Private Gotta Get a Gimmick

[Renata Westaway]

The Prime Minister's Office - 10 Alderney Square
Official Residence & Office of the Prime Minister of the Renascent Heirate
New Sterandel, Aegis, the Adytum System
​

"You have to admit his resume is impressive."

Renata looked up from her portfolio to frame the man who had been speaking. Alaric Drummond had been the Minister of Defense since the role was originated. He had come up in the old First Order, obediently heeded the call to return upon its reformulation, and been one of the first recruits Renata sought for Project Renascence. So far her faith in him had been rewarded in the tidy and efficient running of the the Ministry of Defense, a quiet and sober personal life without scandal, and a collegial working relationship. She had no reason to doubt his assessment of the matter at hand, either, but she was curious how he got there. "Do I?" she said dryly.

Drummond, who had achieved the rank of Admiral in the First Order Navy, wore his suit like a uniform, with a row of commendations pinned to his chest like an identification badge. "He is one of the top starfighter pilots in this century, which seems to be undisputed. His talents were highly sought-after following his discharge from the Galactic Alliance, which seems to speak for itself."

Renata capped her pen and pushed away from her desk, swiveling to look toward a painting on the far wall. A still life of the overgrown Garden Street Station in Avalonia, as it had been all those years ago when the reconstituted First Order rescued the occupants that had taken refuge there -- Renata included. "Undisciplined," Renata countered without looking toward Drummond. Not a challenge, not a contradiction. Merely a conversation. "Entitled. Ungovernable."

Drummond frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps. I would say... unorthodox. Someone who isn't burdened by convention. If push comes to shove -- if the Empire comes to call -- I don't know that conventional wisdom will cut it. We need people willing to think outside the box."

Renata huffed through her nostrils in triumph and turned, pulling open the bottom drawer of her desk. "You know the rules, Drummond," she said, drawing a cigar box out of the desk. She flipped it open to reveal a collection of bills and coins and credit chits. The underside of the lid was labeled, in the angular handwriting of the younger Dr. Renata Westaway, that said: Useless Clichés & Profoundly Unhelpful Platitudes. "I'm surprised, you usually keep your money out of my retirement fund."

Drummond's eyebrows shut up, but then he grinned wryly. "Was it think outside the box?" he asked as he reached for his billfold.

Renata smirked. "I'm not going to help you. My government pension is hardly enough to keep me in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed." She snapped the lid of the cigar box shut after the Minister dropped his ten sovereigns into it. "All right. He's... iconoclast. I'll give that to you. And that can come in handy. The First Order didn't become a superpower by following in the footsteps of every other post-Palpatine Imperial group or every two-bit Republic that followed." She frowned and stroked her jaw thoughtfully. "But there is a fine line between unorthodoxy and insubordination, and there's only one person I know who likes insubordination less than you and I do."

Drummond's eyes glanced toward the portrait behind Renata's desk. "Quite," he agreed. "And the -- there's no other word for it," he said after a brief hesitation. "Nepotism. He'll be Her Majesty's son-in-law. There are many... implications."

"I'm loathe to involve myself in family politics," said Renata grimly, swiveling back toward the conversation in her chair. She tucked the cigar box away. "And strictly between us, the relationship between Her Majesty and Her Royal Highness is not... settled. There is much, I feel, that could go wrong. I won't stand for any part of the Renascent Defense Legion becoming some sort of shuttlecock in any squabbles in the royal family. And yet, there is much that we could gain from having his skills on our side."

"It's not just skill," Drummond interjected. "Anyone can be taught to fly a starfighter. Plenty can be taught to fly well. But he has an understanding of strategy -- an innate grasp of the broader picture that takes a great deal more than merely training or even a degree at the war college."

Renata glanced at her watch and sighed. "He'll be here soon enough. Let's see how he handles the interview." She stood and tugged her blazer into place before closing her portfolio. "They'll take him to the cabinet room when he arrives. I'm going to get settled in there now. Home field advantage and all that. Are you coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Drummond said, rising with the Prime Minister.

The Cabinet Room - 10 Alderney Square

​

Renata and Drummond sat on one side of the cabinet table, with a seat set up opposite for Wedge Draav . The intention was not necessarily to intimidate him -- that seemed unlikely anyway -- but rather to impress a sort of balance on things. True, Wedge might have come highly recommended by the Sovereign herself, but the ultimate decision would lie in the hands of the government and military establishment. When he arrived, Captain Draav would be escorted to the cabinet room.

"Captain Draav," Renata said, rounding the broad table to extend a hand for a shake. "Renata Westaway. This is Alaric Drummond, Secretary of State for Defense. Please, take a seat." Westaway and Drummond walked back around the table to take their seats opposite him. "Something to drink? There's water, obviously," she said, indicating a pitcher and glass near Wedge's place. "But I was going to ring for coffee, if you'd like some."

Wedge Draav​