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“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 creeping 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