could field the cost of building a settlement."
"This is why I'm planning to propose a significant increase in SELCORE funding and support in the Senate."
Leia shifted, adjusting herself. Borsk could veritably smell the suspicion wafting from her.
"Every credit will save lives," she said.
"Absolutely. I want to triple SELCORE's budget and I'd like to support forming a second office that could begin to handle actually locating uninhabited worlds suitable for setting up camps and potential colonies."
Leia's eyes widened and she actually rocked back in her seat a little.
"What do you want for this? Do I need to marry Isoldur?" Her tone was wry, but Borsk could feel her hunger.
"Nothing like that. Which, as an aside - Leia, I do want to offer my sympathies for Han's injuries. I'm glad to hear he's projected to make a full recovery."
She nodded, as stoic as ever.
"He's on his way home now, with the twins and Mara. I'll let him know you were thinking of him."
Borsk chuckled.
"Perhaps not. I wouldn't want him to have a cardiac arrest on top of everything else."
Leia smiled blandly. Borsk cleared his throat. Returning to business.
"MCS and CEC are looking to sponsor a new fleet of passenger liners to be donated to SELCORE or a secondary office. I just had a meeting with Marrab and he's very vocal about how eager Dac is to step up to their patriotic duties. Corellia's settling down after the whole Centerpoint affair and I'd like to throw them a bone for the chaos that was not entirely not our fault."
"I can talk to Omas and Triebakk. Remember, Borsk. I'm done with the Senate. I served my time. SELCORE is my priority."
Borsk held up his hands.
"Leia, we both know neither of us want you back in the convocation chamber. A few words, that's all I ask. We have the potential to do good here, real good, and put aside some of our past disagreements."
Across from him, the former Chief of State and one of the founding members of the New Republic chewed it over. At her waist was the glinting silver cylinder of a lightsaber, the only real concession to her ancestry that Borsk ever saw. It was strange to see it on her, but he supposed it might be a sign of solidarity with the Jedi in the wake of the Warmaster's demands.
"I want SELCORE and whatever secondary office to remain entirely under nonpartisan oversight. SELCORE cannot be political."
He understood what she meant. Which meant she understood precisely what he meant, too.
"Of course. The Advisory Council, as much as any one Senator shouldn't have overdue control. You've done a fine job as Director, I see no reason why to change the committee structure. Any changes can be submitted to my office for review."
There was little else to say after that, just hammering down final specifics and a few further stipulations Leia had going forward. They would never see eye to eye, but they did know how to alloy against a common enemy. They'd done so before and the New Republic always benefit. Leia left his office to immediately get to work on her end, with SELCORE and with some of her associates before her children and injured husband returned to the capital. He really did sympathize about General Solo. She might be and remain a political foe of his, but one's mate was always something that had to stand apart from politics.
The coming funding bill was almost finalized. Shesh was going to be apoplectic. He imagined the look on her face, the way her mouth twisted up like she'd eaten something ferociously sour. It was an expression he'd seen less and less, to his disappointment. She'd had her win. Kuat was hers, from what the Spynet could tell. The events behind the scenes there must have been legendary, worthy of some political drama holo, as in the span of a month the upstart Senator blew through decades of agreements, deals and IOUs. She'd usurped her great-aunt, becoming the Shesh quietly and without fanfare.
That sort of influence needed to be curbed.
If Shesh was to be objective about it, she'd barely have an argument. The MC90 series, the Bothan Assault Cruisers, the Rejuvanators, the Viscount Star Guardians all had proven worth. They existed. Borsk would take proven hulls over ones yet to fly off the flimsiplast any day. Marrab already confirmed that the Mon Calamari Shipyards was willing to match the announced Kuati subsidy for the Navy.
She'd played her hand before the shifter hit. That was politics.
Besides, he had a galaxy to keep from falling into oblivion.