Star Wars_ Darksaber - Kevin J. Anderson [58]
It would be perfect.
A crew of stormtroopers removed the decommissioned equipment and forgotten supplies that had been used to construct the beacon. The machinery was outdated and alive with secondary radiation. The armored troopers dumped it all out on the rocky surface.
Daala stood in her olive-gray uniform, coppery hair falling loose behind her, black-gloved hands clasped behind her back as she watched everything. She tried to appear both intimidating and compassionate—though the compassion part was difficult.
She watched Harrsk’s former soldiers and saw that some remained uneasy at what they perceived to be her mutiny, though most had been converted to Daala’s cause. They were Imperial soldiers trained to follow their leader; she was not surprised to discover that the majority of her troops had despised their service under Harrsk and secretly applauded her actions. These had all learned to respect the ideal of the Empire, and Daala offered a return to that; Harrsk promised only a continuance of civil war.
Pellaeon’s Victory-class ships arrived a day after Daala had completed preparations. As stormtroopers ushered the Vice Admiral in to see her, she felt an icy dread in the pit of her stomach. All would be lost if he had not succeeded in his mission—but she could tell from the faint smile on his lean face and the brightness in his eyes that it hadn’t been a failure after all.
“Mission accomplished, Admiral,” he said, standing straight and looking directly at her. “Thirteen of the strongest Imperial warlords will arrive for these talks.” His smile sagged a little, causing his mustache to droop. “It was not easy to convince them. I had to use every tactic I could think of, banking fully on your legendary reputation and my association with Grand Admiral Thrawn. This uses up all of the influence we had.” He lowered his voice, aware that his words might be construed as disrespectful. “You’d better make it work, Admiral. We won’t get a second chance.”
Daala tugged her black gloves onto her hands. “I understand, Vice Admiral,” she said. “I have no intention of failing.”
Pellaeon’s smile turned grim. “If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here with you.”
The warlords arrived with their fleets bristling with weapons—and Daala knew that the slightest misstep could trigger an internecine holocaust that would wipe out the remains of the Imperial military. She shook her head in resignation, her face tight and drawn … then realized that if such was to be the fate of the Empire, better that it ended here, rather than through a long and dishonorable attrition.
She contacted each fleet as it came in. “Only the warlord is allowed to approach. All armed forces are denied access to this sector.”
The warlords argued, insisting on their personal escorts, their guards, their protective battleships. But Daala refused each one. “No. No one will carry weapons to this meeting. No one will be allowed to position his forces for a secret attack. This is a political negotiation regarding the fate of the Empire. There is no need for demonstrations of bluster or bravado.”
The talks were delayed two days in the miserable fury around Tsoss Beacon, until finally the last of the fleets backed off. Daala was convinced they departed no farther than the edge of the system, out of range of her station’s scrambled sensors—but it was good enough for her purposes. It would give her sufficient time to deal with a crisis, if one occurred.
Inside the shielded supply room, Daala waited at the head of the long table she had installed for the express purpose of the detente meeting. The table was irregularly shaped, with rounded corners and a looping perimeter intended to dismiss