Chapter 52 · Before The Guests

Leia Organa had discovered, with some irritation, that pregnancy rewarded planning more reliably than politics did.

Politics punished planning. It took a schedule, found the one assumption upon which every other hour depended, and broke it in public. Pregnancy, by contrast, had at least become predictable in its inconveniences. If she went too long without eating, nausea arrived with the grim certainty of a committee summons. If she drank caf on an empty stomach, she regretted it. If she pretended fatigue was a philosophical position rather than a biological condition, her body retaliated before noon.

So she had adapted.

There were small crackers on the side table in the receiving room now. A dish of sliced fruit in the cooling unit. Ginger infusion in the kitchen, which Han kept calling medicinal swamp water until she threatened to make him drink it. She had learned to eat something before she felt hungry, to sit down before someone else told her to, and to accept that a body containing a small, opinionated life had less respect for senatorial dignity than the Senate did, which was saying something.

This evening, she had eaten early.

Not dinner. Dinner was the point of the evening, unfortunately. But enough to keep her stomach from staging a rebellion before the guests arrived.

Han leaned in the doorway of their bedroom, watching her fasten the last clasp at her sleeve. “You’re sure about this?”

Leia looked at him in the mirror. “No.”

He waited.

She adjusted the fall of the outer layer over her shoulders. The garment was softer than what she would have worn to an official reception, darker than what she would have worn to the Senate, loose enough at the waist to avoid turning the evening into a discussion of tailoring. She had chosen it because it was private enough not to look like a hearing and formal enough not to look like a mistake.

Han was still waiting.

Leia sighed. “I am sure it has to happen.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No, but it’s the version that keeps governments functioning.”

“Governments are overrated.”

“You say that every time one of them expects you to wear clean boots.”

Han glanced down at his boots. “They’re clean.”

“They are less dirty.”

“That’s a legal distinction.”

“You’re learning.”

He grinned, but it faded before it could become useful. “Leia.” She turned from the mirror. He looked as though he had been trying, for several minutes, to decide whether being careful would insult her more than being blunt. That was one of the problems with loving Han Solo. He had spent years giving people the impression that he said whatever came into his head, when in truth he was often far too good at noticing which things might hurt. “You don’t have to host him here,” he said.

“Stent?”

“The blue hostage who isn’t a hostage, the prisoner who isn’t a prisoner, the guest who definitely isn’t a guest. Pick your favorite category.”

Leia’s mouth tightened. “Vorr is calling him an honor surety.” Han stared at her. “I know,” she said.

“No, I want a second with that. Honor surety. That sounds like something a lawyer says when he’s been told he can’t say hostage but still wants everyone to feel bad.”

“That is almost exactly what it is.”

“Thought so.”

Leia reached for the small dish of fruit on the vanity and took one piece, mostly to stop Han from looking at her as if she might fall over if left unobserved.

“I am not hosting him because I think this is normal,” she said. “I am hosting him because we need to see how he behaves outside Ackbar’s residence, without making it an interrogation. Luke wanted to meet him. Ackbar agreed to bring him. Madine insisted on being present in the tone of voice he uses when he pretends not to insist. And if I do not set the shape of this, someone else will.”

“Yeah,” Han said. “That sounded like politics.”

“It was.”

“I hated it.”

“So did I.”

He crossed the room and took the clasp from her hand when she fumbled with it for the second time. His fingers were warm and sure against the fabric. Leia let him do it. She had learned, reluctantly, that allowing help was not always a surrender. Sometimes it was just time management. “Luke’s already here,” Han said.

“I know.”

“He’s pretending not to be worried.”

“I know that too.”

“He’s bad at it.”

“He gets that from you.”

Han gave her a wounded look in the mirror. “I am excellent at pretending not to be worried.”

Leia turned enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “No, you’re loud in different directions until people stop noticing the original subject.”

“That’s a skill.”

“It is certainly something.”

From the outer room came a soft clatter, followed by Chewbacca’s unmistakable rumble of displeasure. Han closed his eyes. Leia smiled despite herself. “He is not staying, is he?”

“He has decided that a dinner with three generals, one Jedi, one pregnant senator, one Mon Calamari admiral, and a Chiss under custody sounds like the sort of evening humans invented because they don’t shed properly.”

Leia blinked. “That was his actual argument?”

“I cleaned it up.” Another rumble came from the hall, louder this time. Han raised his voice. “I said I cleaned it up!”

Chewbacca answered.

Han pointed toward the door. “See, this is why he isn’t staying. No respect for diplomacy.”

Leia walked past him into the main living area.

Luke was standing by the low table, arranging cups he did not need to arrange. He looked up as she entered, expression mild, shoulders loose, eyes too attentive. He had chosen simple dark clothes rather than anything that might make him look ceremonial. That was wise. The last thing the evening needed was anyone’s mythology arriving before the first course.

Chewbacca stood near the entrance with his bandolier already on, arms folded, clearly prepared to leave before the event acquired witnesses. He bent his head toward Leia and gave a softer sound.

Leia touched his arm. “Coward.”

Chewie huffed.

Han came in behind her. “He says he has an urgent appointment with the Falcon’s number three intake regulator.”

“That regulator was replaced last month,” Luke said. Chewbacca turned his head slowly toward him. Luke lifted both hands. “I’m only saying.”

Chewie growled.

Han nodded gravely. “He says it’s acting up emotionally.”

Leia laughed, and for a moment the evening almost became something ordinary.

Almost.

Then the household comm chimed. The first guests had arrived.

Chewie used the moment with shameless efficiency. He bent to press his forehead briefly against Leia’s temple, rumbled something warm and private, cuffed Han lightly on the shoulder hard enough to shift him half a step, and left before any social obligation could attach itself to him.

Han watched the door close. “Smartest one here.”

Luke smiled faintly. “You could still leave with him.”

“And miss dinner with a Chiss nobody knows how to categorize? Kid, I live for terrible decisions.”

“You married me,” Leia said.

Han pointed at her. “Best terrible decision I ever made.”

The comm chimed again.

Leia drew one slow breath, then another. Not because she was nervous. She disliked that word for situations where all available options were bad and one had simply selected the least foolish. But the apartment felt different tonight. Too carefully prepared. Too aware of itself. The dining area had been arranged for conversation rather than ceremony: low light, warm enough for humans but not so warm that Ackbar would be uncomfortable, seats placed with deliberate informality and equally deliberate sightlines. No one would sit with their back to the main door unless they chose to. Han had noticed that and said nothing, which was how she knew he had noticed everything.

Luke stepped closer. “You look tired,” he said softly.

Leia gave him a dry look. “That is becoming everyone’s favorite greeting.”

“It isn’t criticism.”

“I know.”

“Do you want me to handle more of the conversation tonight?”

“No,” she said, then softened it. “But I may let you.”

Luke accepted that in the way he accepted most things: with patience that sometimes made Leia want to shake him and sometimes made her grateful enough to ache.

The door opened to admit Crix Madine first.

That was not surprising. Madine had the punctuality of a man who considered lateness a tactical confession. He wore a civilian jacket over military-cut clothing, which fooled no one and probably was not meant to. His beard was trimmed, his expression neutral, and his eyes went immediately to Leia, then Han, then Luke, then the room itself.

“Senator. General Solo. Luke.”

“Crix,” Leia said.

Han lifted a hand. “You clean up almost like a person.”

Madine looked at him. “You continue to set a low but reassuringly stable standard.”

Luke coughed into his hand.

Leia decided she approved of the evening for approximately two seconds.

Madine’s gaze moved toward the dining area. “Ackbar is on his way?”

“Yes.”

“With Stent?”

“With Stent.”

Madine absorbed that with the same expression he might have used for weather, troop movements, or the discovery of a live explosive under a conference table. “Good,” he said.

Han stared. “Good?”

“I prefer seeing a problem before being asked to advise on it.”

“That’s cheerful.”

“I was not attempting cheer.”

“You nailed that.”

Leia gave Han a look. He looked innocent, which he had never once been.

Madine stepped farther into the room. “Is this dinner, observation, or diplomacy?”

“Yes,” Leia said.

He nodded once. “Efficient.”

Luke looked toward the door before the comm sounded again.

Leia noticed. “Ackbar?”

“Yes,” Luke said.

He did not elaborate. He did not need to. Luke had been doing that more often lately: noticing arrivals before sensors did, pausing before names appeared on displays, turning toward rooms just before someone entered them. Leia had stopped asking whether it was the Force every time. Sometimes the answer mattered less than the fact that Luke always looked faintly apologetic about knowing.

The comm chimed.

Han went to the door himself. Leia stayed where she was. That was deliberate.

Ackbar entered with two members of his staff and Stent.

The apartment changed.

Not dramatically. Not in any way that could be named without sounding foolish. But the geometry of the room altered around the arrival of a man whose custody had been accepted by an admiral, argued over by ministers, resented by intelligence, and now carried across Leia’s private threshold under a courtesy that required everyone present to behave as though the situation were not absurd.

Ackbar came first.

He wore a formal uniform adapted for air, still faintly damp at the collar and sleeves in a way Leia had come to associate with his arrival from Mon Calamari spaces rather than human corridors. His large eyes took in the room with grave familiarity. He had been here before, though not often, and never under circumstances quite so delicately insane.

Behind him stood Senior Commander Stent.

Civilian clothes had not made him look civilian.

Leia had expected that, but expectation did not remove the effect. The dark blue and grey garments were simple, well-fitted enough not to look punitive, plain enough not to imply honor beyond what the evening required. On another man, they might have softened the military impression. On Stent, they merely removed insignia and left the discipline underneath exposed.

He stood half a pace behind Ackbar’s right shoulder.

Not hiding behind him. Not using him as shield. Simply placed where an officer would place himself when accompanying a superior into a room not his own.

Han, beside the door, looked from one to the other and did the thing he did when he decided very quickly that a room had too many invisible rules. “Admiral,” Han said. “Welcome.”

“General Solo.” Ackbar inclined his head, then turned to Leia. “Senator Organa. Thank you for receiving us.”

“Thank you for coming.”

The phrasing was formal enough to cover everyone and private enough not to insult anyone.

Leia stepped forward. “Senior Commander Stent.”

Stent inclined his head. “Senator Organa. General Solo. General Madine. Commander Skywalker.”

Luke’s eyebrows rose slightly at the title. Not in objection. In interest.

Han glanced at Luke. “Commander?”

“I was one,” Luke said.

“That was years ago.”

Stent looked at Han with polite attention. “If another form of address is preferred, I will use it.”

Luke smiled, small and genuine. “Luke is fine.”

Stent considered that for half a breath, then inclined his head again. “Luke.”

Leia watched the exchange carefully.

Stent did not overplay the informality. He did not seize it as invitation. He accepted the correction because it had been offered by the person concerned, and then he stopped there.

Good, Leia thought. Or perhaps worse.

Ackbar’s staff withdrew after a brief exchange with Leia’s household security, leaving only one Mon Calamari aide positioned discreetly outside the apartment. That had been agreed in advance. Stent would remain under Ackbar’s custody for the duration of the evening. The door would not be locked. The exits would be watched. No one would say any of that aloud over dinner.

Han closed the door. For one second, the room held all of them in place.

Leia felt the old instinct in herself: count weapons, exits, tempers, distances. Madine near the sideboard, hands free. Luke by the table, deliberately nonthreatening. Han between the door and the rest of the room, because of course he was. Ackbar steady beside Stent. Stent still standing until Ackbar moved.

That, more than anything else, caught her. He waited. Not passively. Not theatrically. He simply did not take his place in the room before the admiral under whose custody he had arrived had taken his.

Ackbar moved toward the receiving area. Stent followed.

Madine’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. Leia saw it. So did Ackbar.

Han broke the silence again because someone had to, and because Han preferred to commit social violence before anyone else could organize a subtler version. “Drinks?” he asked. “We’ve got water, tea, something Alderaanian that claims to be beer, and something Corellian that might remove paint.”

“Han,” Leia said.

“What? Full disclosure builds trust.”

Madine looked at the bottle on the sideboard. “Does the Corellian option actually remove paint?”

“Depends how attached the paint is.”

Luke moved toward the table, still smiling faintly.

Ackbar said, “Water will suffice.”

Stent waited half a beat after Ackbar. “Water as well, thank you.”

Han looked almost disappointed. “Nobody ever picks the fun one first.”

Leia touched his arm lightly as she passed him. “Because they have survival instincts.”

“I have survival instincts.”

“You have Chewie.”

“Same thing.”

This time, even Madine’s mouth moved.

The tension did not disappear. It did, however, learn where to stand.

Leia took her seat only after Ackbar had taken his. Han poured drinks. Luke helped without being asked. Madine chose the chair that gave him sight of both Stent and the door, which surprised no one. Stent accepted the seat Leia indicated, waited until the others were placed, and sat with a restraint so natural that it did not look rehearsed.

Dinner had not yet begun.

Already, Leia understood that the evening would not be easy.

But it might, if everyone behaved with extraordinary care, avoid becoming impossible.