Star Wars_ Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor - Matthew Woodring Stover [8]
His unconventional appearance extended even to his sidearm, which was as far from an officer’s blaster pistol as one could possibly imagine; no general had gone armed thus since the end of the Clone Wars.
He carried a lightsaber.
Seven of his twelve captains had had their own commands before the Battle of Yavin—three of them had been commanding ships all the way back in the Clone Wars, before he was even born—and Admiral Kalback, the fleet commander, was a distal pod-cousin of Ackbar or somesuch, and was at least sixty-something, not to mention T’Chttrk, who didn’t even know how old she was, because her people, the insectoid T’kkrpks, hadn’t started calculating time in Standard until their Great Reconciliation about a hundred years ago, at which time T’Chttrk had long been an adult, and a hereditary officer in their planet’s defense forces.
Ordinarily being the youngest around didn’t bother the new general at all. He barely even noticed. What bothered him this time was that all these seasoned veterans, among the best tactical-engagement commanders the New Republic had ever had, were all so deferential to his presumed wisdom that they wouldn’t even argue with him.
Because he was a Jedi, they all assumed that he actually knew what he was doing.
If only it were true …
Right now, all he really knew was that he should never have let Han talk him into this.
“LUKE, LUKE,” HAN HAD SAID, ARM DRAPED AROUND Luke’s shoulders, “this general business, there’s nothing to it.” He probably thought Luke couldn’t see that sly half grin of his. “If I could pull it off, you won’t have any problems at all.”
“If it’s such an easy job, why’d you resign?”
“Better things to do, buddy.” Han rolled his eyes at Leia. “The Princess’s pretty important, but not so important the New Republic can afford having a full general play chauffeur and bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard,” Leia sniffed. “If you’re my bodyguard, how come I keep having to rescue you?”
“It’s how you prove you still love me.” He grinned at her and turned back to Luke. “Seriously, Luke, you can do this. You’re easily … uh, almost as smart as me—and you’re a lot smarter than, say, Lando. All you’ve got to do is keep your mouth shut and listen to your officers. Don’t let them squabble, and always pretend you know what to do next. Simple. Tell him, Chewie.”
Chewbacca, reclining with hands behind his massive head on the couch by the gaming station, hadn’t even opened his eyes. “Aroowrowr. Regharrr.”
“Oh, you’re a lot of help. Luke, ignore him anyway—he hates officers.”
“I’m not exactly sure I like being one myself.”
The offer of a general’s commission had come as a complete surprise to Luke, and not a very pleasant one. A couple of months after the defeat of the Ssi-ruuk, Luke had gone to Supreme Commander Ackbar and requested to be relieved of his duties as a flight officer. He’d been feeling for some time, he explained, that he might be of greater service to the New Republic as a Jedi than as a wing commander. Ackbar, canny old soldier that he was, had countered with an offer of joint command over the new Rapid Response Task Force that was being formed: a fleet-sized flying squad, able to bring military power against any point in the galaxy within a couple of days. “If you really wish to serve the New Republic, young Skywalker, this is the job for you. I suspect that your Jedi insight will be of more use in directing tactical operations than in meditation on the ways of the Force.”
Luke had had no answer for this; he could only ask for some time to think it over. Faced with a decision that might very well determine how he would spend the rest of his life, he had retreated to the place that felt the most like home, and talked to the only people in the galaxy in whose company he could still, even now, really just be himself.
So he was stuck trying to explain how he felt to Leia and Han and Chewbacca as they all sat around the passenger compartment of the Millennium Falcon.
“It’s not simple,