Ride of the Valkyries

This is a backstory thread, set some time between Endor and now. Subsequent threads should catch things up to the current timeline.


Astral Queen - Ord Radama

- - -

"Well that was worth it."

The stars spiralled slowly about the Astral Queen as she pulled herself away from the gravitational tug of Ord Radama. Her engines hummed lazily, the sound thrumming through the deckplates as she flew casually along her allocated flight path, dodging gracefully through the relatively empty skies of the Outer Rim world. Granted, their voyage here had turned out to be a bust - a search for replacement engine parts that had dissolved into a wild Bliz chase - but now he was back behind the controls of his belovéd ship, Jaden Luka didn't have a care in the 'verse.

His co-pilot on the other hand wasn't nearly so easily satiated.

"Quit whining, Amos," Jaden called over his shoulder to his burley human companion, nestled at the aft console of the YT-2000 cockpit. "Its just a bit of mud."

Amos Iakona scowled as he replied. "Not just mud. Swamp mud. Horrible, stinking, sticky swamp mud, that has welded itself to my boots." He prodded the offending ooze with a finger, and growled as he found it set solid. "That's never coming off," he complained with a sigh.

Jaden chucked - perhaps not the most diplomatic of responses, but over the last seven years he and the man seated behind him had gone through so much that Jaden was pretty sure he could get away with near enough anything. "Its not like you to make such a fuss over something so trivial," he teased.

"Its not just the mud," Amos bit back. "My coat is drenched with that gorram rain, and I think that weird green fog has soaked its way into my skin." Despite his impressive size and usually intimidating features, Amos managed a fantastic impression of a childish tantrum, wrapping his arms tightly across his chest. "It'll take weeks to get the smell off me."

"You could try taking a shower..." Jaden offered, deadpan, tapping in the first few commands that would prepare the ship for the jump to lightspeed.

Amos' eyes narrowed. "I would, if you'd managed to pick up a replacement hydro-pump for the 'fresher."

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Jaden winced. The Astral Queen had served them well for the past seven years, but she was by no means a new ship, and had picked up a few recurring faults and quirks over her decades in service. One of them was a twitchy hydro-shower; another, as the red-text message flashing on Jaden's screen illustrated, was a slightly faulty hyperdrive. "Oh, come on!" he grunted, slamming the heel of his hand into the edge of the nav console in frustration. "Too early in the morning for you, your highness?"

"Maybe she didn't like getting coated in green rain either," Amos offered casually.

Slumping forward in his seat, Jaden felt the straps of the safety harness tugging on his shoulders. Like most flyboys, he'd always hated the idea of the restraints: after all, racing around the countryside in a souped-up airspeeder hadn't exactly been an activity frought with health and safety considerations. But since coming out here, into the 'real world' that was the galaxy at large, he'd discovered the hard way that strapping in was a useful measure to avoid annoying things like broken arms and skull fractures.

"Try the jump sequence again," Amos suggested.

Jaden frowned. The tone in his co-pilot's voice had changed. That was a bad sign: there wasn't much that could shut him up when he was in the mood for whining. "Something wrong?" he asked, risking a glance over his shoulder.

"I think there's an Imperial Cruiser in the area."

Quirking an eyebrow, Jaden shifted a little more in his seat. "Your Ginntho senses tingling again?" he asked, but the concern in his voice was geniune. Over the years, he'd come to trust Amos' remarkably accurate gut feelings.

"No, its just..." Amos waved a hand at the console in front of him lazily. "The sensors just picked one up."

Instantly, the colour drained from Jaden's face. They didn't have any particular quarrel with the Empire - sure, being out here on the fringes leant a little more weight to the stories of corruption and suspect activities that the anti-Imperialists tossed around, but Amos was a Stormtrooper veteran and Jaden had been set to serve as a TIE Pilot until he'd been cheated out of his place at the Academy. They may not have liked the way the Empire handled some of its business, but there was a big stretch between that and actively opposing them. Today however, reconsidering that stance might have been in order, particularly since someone - Jaden's stomach lurched - had forgotten to renew their transport licence with the local authorities. Their hold might only have contained a few tons of Ord Radama clay to trade into the ceramics industry, but without a license the Imperials would treat them as harshly as if they were up to their viewports in spice.

"Wake up Trip, and see what he can do with the engines," Jaden instructed. "And you might wanna get yourself up in the turret. I don't wanna open fire on an Imperial patrol if I can help it, but..."

"Yeah," Amos replied, already fumbling his way out of the seat restraints. "We don't want any Imperial entanglements."

As his co-pilot disappeared through the cockpit door, Jaden grimaced at a blinking light on the communications console. Reaching for the headset dangled over a few non-descript switches and dials, he settled it in place, and flicked on the comm array.

"Corellian Transport, this is the Imperial Cruiser Edean. You have deviated from your allocated flight path through this system. State your intentions."

"Cruiser Edean," Jaden responded, "This is the Transport Astral Queen. We are currently suffering a minor hyperdrive malfunction; our technician should have the problem corrected momentarily."

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line; that made Jaden feel even more nervous. "Power down your engines and prepare for docking, Astral Queen. We will render assistance."

That was a bad sign. And giving their real name was stupid as well; a quick check would flash up their lack of license. Unfortunately, they hadn't really had time to modify the IFF into a suitable disguise. "Uh...negative, negative," Jaden sent back, mind fumbling over some kind of suitable excuse. "Our crew has the situation under control."

Another long pause before the Imperial vessel spoke again. This time, any illusions that the Empire was trying to help had disappeared completely. "Power down your engines and prepare to be boarded."

Jaden slammed off the comms with a fist, curses raining from his lips. "We've got a problem!" he yelled, voice echoing down the corridors of the ship.

Feet hammering against the deck plates, Amos threw himself around the last corner at speed. "Wake up, Gearhead," he yelled at the droid as he passed, rapping his knuckles against Trip's metal skull. The robot responded with a string of sounds in droidspeak, but Amos didn't have enough time to allow his mind to translate.

Amos wasn't entirely sure what the word was: he'd been sprinting down the corridor, but how did you describe racing your way up the rungs of a ladder? Whatever the word was, Amos was doing it, hurling himself off the top rung and crashing into the back of the quad-laser seat, momentarily forgetting about the weird shift in gravity that had been lying in ambush for him. Recovering quickly, he dumped himself into the bucket seat, and flicked on the power systems just in time to hear Jaden's echoed warning.

Kicking himself off from the edges of the turret, Amos swung the hefty lasers around and split his focus between the stars outside and the simplistic computer display in front of him. It didn't take long for the large sensor blip that represented the Carrack Cruiser Edean to spawn children: memory informed him that the standard compliment of a Carrack extended to five TIE Fighters, and from the look of things the Edean was going all out on taking them down. Letting out a ferral snarl, Amos dropped the scopes over the nearest fighter, and fired.

The TIE easily dodged, rolling casually away from the torrent of crimson blaster fire that gushed forth from the top of the ship. Its wingman followed up with a few ranged shots towards the turret that the shields brushed off easily, but the proximity of the veridian explosions to his head left Amos feeling more than a little uncomfortable. Swinging himself across the turret bay, he brought the quad-lasers around to bear on the retreating pair, and managed to score a lucky shot that clipped the outside edge of the TIE's solar panel, but did little more than wobble the fighter's course a little. He shot out a curse. Back when he served with the Stormtroopers, he'd always been pretty bad at handling repeating blasters: his training officer's assessment that he couldn't hit the side of a barn pretty much summed it up. These guns were even worse: the quad-lasers on the Astral Queen kicked like a Jimvu, and the ships he was targetting were considerably smaller than a barn, and somewhat harder to see.

It seemed that the pilots were somewhat smarter than barns as well - having noticed that the weapons fire seemed to only be eminating from the topside turret, the TIEs had been directed to concentrate their fire on the ventral surface of the ship. Amos offered another curse. "Roll the ship!" he shouted into the headset microphone balanced uncomfortably over his dreadlocks. "Try and keep as many of them in my arc of fire as you can!"

"You wanna fly the ship?" Jaden bit back. Point taken - if there was anything Amos was worse at than firing repeaters, it was flying ships. In retrospect, it was no wonder that he got dumped into the Stormtroopers as a basic grunt: he wasn't really much good at anything aside from shooting things, and being shot at.

Ah, well, he thought to himself as a TIE Fighter made the mistake of displaying its hexagonal flank to him as it passed. Practice makes perfect.

Fingers tightening on the controls, the quad-lasers spat out a fresh onslaught, barrels recoiling with the force of each blast they unleashed. Most gunners kept the quad-lasers on single fire, each emitter pulsing out a blast in sequence, increasing the weapon's rate of fire. Unfortunately, it also increased the steady vibrating of the weapon that kept screwing up Amos' aim. In quad fire however, all four emitters unleashed a more powerful blast at once, converging at a point several dozen meters from the ship. It decreased the odds of hitting accidentally somewhat, but when a shot managed to fall on-target it tended to do more damage to the often-shielded pirates they usually had to deal with. As Amos learned today, they proved somewhat more effective against unshielded fighters like the Imperial TIE in his sights. Closer than the convergence point, two flanking pairs of laser bolts landed either side of the support strut holding the great hexagonal wings onto the edges of the TIE's cockpit. Tearing the panel in two down the center, half broke off and crashed into the TIE's port engine, while the other smashed straight into the cockpit. Immediately the craft tumbled into a spin; from what Amos could see at this distance, the pilot wouldn't stand a chance of regaining control any time soon, particuarly with a shard of durasteel puncturing the cockpit canopy, and his chest.

The computer systems let out a pair of mechanical bleats that rang around the turret. The first was a warning that the shields were failing - that in itself was a bad sound. The second however made him feel much worse: that was an indication that new targets had been detected. A quick glance at the sensor display warned him that the new arrival was quite large. Imperial reinforcements, no doubt. "Sith!" he yelled, reaching across for the weapons controls and flicking the quad-lasers back to single fire. To hell with accuracy: it was a lot harder to evade fire when the space around you was saturated with it.

"Eat laser!" he howled. Much to his surprise, the TIE in his sights obliged, exploding into a cloud of flame as the fuel reserves ignited. Stunned, Amos watched blankly, wondering if his shabby shooting skills had taken a turn for the better. Realisation dashed that hope however as another craft unlike any Imperial ship he had seen before - red and white, crimson blasers blazing...

Jaden was kind enough to patch his headset into the comms so that he could hear the explanation being beamed towards them from the new arrivals. "Civilian Transport, this is the Alliance Cruiser Valiant. Could you guys use a hand?"

Valiant - Ord Radama

- - -

"Report!" a gruff voice barked, its owner prowling his way amongst the stations on the bridge. A little different from most Mon Calamari ships, the MC40a Light Cruiser Valiant had been retrofitted for use by members of other species. A few accomodations had thus been made, most notably with regards to the environmental settings. The aging officer had spent more than a few years on barren, sun-baked chunks of rock and could stand a little heat, but it was the humidity aboard the amphibian's ships that usually got him. It didn't help that much of the ship was still painfully white, and the brightness that reflected towards them was enough to make anyone break a sweat. At least it was a dry heat though, and Captain Vansen Tyree didn't have to worry about his sweat-drenched uniform welding itself to his skin. That was a distraction he definately didn't need right now.

"Valkyrie Squadron is away," a Communications Officer informed him as he stepped into position, looming over her shoulder and peering with his one good eye at her computer displays. "Lead reports they have engaged the enemy fighters; the path is clear for a direct assault on the Carrack, sir."

Hands clasped firmly behind his back, Captain Tyree nodded sagely, mouth slightly open as his jaw worked from side to side. "Inform Dagger One that he is clear to proceed." Vansen patted a hand against the Comm Officer's shoulders, already pacing across the bridge towards his Executive Officer. His eye narrowed at the holographic display, peering at the fine details on the ship's hull. "Those look like Ion Turrets," he announced to no one in particular. Turning back to Comms, he added: "Make sure Dagger Squadron clears those out before we move in. I don't want our asses going numb if we can help it."

"Aye-aye, sir," the Comm Officer called back, relaying the instructions through her headset.

Fifty years ago, Vansen had become a pilot, and it had been nearly thirty since the Republic and their gorram clones had ousted him from his cockpit and landed him in this slow-paced hell that was the bridge of a starship. Annoyingly, it had proven to be a hell he was well suited for, and now here he was: Captain insignia pinned to his chest, three thousand men waiting for his orders. Had that boy from fifty years ago been told that one day he would stand, Captain of his own starship, fighting against what the Republic had become, he would never have believed him. But much had changed in those five decades, and circumstances had landed him here. Maybe it was fate, or the force, or blind luck: whatever it was, there was a very simple truth that persisted in the Captain's mind. I've got a battle to win.

The Executive Officer regarded the holodisplay with interest; Vansen however regarded the Executive Officer with interest. He had to admit: only assigned to command for a few months, he'd accepted the crew that he was given, and this bright-eyed young officer was as much a mystery to him as the inner workings of the female mind. His record with the Alliance had been short but impressive; like many of his people, the Alderaanian had cast off the usual pascifist nature of his people in order to strike back at the Empire that had obliterated their home. There was a motivation that he could empathise with, particularly since it was the plight of Alderaan that had first turned his sympathies towards the Rebellion. That anger that fuelled him made the XO dangerous and unpredictable. He should probably keep an eye on him. Unfortunately, he only had one, and that was currently pretty busy familiarising himself with every bump and curve on the hologram projection of the ship he was about to destroy.

"Something bothering you?" he asked gruffly, trying to grab the XO's attention - not a sign of frustration, but an unfortunate side effect of his status as a grizzled old Captain.

The Commander looked a little relunctant to speak, but managed to muscle past it, probably imagining what the Captain might do if he was that determined enough to find out. "Seems like we're cheating, sir," he offered simply, hands tight behind his back and arms still locked on the display. "I can't fault the tactical merit of these hit-and-fade strikes, but..."

"But there's no challenge in only fighting the battles you can win," Vansen finished for him. Captain Tyree nodded, letting out the slightest of sighs. "Unfortunately, Commander, until those Mon Calamari can churn out some more firepower and level the playing field, we're stuck to nibbling at the Empire's coat tails." He allowed his gaze to settle on his second-in-command, and offered the closest thing to a sympathetic smile as he could muster, which ended up looking more like the prelude of an intestinal upset.

Tyree's attention snapped to the bank of Weapons Officers. "Bring main Turbolaser batteries to bear on the Imperial Cruiser," he instructed, summoning all the authority into his voice that he could muster. In the acoustics of this oddly shaped starship, it took that little bit extra to fill the bridge with the booming sound of his orders. "Ion Cannons to suppression fire - lets give them a reason to think twice about broadsiding us." He took a step forward towards the bridge's expansive viewport. "Hold missile tubes for now. And Helm," - his hand gripped the rear of the Pilot's seat. "Move us into position."

A chorus of "Aye, sir" responded, and Tyree closed his good eye to listen to the thrum of the ship's mighty engines through the deck plates, and the echoing whine as the turbolasers recoiled, hurling out bolts of crimson fury. This is what had brought him back: not his ego, nor his lust for justice; simply a craving for the thrill of strategy and combat once again. Yes, the Captain thought to himself. This is the good part.

It had been nearly an hour since the Astral Queen had found itself on the wrong side of an Imperial patrol, and since the timely arrival of an Alliance Cruiser had plucked them from the jaws of criminal detention. Not that Jaden and Amos were criminals of course. Just a little..."tardy"...with their paperwork.

Of all the places Jaden had expected to find himself this morning, the flight deck of a Rebel starship didn't even make the top ten. In fact, "dead" had made it fairly high up the list, and in hindsight Jaden was pretty bad his estimations were off. Their current predicament didn't come without its complications, however. Though disarmed and left without minimal power, the Imperial vessel that had confronted them would still be able to report them as an unlicensed Transport, compounded by the fact that they were now in league with the Rebellion against the Empire. Though they had left Imperial service, neither Jaden nor Amos had any desire to get on the wrong side of the law, so this new situation was somewhat of a curveball.

You've been in worse situations than this, Jaden thought to himself, as he ensured his blaster was carefully concealed inside his coat - just in case - and Amos made a big show of hanging his vibrosword in plain sight. Just because you can't think of any doesn't make that any less true.

The ramp of the Corellian YT-2000 descended slowly, falling against the deck with a dull metallic thud. Taking the first few tentative steps - although ensuring to make them look as confident as possible - Jaden was assaulted by a wall of brightness, quite literally. Rather than the dull matte grey interiors the two had experienced before on Imperial capital ships, this Mon Calamari vessel was a brilliant, radiant white, so much so that even the fighters littered about the bay looked drab and grubby, to say nothing of the Ord Radana-stained Astral Queen.

Granted, Jaden hadn't been in many Hangar Bays over the years, but this one seemed strangely crowded; even the port that opened out into space didn't seem large enough for the fighters crammed within. A quick glance around showed the tell-take prominances of bulkheads that had been saccrificed in order to increase the capacity; no doubt it had cost them a few months of cargo storage. Even with all the modifications though, Jaden didn't envy the flight crew the arduous puzzle of shuffling about the fighters and shuttles to ensure the correct ones were ready to launch when needed.

"Captain Luka?" asked a voice, catching Jaden somewhat off balance. He turned, attention settling on the flighsuit-clad form of a Starfighter pilot emerging from the crowd of technicians that were already swarming over the freshly-landed planes. Annoyingly, Rebel flight suits appeared to be as nondescript as their Imperial counterparts, save for the apparent customisation of their helmets; whoever this person was, Jaden wasn't going to find out by just looking.

Reaching forward, he offered a hand that the pilot grasped with a surprisingly strong grip. "No one has called me Captain since..." he hesitated for a moment, frowning slightly. "Since ever, really." He offered her his best heart-melting smile - the one that had served him so well with the ladies in the galaxy's cantinas over the past several years. "I assume we have you to think for saving us?"

The pilot retrieved her hand, throwing back a quick smile of her own. Obviously, this strange breed of human was immune to his wit, charm, and dashing good looks. Jaden tried his best not to look hurt. "Yes you do," she replied simply, the expression on her face more than a little smug. "Major Vorega."

A slight grunt from behind reminded Jaden of the companion looming over his shoulder, probably trying to look as menacing as possible. "This is my co-pilot, Amos Iakona."

Vorega looked as if she intended to shake Amos' hand as well, but after recieving a vague grunt of greeting that the former Imperial managed to utter between sweeps of their surroundings looking for every possible escape route, she seemed satisfied enough just knowing his name. "The Captain would like to meet with you as quickly as possible," she explained, turning her attention back to the more hospitable Jaden. She gestured towards a patch of bulkhead where, through a swarm of technicians, Jaden could vaguely make out the outline of a door. "This way."

Allowing the Major to gain a few paces of distance on them, Jaden fell into step beside his Naboo companion. "You could try and be nice, you know," he muttered under his breath, trying his utmost to appear casual.

Amos fixed him with a look of mild disbelief. "You know me. This is as nice as I get."

"Still..." Jaden waved his arms vaguely, reluctant to give in that easily. "These people just saved both our asses. The least you can do is avoid scaring them too much. Be a little more friendly."

A slight grunted laugh escaped from Amos' lips. "And how friendly do you think they'll be when they discover that the two guys they just rescued are former Scout Troopers?"

The big guy had a point there - given the potency of their earlier surprise attack, he doubted there'd be much question-asking before the Rebels acted on that particular piece of information. Jaden fought back a grimace. "That was seven years ago," he tried. "I'm sure they aren't the sort to hold a grudge."

Amos' expression said it all. Yeah. Right.

Amos felt trapped, and hated every minute of it. He had been drafted into Imperial service through some obscure transfer clause from the Naboo Security Forces, and hadn't been particularly pleased about being dragged away from home to get shot at by races he'd never seen before on planets he'd never heard of, but he'd been young, and a job was a job. Imperial Officers spent a lot of time trying to drive home the fact that the opponents they were assigned to fight were evil, and that they deserved what was coming for him, but Amos had no delusions that it was true. He simply chose not to care. The Imperial Stormtrooper Corps paid him to follow orders, and that was something he was particularly good at, especially if that meant leaving the decision-making process up to someone else. Allowing the responsibility and the blame to rest squarely on someone else's shoulders was the way that he coped with what he was doing, he supposed: it was what allowed him to sleep at night.

Unfortunately, the plan didn't always work. There were times when, no matter how many speaches his superiors made, and no matter how much evidence was placed before him to support what was being done, it just didn't feel right. There was something in his gut that told him he should stop. But ignorance was bliss, and a particular talent of his. Besides, what sort of a difference could one lowly Stormtrooper make in the grand scheme of things?

When he'd been promoted to Sergeant, his entire perspective changed. A step higher up the ladder, he could see things much more clearly than before. He began to learn more about what was going on - villages purged because of a Rebel sympathiser lurking amongst them; ships obliterated for smuggling; civilians detained so that the Empire could unearth their secrets. At their very core, the ends were just. Quelling the disidents would end the fighting and save the lives of soldiers like him, on both sides. Smuggling fuelled the criminal underworld, the black market, and pumped Imperial settlements full of spice and narcotics that destroyed the lives of those who fell foul. But try as he might, Amos could not justify the means to himself. His superiors told him that by making an example of one situation, a dozen more would be prevented from arising. After all: what use was a deterrant like the mighty Imperial Navy if no one had reason to fear it.

Seven years before the historic Battle of Yavin, a bacterial research facility on the planet of Falleen suffered a containment failure, and the infection spread to the general populace. The Empire's first reaction was to decimate the city from space, leaving two hundred thousand dead. A perfect application of Imperial thinking perhaps, but one that Amos couldn't help but question. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong Officer to voice his concerns to. In hindsight, maybe the Captain had done him a service, having the Sergeant sent away so that his dangerous questions wouldn't be heard by someone less sympathetic. At the time however, all Amos percieved was him being reassigned to the back end of space, offloaded on a backwater Scout Trooper unit: out of sight and out of mind.

Were he a smart individual, he would have kept quiet, done his job, and restored his reputation enough to get posted off Ord Varee back into a unit with a pulse. But intelligence was not something overly abundant for Amos Iakona. Anger, on the other hand, was available in much more abundance. The Lieutenant assigned to lead their particular unit was old, but inexperienced. Most of the time it seemed like he didn't have the slightest clue about military tactics; Amos changed from the trooper who would blindly follow orders into the Sergeant who would argue against them for the good of the men under his command. It was probably only fear of some injury at Amos' hands that prevented the Lieutenant from reacting more strongly than he did. Unfortunately, that often placed him on the wrong side of the Lieutenant's superior. Amos' chances of ever leaving Ord Varee quickly evapourated.

His break had come from this full-of-himself brat, who had used his father's influence as a military veteran to pull some strings, and land him an internship with their Platoon: a bit of prior experience working for the Empire to help top his shiny resume for Fighter training at the Imperial Academy. The Lieutenant didn't seem particularly pleased about the Intern either, and had attatched him to Amos' unit as an observer. To the Sergeant's surprise, beneath the layer of cocky over-confidence was someone not only capable of doing their job, but also someone with the initiative to ask why. The Lieutenant didn't like that one bit, and grew increasingly frustrated; Amos grew to like the Intern even more.

Months passed; the Intern's father died. That was bad enough for any child, but the kid had handled himself well. Their Captain however did not. No more than a week after his father's death, the Captain withdrew his sponsorship of the Intern's application to the Academy and, without that glowing letter of recommendation to push him over the edge, his entire future tumbled down around his ears. Amos had already ruined his own career, but wasn't about to see the same happen to this poor kid. So he'd confronted the Captain: taken him to task on what he'd done. To shorten a long story, the Officer didn't take too kindly to that, and Amos was left with a choice: resignation, or dishonourable discharge.

Amos never told Jaden that his Imperial career had ended that way. Then again, he never told him that sticking up to the Captain had also cost Jaden his position with the Scout Troopers as well. Instead, he'd made a vow to himself: follow the hapless flyboy around the galaxy, and make sure he didn't get himself shot by mouthing off to a Hutt or something stupid like that.

Seven years had passed since then, and a lot had changed. The Rebellion had been in its infancy when they left Imperial service; now it had a dozen victories to its name. The Empire on the other hand had built not one but two planet-destroying weapons - Amos might have been stupid, but he wasn't quite stupid enough to believe that the Rebels had been the ones responsible for building the first Death Star - both of which had been destroyed. He'd followed Jaden across the galaxy, from starport to starport looking for work, commodities to trade, and more often than not spare parts for the run-down Corellian freighter that Jaden had insisted on buying with his inheritance. There had been a few inevitable ups and downs, but it had been plain sailing mostly, up until today. In a matter of hours they had gone from care-free traders to criminals on the run from the Empire, suspected no doubt of working with the Rebellion.

Amos let out a sigh. Disagreeing with the Empire's motives was one thing, but resorting to terrorism was another. On the other hand, he knew what lengths the Imperials would go to in order to "subdue" the two of them, regardless of whether they were guilty of anything or not. The choice, it seemed, had been made for him already.

Skrag it, Jaden, Amos thought to himself, eyeing the Rebels that lined the corridors around them suspiciously. What have you got me into this time?

It was strange: you would have thought that with only one eye, Captain Tyree's piercing gaze would be less menacing, but that certainly wasn't the case. Maybe instead he'd simply diverted the surplus glare into his remaining eye, making it twice as potent. Whatever the reason, Vansen was glad that he still had the ability to make people squirm just by looking at them. Perhaps the shard of transparisteel in the eye at the Battle of Coruscant hadn't been such a bad thing after all.

Leaning back in the pilot's couch he'd comendeered from the ground crew to replace the painfully uncomfortable chair the Mon Calamari had designed, he steepled his fingers, drummed them against his bottom lip, and allowed his gaze to wash over the two new visitors to his office.

"Who are you?"

It was a simple enough question, but apparently it caught the young pilot off-balance. "Uhm," he stalled, frowning. "Jaden Luka; this is my co-pilot..."

Vansen waved a hand to silence him. "I know your names; that's not what I asked. Who are you?"

"We're traders," Jaden tested, slowly, watching for any reaction from the Captain, checking he was answering correctly this time. "Our hyperdrive failed as we were leaving the system. The Imperial Cruiser came to offer assistance..." his voice trailed off. "I guess they weren't too happy when they declined."

The Captain's eyebrow climbed, ever so slightly. "They tend to get that way with unlicensed transports."

Jaden winced. Of course they knew that - they'd probably already run the Astral Queen through the holonet, and done a cursory check on its registered owner before they were even brought onboard. "Yeah," he stated, lamely.

Reaching below his desk, Vansen retrieved a metallic flask, and detatched the lid, setting it down on the desk. "Care to explain, Mr Luka," he asked, pouring a thick brown sludge into the upturned lid, drinking in the aroma that flooded the office, "How a simple 'trader' like yourself comes to be in posession of an Imperial issue armour and sidearm?"

The burley Amos grimaced. Things were going badly already. To his credit though, Jaden didn't bat an eyelid at the Captain's observation. "Seven years ago, I served as an Intern with a Scout Trooper unit on Ord Varee; it was supposed to improve my resume when I applied to the Imperial Academy. My father died, and the favours he'd called in to get me there collapsed underneath me. Without the backing of the unit Captain, my application was declined, and here I am: seven years later."

Vansen raised the cup of caf to his lips, eye still peering over the rim, focussed on Jaden. "Carson Luka was your father?" he asked.

Jaden nodded, slowly, a deep brown forming on his brows. "You know my father?"

The Captain couldn't help the slight twitch of a smile as he set the cup back down on the table. "Never even heard of him," he admitted. "But you're a citizen of the Empire - all your details are available on the holonet for all the 'verse to see." The trader's shoulders slumped, obviously embarassed at his slightly foolish assumption. An uncharacteristic stab of compassion hit him, and Tyree threw in a slight subject change to distract attention away from Jaden for a moment. "What about your friend?"

"He served in the same unit as me seven years ago, and left Imperial service at the same time. Before that he served in the Security Forces on Naboo."

Tyree faked a look of sarcastic surprise. "Service on Naboo, you say?" he asked, turning his focus towards Amos. "Why did you leave?"

"I was drafted," Amos replied simply, his voice a low, predatory growl, eyes fixed on the Captain trying to outstare him. Vansen smiled slightly at the challenge he presented, but decided not to pursue it.

"Why did you leave the Empire?"

Amos' eyes flicked away for a moment; obviously there was more to his answer than he was willing to give. "I didn't like the way that they handled their business."

Vansen's eye narrowed, probing into Amos like a superlaser punching through ice. "Not enough to do anything about it, though."

Knuckles pressed in fists against the desk, Amos brought his eyes down to Vansen's level, face a few inches from his. "Not enough to become a terrorist," he countered, cocking his head to one side. "Or do you prefer 'freedom fighter'?"

"Amos..." Jaden warned; the interruption was enough to straighten his co-pilot up, at least.

Unphased, Tyree took another sip of his caf, reclining back in his chair again. "The ship we intercepted is one of a number of Imperial vessels harassing transport vessels in and around the Hydian Way. They detain, they board, and they confiscate anything that is of potential value to the Empire." His attention shifted to Amos. "So yes, Mr Iakona - I do prefer freedom fighter."

"I'm sure those pilots you shot down are glad you can make that distinction," Amos growled.

"As is the one you vaped," Tyree threw back.

This time, Amos' shoulders slumped. Vansen knew what was going through his mind: he'd seen it a hundred times before, and in the mirror as well. When Amos had first been approached by the Rebellion, the first order to open fire on an Imperial vessel had been the most difficult of his life. No matter what philosophies and morals he clung to and hid behind, how could he condemn these people for doing nothing worse than he had done himself? That wasn't something you forgave yourself for: all you could do is remind yourself that, no matter what, you were doing the right thing. This Amos on the other hand had actually chosen to leave the Empire of his own accord from the sound of things, and that made all the difference. There was hope for him yet.

Vansen eventually turned his attention back to Jaden, tone shifting to his neutral command voice. "I'm afraid we can't wait around in this system, Mr Luka - I'm sure you appreciate that we can't still be here when the Imperials detect the Cruiser's distress signal." He pulled himself out of his seat, and straightened out the front of his uniform before advancing around the desk to shake hands with the Transport Pilot. "I'll have my technicians take a look at your hyperdrive, and will make arrangements to drop you off at a safe location before our next encounter."

Jaden seemed a little surprised, but definately grateful. "Thank you, Captain," he said, gripping Vansen's hand firmly.

Tyree's gaze fell on Amos again, but he knew better than to offer a handshake. He held the gaze for a moment longer, but Iakona's eyes didn't even rise to meet him. Obviously, he'd given the former Trooper pleanty to think about. Instead, he turned back to Jaden. "Major Vorega will be overseeing the repairs; let her know if there's anything else you require."

"We appreciate it, Captain," Jaden assured, risking a quick glance at Amos. Well, I do, anyway.

"So, Imperial Academy, huh?"

After twenty minutes with his head shoved into the guts and circuitry of the Astral Queen, Jaden was surprised enough by the sudden noise to send the wrench he'd been holding tumbling down the few feet between where he'd been reaching, and the top of his head. "Kriff it!" Jaden yelled, hands flying to nurse his crown. He could already feel the telltale signs of a lump beginning to form, but at least his fingers came away dry when he pulled them away. Managing to wriggle free without using his arms was a challange, but eventually he amanaged pull himself into a crouch and cast an angry glare at the offending tool, nestled innocently between a bundle of cables and a power capacitance regulator.

Straightening up, he turned his attention back to his surroundings, gaze settling on Major Vorega who seemed to be trying very hard not to crack a smile. Jaden pinned her with a slight scowl. "Ouch."

Vorega snorted a faint giggle. "You know, we have technicians around here for a reason," she teased. "Might be safer if you let them handle this."

Jaden quirked an eyebrow, and fixed her with a look. "You'd be happy to let a bunch of people you've never met before swarm all over your bird without supervision?"

The Major shrugged. "Fair enough."

Unleashing a slight groan, Jaden slumped himself up against one of the walls of the Queen's main corridor, and allowed his legs to buckle, depositing him on the floor. A hand slowly massaging at his temples while the other gingerly poked at his scalp, he peared up towards Vorega. "What was it you wanted, Major?"

"Leela," the Major corrected, joining him on the floor and folding her legs over each other. Casually she deposited her hand in her lap, watching Jaden with interest. "You mentioned that you were hoping to make it into the Imperial Academy."

Blinking some clarity into his head, Jaden nodded. "Yeah. My father was an Engineering Officer back in the days of the Republic. I was a bit of a wild child when I was younger - picked up a few black marks on my record for speeder violations. He was hoping that the Academy would do me some good or something; straighten me out." He sighed, letting his hands fall away. "Didn't really go as planned."

"Yeah..." Leela's voice trailed off. "Parents can be like that." Silence fell for a moment; Jaden could tell that there was a nerve near the surface somewhere, but new better than to try and aggrivate it. She seemed to recover quickly, offering him a slightly forced smile before she spoke again. "What made you want to be an Army Officer?"

Jaden laughed. "Nothing. My dad wanted me in the Navy - Fighter Pilot, if possible, like his father before him. He never made it through selection when he joined up, and wound up stuck in an Engine room for his entire career. I guess he thought that, since I wasted all my time screwing around with airspeeders, the pilot gene might just have just skipped a generation."

The Major frowned. "Then how did you wind up with the Scout Troopers?"

"Irony?" Jaden shrugged. "My father wanted me to have the best resume for the Academy possible. If I demonstrated that I already had some of the skills that the Empire would want, I'd be a safer bet for them to train." Casually, he scratched as a patch of stubble on his jawline, and tried to remember how long it had been since he'd shaved. The fact that he couldn't remember probably didn't say much about his personal hygene. "Ord Varee didn't really have much in the way of a Navy, and the local Starfighter unit wasn't about to let some rook kid up in one of their planes without having gone through the Academy first. The Stormtrooper Garrison was the only option left to demonstrate any kind of leadership and loyalty; I think the unit commander thought it would be funny to assign the kid with speederbike offenses on his record to a unit that spent all day riding around on them."

"It doesn't sound like you played all that big a part in the decision-making process," Leela observed.

Jaden offered another shrug. "I didn't really care back then; all I wanted to do was waste time flying about the place. Joining the Imperial Navy as a pilot was the easiest option at the time; guarenteed to keep my father of my back."

Trip chose that precise moment to make his presence known, crawling in from ther cargo hold in the strange squatting manner that was the signature of his design. A string of incomprehensible droidspeak spewed forth as he approached, but thanks to one of the various special features incorporated into the design by Jaden's father - who for some reason had decided that building a replica of a four-thousand year old utility droid and then cramming it with modern technology to make it remotely useful was an appropriate way to spend his retirement - at least some of the words were translated. "Hello, Master," Trip greeted cheerfully, trundling across towards Jaden. Unfortunately, a slight problem with the processor that tried to translate the motion instructions from the R2 droid brain to the T3 motors in his wheels made him veer right slightly, bumping into the wall before colliding gently with Jaden's leg. Coming to a halt after a few moments of persistant pushing, the servos in the droid's neck cocked his head to one side, optical lens settling first on Jaden, and then on Leela. "We have visitors."

Annoying as his inherited companion could be at times, Jaden couldn't help but crack a smile. "Trip," he introduced, "This is Major Leela Vorega." He waved an arm towards the cross-legged figure opposite. "Leela...this is Trip."

Frowning, the Major leaned in a little closer. "T-REP?" she read aloud, paying more attention to the identifier tag painted onto the droid's chest than on the droid itself. Neck servos whirred again, and Trip's head tilted downwards, optical lens matching Leela's gaze as her eyes rose upwards to find out what was making so much noise. Though completely devoid of facial features, and lacking in limbs to properly articulate body language, he still managed to make himself look like a baby Ronto, filled with wide-eyed curiosity.

"It stands for T-Replica," Jaden explained, giving Trip a friendly pat on the head. The droid tipped his head back in apparent enjoyment. "He's based on an old T-series Utility Droid, from back around the time of the Sith Wars." He paused for a moment, taking the opportunity to make himself a little more comfortable. "My father was a career Engineering Officer and a complete history nut: quite a dangerous combination. Our house back on Ord Varee was filled with replicas of outdated technologies, and carefully restored antiques. He decided one day that he needed a pet project to keep him occupied during his retirement...so he built himself a pet." Jaden smiled. "He started out with a replica of the chassis based on the original blueprints, but by the time it came to start installing the components, he came upon a problem. Turns out that technology has advanced a bit in the last few thousand years, and nowadays you can fit a whole lot more into a big, sturdy chassis like this." He gave Trip a pat on the flank for emphasis. "Inside he's a bit of a hybrid; parts from astromech droids, utility droids, repair droids, admin droids; he's even got a crude vocabulator to translate some of what he says to basic, although most of the time he just whistles at us in droidspeak. Apparently, the vocabulator doesn't get the message right all the time."

"Affirmative," Trip threw in, cheerfully.

Directing her attention straight at the droid, she offered a smile. "Nice to meet you, Trip."

The droid unleashed an incomprehensible string of pop's and whistles that the vocabulator didn't translate for them. Jaden frowned, digging into the pocket of his jumpsuit for a vocabulator. "Say that again, buddy?" he asked. Text scrolled past on the screen, and Jaden struggled to keep a straight face.

Leela frowned slightly. "What?"

Jaden cleared his throat with a slight cough. "Trip says that, 'From this angle, Miss Vorega's clothing provides insufficient coverage of her torso circuitry'."

Confusion crossed the Major's face, and then realisation, laced with a slight hint of embarassment. Eyes flicking down towards her chest at the moment, she grabbed the zip on her flight suit, and pulled it all the way up to her throat. "I think I'm done sitting down now."

Amos nursed the mug of caf between his fingers. There was something about the way the heat and the aroma rolled off the surface and washed over him that was even more refreshing than the stimulants in the beverage itself, although considering the thickness of what he'd drunk so far the full mug would probably leave him unconscious in the medbay, suffering from an overdose. It was enough to make a Technician proud: strong enough to not only make your hair fall out, but also to degrease even the toughest starfighter components.

For the most part, Amos had been left alone since he'd wandered into the mess hall. A passing service droid had attempted to offer him a refill on his caf, but had been ushered away gruffly; everyone else seemed to have been repelled by the fact that he was tall enough and hairy enough to be at least part Wookiee. That at least left him alone in peace to reflect on the hell he'd found himself in, staring out of the viewport at the strange blue swirl of hyperspace, rolling around them. It was mesmeric, and Amos had spent many a night holed up in one of the gunnery turrets on the Astral Queen letting it soothe him to sleep. It made for a much more pleasant distraction than the constant thrumming and clanking of the inner workings that surrounded the sleeping quarters, at any rate.

Amos had been trying to think of other things as he sat here, but his mind kept coming back to the fact that, before too long they'd find themselves back aboard the Queen, trying to pick their lives back up from where they left off. Only their ship would now be flagged for Imperials across the Sector, if not even further afield. Sure, there were areas of the galaxy where contact with the Empire was less frequent, the Outer Rim being one of them. But they'd always have that threat hanging over them, always peering over their shoulders for the flash of white as a Stormtrooper patrol moved through the crowds, ears always listening for the sound of marching boots.

How did this happen? he asked himself. I used to be the one hunting people like me. Where did it all go wrong?

Mind focussed in the depths of hyperspace, Amos didn't notice the new arrival at his table before he'd managed to sit down. At least the Rebel had shown the forsight not to position himself between Amos and the viewport, but still: the smell rising from the tray of food he had just collected was offputting enough.

"I'm starving," the Rebel muttered, shovelling food eagerly into his mouth, washed down at regular intervals with large swigs of what looked like some kind of blue fruit joice. "I hope you don't mind if I join you," he added through a mouthful, gesturing a vague circle at the table with his fork as his jaw worked to break down whatever mystery meat the Alliance had seen fit to provide for its personnel today. He jerked a head towards the viewport and the vortex outside, offering a slightly distorted smile as his tongue speared between his teeth, trying to dislodge some of his precious meal that was trying to seek refuge. "Best view in the room."

"Yeah," Amos muttered gruffly: the first words he'd spoken in two hours.

The Rebel seemed perfectly content to carry the weight of the conversation solo, however. "I'm Lieutenant John Glayde - I command the SpecForce contingent aboard." He didn't bother to wait for an answer, instead quickly sucking a streak of mashed green vegetable from his knuckle and wiping it dry on the thigh of his jumpsuit. He offered the freshly cleaned hand to Amos. "You must be from that transport ship we picked up; Amos Iakona, right?"

Amos regarded the hand with mild suspicion. He'd left Imperial service before the 'Alliance to Restore the Republic' had come into existance, so his knowledge of the intimate workings of the Rebel military was probably even worse than the lowliest Stormtrooper grunt. From what he'd picked up on the fringes though, SpecForce was their elite of some sort - units trained in boarding operations, guerrilla warfare, urban combat, wilderness survival, and all manner of other assorted fields of combat. Having never fought against anyone from the unit himself he couldn't adequately gauge the quality of the Rebel troops, but given that the Alliance continued to be a thorn in the side of the Empire, they were probably doing something right. Amos decided that his best option at the moment was to at least keep things friendly with their hosts, or at least non-violent. Gripping the Lieutenant's proffered hand, he nodded. "That's me."

Glayde allowed himself a sufficient pause in his eating to throw a grin towards Amos, before diving back in. "I've just been sorting the final preparations for our next operation with Captain Tyrant upstairs. Didn't leave much time to get some food down me before the unit briefing." Amos looked at the Lieutenant blankly. "Captain Tyree," he explained. "Apparently, he used to complain a lot during basic training; the other Cadets used to refer to him as the Ty-Rant." He shrugged. "Name kinda stuck."

"Seems appropriate," Amos observed.

John chuckled. "He's not so bad once you get used to him. You have to remember: he's been doing this sort of thing since before any of us were born. We're all dumb rooks to him."

Meal finally over, the Lieutenant pushed the tray away from his body, drained the last of his glass, and slumped back into the chair. "I heard you were a Stormtrooper."

"For a few years," Amos concerned.

Glayde folded his arms across his chest. "Ever serve as part of a squad defending a transport ship in a cargo convoy?"

Amos' tone grew wary. "Once or twice," he revealed, eyes narrowing. Why the hell did the Lieutenant want to know that.

"Our next mission is a boarding operation," Glayde explained, not allowing Amos the time for unnecessary speculation. "We've recieved intelligence that a shipment of military supplies from TaggeCo on Tiss'sharl will be making a hyperspace pause on the outskirts of the Toprawa system. The plan is to disable the escorting vessel, commendeer two of the transports, and escape before the Imperial defense forces in orbit of Toprawa have the opportunity to respond." He paused, the boyish grin on his face faded into a pure business expression. "I'd appreciate any information you can give that might help my soldiers make it back from those ships in one piece, preferably with the minimum of casulties on both sides."

"Listen," Amos growled, hackles rising. "I served with the Empire for ten years," he started, but Glayde cut him off.

Folded arms resting on the table, Glayde leaned forward, his voice growing quieter but more determined as he spoke. "Fourteen years," the Lieutenant countered, brow knotting at the inner conflict that was still ongoing in his mind. "Seven of those as a Jump Trooper, and a further two as a Storm Commando."

Amos recoiled slightly. Jump Troopers or Airtroopers as they were sometimes known were held in high regard by many branches of the Stormtrooper Corps, mainly because of the bravery they frequently showed by hurling themselves out of spacecraft at high altitudes, and relying on a couple of rocket engines strapped to their backs to stop them turning into liquid inside their armour upon impact. Often deployed in advance of other troops or as a rapid response, Amos had himself harboured a hope that he would one day be allowed to serve as a Jump Trooper himself, but his tall and broad frame pushed him over the weight safety limit on the jump equipment, and his application had been declined.

More impressive than that perhaps was Amos' mention of Storm Commandos. Newly introduced when Amos left Imperial service, the special forces Stormtroopers were intended to directly counter the guerrilla style combat employed by the Rebel Alliance: the anti-SpecForce, as it were. Amos had heard over the holonet that the original Storm Commando Commander - Crix Madene - had gone missing, and there were rumours that he had defected, but having a genuine Storm Commando sitting in front of him was something else entirely. One of the Empire's finest, now working for its worst enemy.

"How?" That was the only question that Amos could muster. "How do you go out there and fight against the people you used to fight alongside?"

Glayde unleashed a sigh, but it was sympathy that filled his eyes, not frustration. "What the Empire is doing is wrong. Someone needs to stand up to them, and I would rather it was me than some kid who lost his family and is only out here for revenge." He fixed Amos with a look, aimed straight into his eyes. "I used to fight for what I believed, but the Empire turned out to be a lie. Now I fight for what I believe in. We may only be the lesser of two evils, but at least I know I'm doing the right thing."

The Lieutenant relaxed, retreating back into his chair for a moment before deciding to haul himself to his feet. "Nice talking to you, Amos."

Without another word, Glayde turned and left, but he didn't make it more than a few paces before Amos spoke. "Wait."

John turned, his face having managed to regain its earlier smile. "Yeah?"

His brow twitched as he struggled to straighten things out in his mind, but his jaw set with determination and he found his voice. "What is it you want to know?"

"Yes, yes!" Leela screamed, hands flexing in an attempt to unleash the excited tention that rippled through her entire body. Jaden let out an exhausted grunt, shoulders slumping as the last of his energy faded. But at least the ordeal was over. Sweet, sweet relief.

What followed was perhaps the most absurd and unelegant thing Jaden had ever seen. Given the context, he assumed that it was probably what passed for the Major's victory dance, but he'd seen Banthas move with more grace than the jerky, arm-flailing, bounding lap of the court that Leela treated him to. It looked like an attempt in vain to mimic some sort of conquering predatory animal, but ended up looking more like the time he'd "accidentally" pushed his cousin's pet Nuna into an antigravity field back when he was younger. In fact, the Nuna probably looked less preposterous.

"You loose!" Leela beemed enthusiastically, finally managing to regain control of her limbs. "I warned you when we started - I'm the undefeated 'pulsor champion on ship."

Jaden's expression contorted into something that was an odd fusion of a frown, a frustrated scowl, and a raised eyebrow. "Well, I didn't see this coming," he admitted sarcastically, folding his arms loosely across the chest. "I doubt anyone would have guessed this result when I said 'What the hell is Repulsorball' twenty minutes ago..."

Leela chuckled, shooting him a victorious smirk. "Excuses, excuses," she teased, tugging at the front of her shirt to vent some of the exercise-enduced heat from her body. "You're just sore because you lost."

Unleashing a sigh, Jaden doubled over slightly, hands on his thighs as he sucked in a sharp breath, wincing as the bruise on his side began to ache. "Yeah...sore is definately the word."

Retrieving her flight jacket, the Major tossed it casually over her shoulder, and jerked her head towards the exit from the cargo bay, where the technicians had obligingly converted a spare corner for this rather unusual Outer Rim sporting activity. "I believe the wager was endentured servitude," she added casually, leading the way out. "Your hide is mine, pretty-boy."

"I don't remember agreeing to that," Jaden muttered, trudging reluctantly in her wake. A flash of realisation dragged his brow down into a frown. "And did you just call me 'pretty'?"

* * *

The medical bay was like every other that Jaden had ever found himself in. No matter how you dressed it up, it was still the same thing. There were only two types of people who came to a medical bay: either there was something wrong with you, or you were here to worry about someone who had something wrong with them. Jaden had lost too many friends and relatives in the past to wander into a place like this without a sinking feeling forming in his stomach. Somewhere between the smell of bacta, the slightly chilled air, and electric tingle of the stasis fields that kept the place sterile that remided him of everyone he had lost. He'd been lucky enough to only have found himself in a hospital once, and that was when he was too young to remember exactly what had happened. No: to him, a medical bay was the place you came to watch someone you care about die.

"Who is he?" he finally managed to ask, mustering up all of his inner strength to push all of his bad memories into the depths of his consciousness.

Everything about Leela's poise had changed. Usually, her pose was casual, her stance relaxed, her expression bordering on the happy. He'd seen her acting in an official capacity when they'd first met, but even then there'd been something a little loose about her. Right now though, she stood ramrod straight, entire body tense. Her expression was blank, and Jaden could tell that she'd put up a forcefield to hold a hell of a lot back.

"His name is Tiet Voe: one of my pilots."

That explained a lot. His exposure to fighter pilots had been limited, but if they were anything like Troopers they took their bonds with those they fought alongside extremely seriously. Back on Ord Varee, Amos had been his direct superior, and the for men in their Lancer had been very close. Amos put the lives of those under his command above everything else - even his own safety at times. He'd even given up everything to follow Jaden around the galaxy: testement to something deeper than mere friendship. There was something that happened when people put their lives on the line together, and that was something that wasn't easily shaken.

"What happened?" Jaden asked gently, trying not to push the issue, and to respect the unconscious pilot.

Leela turned, a slight chink in her armour allowing a hint of a greatful smile to make it through. "A few missions ago, we were asked to escort a convoy of medical supplies. The Imperials caught wind, and decided to set an ambush: I guess they figured that if they took out our ability to heal our pilots, it would make us less likely to risk them on missions." She turned back, eyes shimmering slightly as she focussed on her Sullustan wingman again, face and body badly burned beneath the layers of bandages and bacta packs, waiting for the body to recover properly from the trauma before they could operate and replace his severed arm with a prosthetic. "The Imperials caught him with an ion cannon, and left him dead in the water. The proton torpedo missed, but detonated at pretty close range: took out the cockpit and him with it, but left his plane mostly intact."

Jaden's first reaction was sympathy: he'd heard mixed reports on the Rebellion depending on which sources you listened to, but everything he'd encountered so far on this ship pinned the "good guy" flag firmly on their side. Everyone Jaden had met here was a hero: this patient happened to be one of the less fortunate ones. That reaction was quickly supplanted by surprise however, as Jaden's mind managed to translate the look that Leela was giving him. "I'm no fighter pilot..." he started.

"I've been flying solo for the past few missions," Leela countered, before he had a chance to finish, "But I could really use a wingman for this operation. You said yourself that you're a demon behind the stick of an Airspeeder, and if you can survive a pirate attack in that bolt-bucket of yours, you'll fare a lot better in something a bit more agile. The technicians had enough spare parts to patch Voe's fighter back together: all we need is someone to fly it."

"But..."

Leela interrupted him again. "Please, Jaden." Her expression had changed, eyes almost pleading. "You were going to serve in the Empire: I'm not the first person to see the potential in you. You can do this: you're the only one who can."

"But," Jaden tried to finish again, raising his eyebrows, "I don't think Tiet's flight suit is gonna fit me." He flashed her a smile, throwing a quick shrug. "Not that the damsel in distress routine wasn't working."

The Major's ears pinked slightly, embarassed at having got a little carried away, but she hid it with a grin. "Don't worry," she reassured, "I think we can probably find something in your size."

"You can shave a Wookiee as many times as you want, but you can only skin it once."

Vansen wasn't entirely sure who'd thought up that particular pearl of wisdom, but it had floated through his head during his last trip to the 'fresher, and now he couldn't shift the damn thing. He wondered at the relevance; was his subconscious trying to tell him something? He supposed that their current campaign of hit-and-run tactics could be thought of as an example of the first part: thus far, they had presented such a minor threat to the Empire that the Imperials didn't really consider them a threat. One ship hitting smaller targets on the fringes of their territory didn't represent that big a tactical threat to them: more of an annoyance. If they went after something bigger however, the Navy might be more inclined to fight back.

A question arose from that however: just how big was "bigger"? Back in the Republic Navy, entire battles had slipped past the Republic's notice, save for the occasional Jedi sent to deal with the mess. On the other hand, he'd witnessed the Empire over-reacting to much lesser situations. How long would it take for him and his little ship to be viewed as an irritation worth dealing with? Was there a magic number of ships destroyed or disabled after which the Empire's patience would snap? Or was it the size of the ship that mattered, perhaps? If they became over-ambitious and destroyed one of the Imperial's precious Star Destroyers, would that be the final straw?

In the end, it all came down to the politics of war, and that was a subject that Vansen loathed. Politicians were people who thought too much. Granted, any military operation needed careful planning: Tyree wasn't reckless. But there was planning, and there was scrutinising a situation from every angle, pulling it apart, weighing up every single worst-case scenario, and then deciding to ultimately do nothing. Sometimes, you had to take risks, because it was the right thing to do. Nothing in life is certain, no matter how much trust you put in fate, destiny, the Force, or whatever the hell people wanted to call it. No fight was safe, and as far as Vansen was concerned, any losses were too many. But this was war, and losses were going to happen, no matter how hard you tried to plan against them. You took the acceptable risks, because you had to. After all, he thought to himself, striding through the doors that would lead him onto his bridge, Its not like the Alliance can afford to play it safe.

"Captain," the XO greeted casually, attention momentarily shifting away from the forward viewport, where the azure and cerulean lones of hyperspace swirled around them.

Not long now, the Captain observed, risking a quick glance at the computer display on the tactical console before responding. "Commander."

Vansen fell in beside his Executive Officer, focussing his attention on the 'port to avoid pacing the bridge, checking up on everyone's progress. That would make the crew nervous - make them feel like they were under scrutiny - and that was the last thing he wanted them to feel, regardless of how true it was. Better that they feel safe at their work stations for now, and only in danger of reprisal should they screw up. For the sake of the mission he hoped that no one would, but on a personal note he would prefer a very minor error: he hadn't had the opportunity to yell or glower at anyone yet today.

Unlike the younger Commander, Vansen didn't quite manage to stand completely errect. His age had given his spine a slight curve that hunched his shoulders forward, and trying to stand at attention was uncomfortable to say the least. He also felt somewhat ruffled: though clean-shaven and as smartly dressed as anyone else, there was something in his poise and the aura he projected that seemed tired, somehow. His spirit was willing, but his body had begun to fail. I'm getting to old for this, he realised. He was reaching the end of his usefulness. Unfortunately, there was still much to do. The Rebellion's war was far from over: the Empire was far from subdued. There was still some fight left in him though, and he'd keep going for as long as his body would let him. And maybe a little longer, he pondered, tilting his chin back slightly, If they give me a ship with a comfortable enough chair.

His XO on the other hand was somewhat different. Older than he looked, but younger than his eyes, the Commander had far too much experience of combat for someone his age. An Ubese, he recalled from his records, he was descended from those who had left Uba for Ubertica centuries in the past, and was somewhat different from the rugged bounty hunters well-known across the galaxy. He was a quiet, calculating individual - he spoke only the words he felt it was necessary to speak. Knowledge of that made his next words even more poignant.

"You look like crap, sir."

Turning towards him slightly, he raised an eyebrow into a high arch, and snorted out a slight laugh. "And yet still better than you. No wonder I have more luck with the ladies."

The Commander cracked a smile, but his rebuke was interrupted by an announcement from the Navigator. "Approaching our destination, Captain."

Smile fading from his features into a look of pure professionalism, Vansen tugged down the front of his uniform before clasping his hands firmly behind his back. "Drop us out, Helm," he instructed, risking another quick glance at his XO. "Lets go shave the Wookiee."

A quizzical look replied from the XO's features, but the Captain didn't have time to deal with it now. "Sensors: can you confirm the presence of our target convoy?"

"Affirmative," the Tactical Officer replied after a slight pause. "Sensors indicate the presense of two Action VI Transports, and one Strike-class Medium Cruiser. Fighters are deployed in a defensive formation - three squadrons in all." Turning in his seat, he added: "Transporters match our records. Looks like its our convoy, sir, they're expecting to be around for a while."

Vansen allowed himself a moment of relief. "All the better for us," he announced. One of the advantages of ambushing a convoy was that they had to make regular hyperspace pauses, particularly when the cargo vessels in question had older nav computers. Even the slightest discrepancy over a long distance could leave the ships lightyears apart. Imperial convoys tended to jump between controlled systems to avoid the risk of an ambush in deep space: such systems were considered 'safe'. However, to minimise the amount of time spent in the system's gravity field, convoys tended to stick to the fringes, so they could jump out as soon as their course was recalculated and transmitted to all the ships in the fleet. Right now, there was a Mon Calamari cruiser sitting between them and the escape vector indicated on the stolen flight plan, and while the Strike Cruiser could probably make it safely past and away into hyperspace, the cargo vessels it was assigned to protect weren't nearly so fast. Calculating a new vector would take time, and time was exactly what the Rebels needed.

"TIE Fighters are changing formation," the XO observed, his attention switched to the holographic display of the battle floating at the bridge's heart.

The Tactical Officer nodded. "Confirmed. Sensors also indicate a velocity variance between the Cruiser and the Transports: looks like they're hanging back; the Cruiser is accellerating directly towards us."

Here we go, then. Taking a few short paces backwards, he turned towards the holodisplay, eyes on the Cryptic Forest, racing towards them as fast as its engines would allow. "Launch Fighters," he ordered, and watched as twenty-six pinpricks of blue light spilled out of the Valiant's flank, the hologram's resolution too low to distinguish the individual craft, save for the Arubesh labels assigned to each. He didn't allow himself time to read them however: the pilots knew what they were out there to do, and he trusted them to do their jobs. Right now however, he had his own job to do.

"Shields up!" he ordered, striding back to his earlier vantage point in front of the viewport. His eye narrowed at the distant shape of the Imperial craft, still too distant to make out any real details. He would be able to soon enough, though. "Ready Turbolasers and Ion Cannons. Missile tubes on standby."

Jaden shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. Though his comment had been in jest, Major Vorega had in fact struggled to find him a flightsuit that would fit, and could only find potential candidates a couple of sizes either side of Jaden. Since the ability to shrink wasn't something that humans were renowned for, he'd been forced to go with a slightly too-big suit that now draped a little weirdly, and bunched up under the arms. Loose fitting clothes were usually the wardrobe of choice, particularly for lounging around. Baggy sleeves weren't so useful, particularly when they were a little too long, you were in a cramped environment, and you needed to use your hands quite a bit.

"Roll call," an androgenous voice called over the radio that, given the sound of casual, light-hearted smugness, probably belonged to Leela. "Valkyrie Leader, systems nominal."

"Valkyrie Two, standing by," Jaden called, before suddenly realising that he hadn't bothered looking at his screens to confirm that he was in fact standing by. His engines could be off for all he knew, although he'd probably have noticed if the constant thrumming from the idling Event Horizon engines had stopped. A quick glance prompted a silent sigh of relief: an array of green indicators greeted him. His distraction with sleeves did not bode well however: hopefully he'd remember to keep his mind on the TIE Fighters rather than his clothing once they actually got down to business.

"Valkyrie Eight, full greens," another sexless voice reported as Jaden's concentration zoned back in to the radio. Jaden decided to silently go through the consoles again. The one on the left with the lights blinking every time someone spoke was the communications console; a conveniently marked "COM" dial for changing channel served as a useful reminder of that one. On the right, a datascreen informed him of the status of his Concussion Missile tubes: neither loaded, and both showing a full magazine. Central were his targetting displays, and sensors. Reassuringly, his screen was filled with an array of greenish dots and no unfriendly red ones. Various other screens and readouts told him about the targetting computer, weapons systems, and lots of other information that was more confusing than helpful. He'd learn what it all did eventually.

Eventually? Jaden thought, repeating his previous thought. Just how many times am I expecting to fly this thing?

A casual glance around the cockpit while waiting for the last few members of Dagger Squadron to call out on the rollcall settled his eyes on the shield console, which he'd forgot to include in his cursory scan of the controls. That would be useful, particularly if the TIE Fighters started shooting at him. He was holding out a vain hope that they wouldn't, but they had no way of distinguishing him from the rest of Valkyrie Squadron, and doubted they'd be willing to go easy on him for being a first-time pilot.

Outside the gaping maw of the landing bay that opened out into space, Jaden saw the universe shrink back to normality as the Valiant reverted back from hyperspace. The swirling blue gave way to a starfield that looked endless, stretching off into infinity. Jaden had been in space before - he'd spent seven years piloting the Astral Queen, so he was no stranger to the void. But it felt different, sitting here with the cockpit canopy only a few meters away from his head. The helmet felt weird as well, clamped around his face gripping his forehead and jaw, the visor putting a strange, yellow tint on everything. He frowned. No wonder the blue indicators on the sensor display looked a little green. That raised an interesting question though: what colour would the red icons turn? Jaden decided it would be safest to just shoot at anything not green.

"You okay, Rookie?" the voice from earlier - he was almost certain it was Leela's now - asked in his ear.

"That's what 'standing by' means," he countered, trying to slide some sarcasm in; it probably wouldn't translate through the radio distortion on the Alliance comm arrays though. Stupid systems - did the Rebels not take this situation into account when they came up with it.

Something that sounded like either a chuckle or the sound of someone's head exploding - Jaden couldn't be sure with all the distortion and static - appeared in Jaden's ear. "Just stay on my wing and watch my back: this won't take long."

Far from being reassured, Jaden silently wondered if his pilot career would be brief through success, or because he managed to get himself blown out of the sky a few minutes in. Captain Tyree didn't seem willing to give him time to second-guess his decision to help however: a matter of moments later, Major Vorega gave the order to launch, and before he knew what he was doing his hand had kicked in the repulsorlifts, edged the craft to the brink of oblivion, and then blasted his way into space at full throttle.

Blinking as the inertial dampeners struggled to match the g-forces his accelleration had produced, he thought a quick appology to Leela. She wasn't kidding when she'd warned him it would be fun.

Eyes flicking at the sensor display, Jaden twitched the throttle controls to match the speed of Valkyrie Leader, and eased himself into loose formation alongside her. Partly for his benefit, and partly because of the plan, the Valkyries were spaced out in a basic chevron formation, the B-Wings and shuttles some distance behind. Ahead, he could see the starfield shimmer slightly, patches of subtle colour shifting against the blackness. Two drifted upwards, crossing over the apparently yellow hull of the distant Strike Cruiser, and showing a glimpse of their distinctive H-shaped foreview. I had enough trouble with five, Jaden mused, eyes risking a glance at the sensor console. Now I have thirty-six to deal with.

Momentarily distracted, the rear starboard quarter of Leela's fighter bobbed up in his cockpit slightly. Cursing himself, he adjusted the controls, bringing himself back into condition. Concentrate, idiot. His self-deprecation didn't have an opportunity to fully develop however: the instruction he'd been waiting to hear crackled over the radio: "Weapons hot."

Reaching for the controls to his right, Jaden's fingers depressed two matching controls which lit up in a plesant shade of yellowy-brown. Just below, he flipped up two yellowy-brown safety covers, and then flipped on the two paired switches beneath. In sequence on the screen beside it, the readout informed him that the magazine for each Missile Launcher had reduced by one, both tubes were loaded, and that his Concussion Missile systems were now armed. More information flashed on the screen; a TIE Fighter profile appeared, and a small yellow box appeared around one of the greenish blips on his sensor display. Apparently, the Tactical Officer on the Valiant had transmitted target acquisition data to each of them, to make sure they didn't all go after the same target. That was nice of them.

"Valkyrie Squadron," a voice called over the radio. "Fire two!"

Caught by surprise, Jaden almost squeezed the trigger to fire the laser cannons, but stopped himself in time. His thumb shifted to a separate control atop the control stick, and pressed it down twice in quick succession. The A-Wing jerked slightly as two sharpened cylinders of metal rocketted out from the fuselage, leaving a glowing trail behind them as they swarmed off towards the inbound TIEs. Joining them were twenty-two other Missiles from the rest of the Squadron, eating up the distance between the Rebel and Imperial fighters. A few of the nearest ships tried to break formation and retreat; at least one overzealous escapee flew straight into the path of his wingman. Twelve other fighters weren't so lucky, exploding into clouds of burning fuel and shrapnel as soon as the missile hit. A few other planes bought it too, caught by debris hurled loose from the destroyed craft, or in the wrong place at the wrong time as the slightly delayed second Concussion Missile passed through the burning debris and ploughed straight into whatever happened to be behind. In a single volley, the thirty-six angry-looking not-green icons on his scope had dwindled to a mere twenty-one.

Twelve versus twenty-one, Jaden thought to himself. That's one and a bit each. I can do that.

"Nice shooting," Leela pitched in, her plane drifting off to port slightly. Jaden twitched the controls to follow. "The gate is open, Dagger Squadron - you are clear to proceed. Valkyries -" Jaden could practically hear the grin that must be gracing the Major's face. "Lets go play."

Shuttle Orrineswa - Toprawa

- - -

Amos was anxious. He'd been very specific about that word, spending the last several minutes sat in the shuttle trying to articulate it. Nervous didn't quite fit: he wasn't too hot on the idea of shooting up a Squad of Stormtroopers, but the appeal of going into proper combat rather than the occasional bar brawl or gunfight skirmish that he'd been treated to over the past seven years was too strong to allow that. It wasn't apprehension either: he wasn't worried that something would go wrong, and was completely happy with every aspect of their plan. It was just a general feeling of unease; he'd settled on anxious.

Pinning down the route cause had been somewhat more difficult. Fighting wasn't something that had ever worried him, so it wasn't that. But it had been a long time since he'd gone into a fight without being in-charge. Lieutenant Glayde had been very careful with his phrasing of Amos' role in this little escapade of theirs: to ensure he didn't step on the toes of the Squad's commander, he was there simply as an observer - the thirteenth man. Of course, the Rebels "valued his knowledge and expertise", but he was there simply as an extra gun: the decisions would be left to the guy wandering around dressed as an Alliance soldier. The way the Twi'lek Sergeant looked at him might have something to do with it. People usually regarded him with suspicion, and he'd witnessed fear in the eyes of those who'd found themselves on the wrong side of his blaster or his vibroblade, but he'd never seen someone who loathed the very fact that he was still breathing.

Rather than confront the Sergeant, he decided to opt for the diplomatic option of sitting quietly and shutting up.

A Gamma-class Assault Shuttle - commendeered from the Imperials if the class was anything to go by - the Orrineswa wasn't the most comfortable craft in the world, but it would do. The craft had originally been designed to transport Spacetroopers, which perhaps was another factor contribiting to Amos' anxiety. However, the technicians on the flight deck had assured him that all of the ejection systems had been safely sealed. A long time ago Amos had learned that any kind of technical explanation for anything would probably go straight over his head, so he tended to just take their word for it.

Finally reaching the point where his desire to avoid confrontation was outweighed by intense boredom, he haulled himself out of his corner seat and ambled casually into the forward section, trying to ignore the strange looks and muttered comments passing between the rest of the SpecForce Squad. The unit barely had an impact on the cavernous interior of the ship. Designed to carry fourty troopers in bulky space suits, the Rebels had cleared out most of the internal structure, only leaving a few of the "launch tubes" intact as airlocks, should one be needed. Where the others had been, banks of seats and equipment lockers had been installed. It would be a squeeze, but you could probably fit an entire Platoon and all their gear in here. It'd take a while to get them in and out however: egress was only possible through four single-file doors. Landing would be fun, that was for sure.

His efforts to be covert were destroyed by the cockpit door. The bulky construct was designed to isolate the bridge so the aft section could be completely depressurised; unfortunately, that meant that it made a considerable amount of noise when it recessed into the bulkhead. From the Command console where he had positioned himself - probably to inflate his sense of self-importance - Sergeant Hara Kesh, Amos' new biggest fan, threw him a glare that was so intense, it make his lekku twitch. At least, Amos hoped that was why they were moving. The last time he'd encountered a Twi'lek with twitching brain tails, he'd woken up naked with one of them (as well as an arm and a leg) draped across them. Hopefully the Sergeant didn't have the same thing on his mind that she had.

"What are you doing in here?" Kesh asked gruffly, pretending to do something on his console.

Amos could tell he was pretending; from his vantage point, he could see that one of the flight crew had dissabled the Command station, probably to avoid one of the Rebel Marines from doing something stupid with the controls. He couldn't help but smile at that, which seemed to infuriate the Twi'lek more. "Observing," he said vaguely, eventually replying to Hara's earlier question. The delay frustrated the Sergeant further, and Amos was enjoying it immensely. Hopefully Lieutenant Glayde wouldn't mind too much; he had asked Amos to behave, after all.

Head slightly higher than one of the struts spanning the cockpit ceiling, Amos had to duck slightly to peer out of the viewport, making sure to lean on the Command console as he did so, just to get on Hara's nerves. He couldn't see all that much from this angle, aside from the quartet glow of the engines from a pair of B-Wing fighters racing along directly ahead. This was the Rebel's fantastic plan: with the initial A-Wing strike breaking the lines, the two shuttles and their B-Wing escorts would proceed towards the Strike Cruiser Cryptic Forest at which point the B-Wings would peel off and target the weapons on the Imperial ship directly, allowing the shuttles to proceed directly to the Transports.

Yeah, Amos thought to himself, fingers tugging at the edges of his beard. Like that's gonna happen.

The Rebels apparently had a pathalogical fear of their voices being identified, and thus applied heavy communications filters to their radio, twisting them into a strange, multi-toned vagueness; callsigns too prevented their names from being exposed. Amos still didn't understand the principle, despite having had it explained: aside from the fact that he had personally grouped Rebels under the same equally-bad heading in his mind, the Rebels seemed to think that if the Imperials could identify which fighter contained the Squadron Leader, it would make them a target. The same principle governed the blank-face policy for Imperial Stormtroopers, and the fact that the uniforms carried little or no identifying marks. The Scout Trooper armour that Amos had worn as a Sergeant was no different from what Jaden had worn, or anyone else in their unit. But with Rebel Pilots he noticed a fatal flaw: if you fly around telling everyone that you're "Red Leader", isn't that going to make it even easier to work out that you're in charge than just having a name?

As Amos contemplated the issue further, he realised that anonymity was probably a major factor too: after all, the Rebellion was considered an illegal endeavour by the Empire, and its members were thought guilty of treason. A positive ID on a Rebel pilot could put more than just them at risk: their families and friends could be threatened by that. When things that confused him started to make sense, Amos realised just how bored he must be: thinking things through in that much detail was one of his least favourite activities.

Ahead of them, the Strike Cruiser loomed, and the Transports just beyond, even bigger up-close than Amos had expected. He'd seen ships like it before, but they'd always been flanking Star Destroyers; even the relatively small Victory-class was twice the length of this Cruiser. In recent years he'd encountered similar craft during his travels with Jaden aboard the Astral Queen, but they'd made a point of keeping them at a safe distance. Being close enough to realise how big it was seemed a little too close for Amos' liking. Fortunately, if things went to plan, they wouldn't be here for very long.

"Dagger One to Squadron: you are go for break. Repeat: go for break."

Watching wordlessly, Amos kept a running commentry in his mind as the B-Wings in front of them - and those beside and behind, presumably - peeled off and went for their attack run. That's good, he reassured himself. Fly under the Cruiser. Ships have less guns underneath, right? His brow furrowed slightly. Right? That makes sense. It must be right. A swarm of lights streaked towards the Cryptic Forest as Dagger Squadron unleashed a volley of Proton Torpedoes, punching a hole in the ventral shields. First twelve pairs raced towards the ship, then twelve more; the first volley splashed against the deflectors, but some of the second wave made it through, explosions sprouting on the surface where the weapons emplacements had been. The shields endured further strain as the Valiant, now entering weapons range, opened fire with her Ion Cannons. A few vain bolts of red lanced out from the Cruiser's underbelly, but soon all were silenced. Amos allowed himself a slight sigh. Not dead yet. That's good.

"Daplona and Orrineswa, you are clear for your run," a distorted voice announced over the radio, which frankly could have been anyone: Amos had given up keeping track. "Have fun."

"Roger that," the shuttle's pilot replied, the stars twisting slightly to the right, which Amos translated as the craft peeling off towards the left-hand of the two Transports; the inertial dampers robbed him of any sensation of movement. Fortunately, they also prevented him from having his body flattened by the ship's accelleration. Small mercies.

"Transmitting ident codes," another member of the shuttle crew announced. This is where things would go wrong: Amos knew it. The Valiant lacked any boarding craft that could be used to breach the hull directly, so they were relying on the Transport's own landing bays to board the ship. Those bays were sealed by a large set of reinforced durasteel doors, and protected by two forcefields, which would activate as soon as the doors were opened, automatically: one was a simple magnetic barrier that provided enough resistance to stop the atmosphere leaking out into space, but through which a shuttle could fly with relative ease. The other was a more formidable barrier, to prevent people from just landing on the ship uninvited. In order to get aboard, they would need to transmit an override code unique to each vessel which would cause the doors to open, and then another which would disable the automatic security field. Those codes had been secured by a Rebel operative, but it wouldn't be until they actually tried to use them that they'd find out if they were genuine. The whole plan hinged on the validity of those codes.

We are so screwed.

Valkyrie Two - Toprawa

- - -

"Nine o'clock high, Seven!"

"Crack out the paint, ground crew: I got me another one!

"Daplona and Orrineswa, you are clear for your run. Have fun."

"Thanks - I see it, Six."

"Orrineswa, this is Daplona. We are beginning boarding operations; good luck."

"Ventral turbolasers are down; focus on those ion cannons. Last thing we want is the Valiant disabled before Tyrant can buy us our victory drinks!"

"This is Orineswa; docking complete. Moving to Stage 2."

Jaden had tried to prepare himself for the flying. High energy turns, the battle stress, the way his A-Wing handled and how fast the TIEs he'd be trying to shoot at would be darting about the place was something he'd had at least a brief opportunity to prepare himself for, in the simulator room aboard the Valiant. What he hadn't been prepared for however was the scale, and the sound. In space, sound travelled so imperceptably slowly that it could barely be heard, but what they didn't tell you was that you could hear everything that happened to your ship. The blaster whine reverbarated down the laser cannons themselves, vibrating across the hull and resonating through the transparisteel of the cockpit. And there was the comm chatter: wrecked with static, a tangle of non sequitur messages that somehow these other pilots could pick apart and translate into something they could comprehend. Jaden was lost however, ears reduced to scanning for any mentions of things that sounded like they might be connected to him. Like now.

"I have two eyeballs on my tail!" Vorega shouted; at least Jaden had started picking up on the little vocal nuances that helped him tell one pilot from another. That was a small mercy. "I can't shake 'em both!"

The blood thought about draining from his face: Jaden dared it to even try. Now wasn't the time for nerves. Now was the time for action, guns, and shooting and things. "Roger that, Lead," Jaden replied simply, snapping the fighter quickly to port. Trying to maintain his grip on the flight controls, he reached across for the targetting systems. "Stupid right-handed controls," he muttered under his breath, readying another pair of missiles. Focus back on the two Fighters ahead of him, he shifted the controls, straining to settle the crosshairs of his targetting lasers onto one of the TIEs long enough for the system to establish a lock. A missile was bound to make short work of them, but with all the loops and dives that Vorega was pulling them both through in the name of evasive action, predicting their movements in advance long enough to be ready to shoot was nearly impossible. Frustrated, Jaden let out a growl, punching forward the throttle and diving into the fray for some close-in laser action.

Foot stamping on the rudder pedals, the back end of Valkyrie Two swung sharply, still drifting through space under the inertia in its direction of travel but nose slewed round to port, Jaden let loose with a few controlled bursts from the weapons, but the TIE in his sights managed to jerk himself free. On the plus side, that seemed to have distracted him from his chase of Leela's fighter. On the downside, his green blaster fire was now splashing against the leading edge of his shields.

Grunting a curse, Jaden threw the throttle forward again, firing a few opportunistic bursts with his blasters as the distance between them vanished, veering off into a quick corkscrew at the last possible minute. Much to his surprise, as the TIE sped past, overshooting Jaden's fighter, Valkyrie Two seemed so eager to melt a piece out of the TIE Fighter's solar panels that the guns shifted of their own accord, tracing the ship for as long as it remained within her arc of fire. Jaden risked a quick glance at his targetting screen, and realised that the sensors were still focussed on this one TIE in particular. There was no way he'd get the craft to stay still long enough for a missile lock, but apparently that wasn't the only option for an A-Wing pilot.

Cutting the throttle to zero and haulling hard back on the stick, Jaden managed to flip the fighter end for end, nose coming to bear on the path of the TIE's retreat. The Imperial fighter had already begun to sweep back around, but that wouldn't matter. Punching the throttle back to full, Jaden surged after the TIE, following it through the maze of sharp turns, rolls, corkscrews, dives and any other evasive action that the Imperial tried to pull. The pilot's skill was impressive, but Jaden's fighter was reacting incredibly fast, and the extra sixty degrees in the A-Wing's arc of fire killed most of the TIE's agility advantages. No matter how the TIE bucked and rolled, the guns on Jaden's fighter pitched and twisted, the TIE only just evading the blasts by a few molecules each time. Eventually there came a turn that was a little too shallow, and the lasers found purchase against the TIE, a few lucky hits clipping off a solar panel and sending it careering off into space, the rest of the craft spinning off course and straight into Jaden's line of fire. The rookie couldn't help the self-satisfied yell that escaped him.

"Good shooting!" Leela commended, her fighter pulling in alongside Jaden's. "Having fun yet?"

"Does Amos have fleas?" That seemed like an appropriate rhetorical question; at least, it would do for now. In the mean time, there were still a dozen or so Imperial pilots left to worry about. "Lets get back to work."

Transport Carina - Toprawa

- - -

The Transport Captain stood, feet apart and arms clasped behind his back, scanning his bridge. In actual fact he was only a Lieutenant in the Imperial Navy, but naval traditions dictated that the Commanding Officer of any vessel - no matter how small, insignificant, or tactically invaluable - should be referred to as the Captain. Only a few short years out the Academy, that was exactly the sort of ego stroking that this particular Imperial required. He had originally been a little reluctant to accept this assignment, until one of his senior officers had explained that such assignments were the first step on the stairway to a starship command. A few more assignments like this, and he'd probably land himself a VT-49 Decimator, and from there the only way was up. He smiled silently to himself. At this rate, he'd be on a Star Destroyer in no time.

"Sir?" one of the crew called, not recieving the slightest reaction. The sigh he unleashed was almost pantomime. "Captain?" he tried again.

The Imperial turned his attention on the speaker. The crew of the Carina was civilian mostly, aside from the squad of Stormtroopers that had been deployed more as a formality than anything else. He found the lack of respect from the civilians a little disturbing. While yes, they were unranked in a conventional sense, the Commanding Officer clearly held a position of authority over all. Had they been members of the Imperial Navy, he would have reprimanded them severely. Unfortunately, they were not: just another trial for him to contend with on this assignment, for the good of his career. "Yes?"

The Tech Officer seemed a little confused, attention shifting between his console and the Captain. "I'm getting some erronious readings," he explained, frowning heavily. "According to these readouts, the outer door of the loading bay just opened, and the security forcefield was disabled for about thirty-eight seconds." The length of time was confusing in itself: what could cause them to cycle that quickly? The only explanation that sprung to mind left a sinking feeling in his stomach. "I think its a boarding party."

Laughing lightly, the Imperial flashed him what he had intended to be a reassuring smile, but had ended up coming off as just smug. "Not to worry," he assured. "Such malfunctions are common on a ship of this age. You probably just witnessed a sensor glitch." He shook his head, dismissing the notion entirely. "We would have detected the approach of a boarding craft."

"They could be jamming us," the Sensor Officer chimed in, adopting his colleague's worried tone. "Our sensors aren't as advanced as..."

"A technical glitch," the Lieutenant stressed, offering a quick stern look at the two civilians. "That Strike Cruiser is more than a match for anything the Rebels could deploy against us here. We are safe." Tilting his chin, he settled his attention back on the distant flashes of the ongoing space battle. "Send two Technicians to check the sensors in the loading bay. Rest assured - a simple fault is all they will find."

Unfortunately, the Tech Officer wasn't so easily deterred. "Shouldn't you at least send some of your Stormtroopers, or..."

"Send two Technicians," the Imperial hissed through his clenched teeth. "I will not repeat myself again."

* * *

Putting the finishing touches to his slightly modified hairstyle, Amos pulled tight on the cord that would hold the dreadlocks back, and let his hand fall to his gun. Suddenly, the anxiety he'd been feeling earlier was gone. Psychiatrists would probably have a field day analysing the calming influence that gripping his blaster had on him, but he didn't care. Now he wasn't helpless, or useless. With a gun in his hand, Amos could finally be a constructive member of the group. Or rather, destruction. His brow furrowed. Did that make him creatively destructive, or destructively creative? Confusion levels already beginning to rise, the soldier shot himself a silent instruction to quit thinking. The semantics of the issue didn't matter, as long as it made him a man with a gun. That was the most useful thing he could be right now.

"Fan out," Kesh instructed, raising his blaster rifle to his shoulder, keeping his body low as he walked his way carefully out of the shuttle's rear hatch. Amos followed, a few paces behind as they made their way stealthily across the Transport's loading bay, ducking behind the cover of a cluster of plastisteel crates. "No movement," Kesh obeserved, finally managing to say two words to the Amos without it sounding like he wanted to rip his ears off. At least his issues with Amos had taken a back seat for now, and wouldn't interfere with the mission. Hopefully.

Holding his blaster out ahead of him, Amos sighted along the barrel, scanning the upper gantry. His arms halted part way around, as the doorway into the next section hissed open. "Movement," he corrected, closing one eye to improve his aim.

"I got 'em," the Twi'lek growled, raising the rifle to his shoulder. That made Amos nervous again; the hating growl that he'd been recieving from the Sergeant for the last hour had returned, and now he was holding a gun in his hands.

Still focussed on the opened door, Amos' eyes widened. "Wait!" he warned.

Kesh's lekku twitched, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Before Amos even knew what he was reacting to, his hand shot out, batting the Twi'lek's rifle off-target a split second before a bolt of crimson shot out towards the unsuspecting Technicians. Only slightly out, the blaster bolt grazed the gantry beneath the Technicians' feet. In a panic, the two turned, retreating back down the several meters of elevated walkway that they'd already crossed from the exit hatch. "What the hell are you doing?" Kesh shouted, raising his blaster to fire again.

Instincts snapped into action again, and Amos' arm shot out, elbow smashing into the side of the Sergeant's head. He staggered, tumbling off-balance, and clattered to the floor. An instant later Amos was staring down the barrel of his pistol, and sent a pair of stun bolts racing across the loading bay to fell the retreating Technicians to the floor. A growl forming in his throat, he lowered his arm, and shot an angry look at the Twi'lek. "They were civilians," he explained. "Non-combattants."

"Collaborators!" Kesh spat back, clambering back to his feet. All of the hate, the scorn, the disgust was back on his face. "They deserve to die for what they allow themselves to do." His lip curned into a snarl. "Just like you."

Amos' arm snapped up, just in time to level his blaster at the Sergeant, and stare down the barrel of the Rebel's rifle, aimed straight at his chest. "We came here to do a job," Amos stated, trying to make his voice sound as calm as possible, despite the burning desire to do more damage to the Twi'lek than the dark bruise that had already begun to form on his cheek. "Not to settle your personal scores."

"Our job is to rid the galaxy of the Empire," Hara Kesh threw back bitterly, brain tails flicking angrily. "If your priorities weren't so screwed, you'd understand that!"

Something shifted behind Kesh, but Amos resisted the urge to pay it further scrutiny, and kept his eyes locked firmly on the Twi'lek. "Sarge," a voice said, a gentle warning in its tone. Amos recognised it as belonging to one of the SpecForce Corporals; a quick risked glance showed him standing a few meters off to his left, his own blaster aimed at his Squad Leader. "Why don't you put the gun down?"

"He should die!" Kesh shouted, eyes darting back and forth between his subordinate and the Imperial scum in his sights. Amos could already see his mind loosing cohesion. Thought wasn't governing his actions anymore: the Sergeant was running on pure emotion. That made him dangerous.

The Corporal shook his head. "That isn't going to happen."

"Then you're as bad as he is!" Eyes wide, Kesh rounded on the Corporal. His finger never got the opportunity to squeeze the trigger. Springing into action, Amos whipped his vibroblade from the scabbard on his back and swung, thumbing the activation stud mid-motion. The blade hummed into life, slicing cleanly through the rifle and cleaving it in two. Even as the stroke landed, Amos' other hand levelled his blaster on the Sergeant, and unleashed another stunning blast. Gun and Twi'lek clattered to the ground, and the bay turned silent.

Amos stared down at the man he'd just rendered unconscious, mind trying to empathise with what he must have been feeling. Anger was a powerful thing, especially when you lost control.

"You could have just stunned him," the Corporal observed after a few moments had passed. His eyes rose from his Squad Leader, and settled on Amos. "I think the sword was probably overkill."

Securing his vibroblade back in place, Amos threw him a shrug. "Disabling his weapon was the greater priority. Didn't want him shooting you." He hesitated, focussing on the Corporal's questioning frown. He fixed him with a look that said a lot more than the intellectually challenged Amos could ever properly articulate. "No one needs to die here."

The Corporal's eyes fell away, taking the former Stormtrooper's words straight to heart. He nodded slowly, His eyes scanning their surroundings: the rest of the Squad had gathered around them, and were looking at him - the Squad's second - for answers. "Alright," he said quietly, turning to his troops. "We're here to do a job," he said louder, echoing Amos' sentiments. The two exchanged another knowing look. "Weapons on stun."

Valkyrie Two - Toprawa

- - -

Jaden slammed the stick first left, then right, rolling his fighter between the maze of ships, shrapnel and debris that their dogfight had cast out into space so far. His plane had taken some getting used to: after seven years in space he was fine with the concept of there being no up or down, and of obstacles like wreckage remaining fixed around him rather than tumbling groundwards under gravity. However, what he hadn't had the opportunity to get used to over the past seven years was having to evade such obstacles at high speeds.

Nor was he used to the fact that the guns either side of his fighter had a habit of angling themselves to point towards his selected target: the changing trajectories of the streaks of red hurtling past his cockpit canopy had been more than a little distracting so far. He couldn't complain about it too much though: the slight edge had given him had already claimed him a fighter, and with any luck, it would give him a second. Providing the pilot stops swerving like that. He knew the throttle was on full, but pushed it forwards anyway, hoping to break through the casing on the controls and sneak a few extra MGLT. Also in vain he flipped on the targetting systems for the Concussion Missiles. There was no way the pilot would stay still long enough for him to get a solid lock, but still. It was worth a try.

Most of the TIE Fighters launched by the Imperials had been dealt with already, but a few had broken off from the main group and fallen back towards the Strike Cruiser, no doubt recalled to try and counter the dozen B-Wings swarming over the craft, taking out any chance of defending itself, or its charges. No doubt the Officer in command would recieve an ear-full for having comitted his entire Fighter compliment on a reckless opening move that had left the Transports completely open to attack and - more importantly in this case - being boarded. Recalling planes was a desparate move, and one almost guarenteed to fail: one thing about the A-Wing's phenomenal breakneck speed was the fact that it could outpace most things the Empire threw up against them. The engine placement and mass distributions of the Imperial craft made them extremely fast in a climb; if put to good use that could make them extremely slippery in the hands of a trained fighter. Fortunately for the Rebels, the TIEs had a number of other flaws - no hyperdrive, no missile systems, no life support, no shields...

And those solar panels are pretty stupid too. Finger on the trigger, Jaden unleashed another barrage of crimson towards the Fighter. Predictably he bucked upwards, pulling into a steep climb that Jaden couldn't follow nearly so tightling. He kept firing, weapons doing their best to make up for his wider radius turns, but the TIE still managed to keep just a few meters out of reach. Unfortunately for the pilot, he'd made the mistake of becoming fixated on his evasion of Jaden's fighter, and with most of the TIEs out of the picture, the Imperials were now the ones outnumbered. What the hexagonal panels welded to the side of his ship had done was rob him of his periferal vision, explaining why he didn't notice the A-Wing screaming towards his flank.

Leela opened fire, laser bolts hammering into the side of the Imperial craft, melting holes through the wings and puncturing the cockpit. An instant later the fuel ignited, and the craft exploded into a ball of burning gases. Leela ploughed through, the shrapnel shimmering against her shields. Performing a show-off corkscrew, Leela rolled herself onto Jaden's trajectory, and pulled alongside. "Thanks for the assist, Two," she called, waving out of the canopy. The expression lost over the distance, Jaden rolled his eyes anyway.

"Dagger Lead to Valkyrie Squadron,", a voice broke in over the comm. "My board shows clear; I think you guys got 'em all."

"Confirmed, Dagger Lead," Vorega's distorted voice replied. "Do you require assistance finishing off the space-Hutt?"

"Negative - Actual wants this one wounded," Dagger Leader explained; even with the radio disruption, Jaden could pick out the disappointment in his voice. No one wanted to leave a kill half-finished; that was like leaving a restaurant before dessert. But orders were orders, no matter how much you disagreed with them. "SpecForce confirms acquisition as well. Orders are to jump to the rendezvous as soon as..."

Dagger Leader finished his sentence, but the intended words were replaced with cursing. Behind the Valiant, back towards the heart of the system, a new silhouette had appeared against the blackness of space, this one ice-white and looming over their home like a great dagger ready to impail them. Jaden had seen an Imperial Star Destroyer before, but the sight was all the more chilling from the cockpit of a Rebel Alliance fighter. "What do we do?" Jaden asked, not realising he was speaking aloud.

There was a strange mix of dread and annoyance in Leela's voice when she responded. "We run."

As if on cue, Jaden saw streaks as the two Action VI Transports leapt away to hyperspace; a few moments later a third joined them as the Valiant escaped to safety. Jaden watched, unable to drag his eyes away as TIE Fighters swarmed out of the Star Destroyer's underbelly. The sensor display chimed frantically as more contacts appeared on the scope, clearing the giant knife of red that represented the new Imperial ship. The formation was menacing, black wings almost invisible leaving only an angry swarm of staring eyes racing towards them...

"Two!" the radio spat, dragging his attention back to the mission. "Are you good for JTL?"

Jaden's eyes roamed the cockpit, picking out the hyperspace controls. An indicator flashed, informing him that Leela had transmitted jump coordinates. Pulling the data into active memory, he went through the preparation proceedures that had been explained to him before launch. "I'm good," he said, blowing out a breath to calm himself that left a warm patch of helmet in front of his lips.

"Jump in three,", the radio reported, "Two, one..."

Hand slamming down on the hyperdrive controls, Jaden tensed into his seat as space ahead of him stretched and distorted into a stream of white lances shooting towards him, his fighter forwards hurtling towards oblivion. Suddenly everything changed, hyperspace materialising around him, swirling like the air of a gas giant around him, the shifting clouds forming a tunnel that would carry him to safety. The plunge into hyperspace lasted only a few minutes: just enough to clear the system, and sensor range. That would allow the fighters time to land, for the Transports to form up, and for the group to jump away to somewhere a little safer and less Imperial-infested.

As realspace returned around him, and Jaden joined the stream of fighters swooping back into the Valiant's cramped hangar bay, Jaden eyed the console in front of him nervously. Which is the landing gear control again?

Valiant - Yavin

- - -

The light filtered in through the window of his quarters, the empty starfield around them providing little enough light to dull the stark white of the Mon Calamari walls. Vansen sat, silent, contemplating their latest victory against the evil Galactic Empire. The mission had been a resounding success: a few hours earlier the Valiant had made a rendezvous here in the Yavin system with a pair of Nebulon-B Escort Frigates sent out by the Rebellion, who were now in the depths of hyperspace accompanying their commendeered Transports back to the Dac system, where the Mon Calamari were sure to put the supplies to good use. As missions went too, the casualty rate had been low: one of the Troopers in the Virgon party had caught a blaster bolt square in the thigh, but the wound was being treated and he'd be back to fighting fit in no time. Sergeant Kesh was complaining about headaches, but no one was really paying that much attention to him in the brig.

Tyree sighed. That had been a blow. He'd seen it before: Rebels who had served with distinction for years could suddenly snap. All it took was one final straw to push them over the edge. In this case, it seemed like having Amos Iakona assigned to his squad as an observer for the mission had been the trigger. Kesh had always been suspicious of former Imperials, but grew to accept those who proved themselves as being committed to the Rebel cause. But Iakona wasn't a conventional Rebel in any sense of the word; hell, chances were that after this fiasco, he wouldn't even be a Rebel anymore. Based on the former Trooper's attitude towards the Alliance, and this mission in particular, he'd got the distinct impression that this had been a one-off. He had to commend Lieutenant Glayde for making a good call though: sending Amos along to the Carina had scrubbed two dozen anonymous faces from the list of deaths weighing on his conscience.

The Jaden kid had done well for himself, too. Tyree had been sceptical about letting the rookie loose in a plane that the technicians had only just managed to patch up again, but he'd done his fair share, picking up a couple of kills in the dogfight. Vorega had been adamant that he'd do a good job, and not that he'd managed to land his bird in one piece with a couple of kills to boot, she was now using the opportunity to point out that she'd been right all along, and try to arrange for a permenant - or at least, slightly less temporary - space for him in her Squadron. Objectively, he supposed that having an extra pilot to bolster their numbers while Lieutenant Voe was grounded was worth it: they had precious few resources as it was, and even one plane could make all the difference. He'd delegated the task of convincing their new Flight Officer to stay to the Major, but he doubted she'd succeed: no doubt Amos Iakona would want to leave as soon as the repairs to their ship were complete.

All in all, the mission had gone well: that was something he should feel pleased about, or at least relieved, but he didn't. Another victory for the Rebels; another strike back at oppression, injustice, and yet...

Seems like we're cheating, sir.

The words drifted, uninvited, through Vansen's mind. The comment from his XO back at Ord Radama had seemed harmless enough at the time, but now they summed up everything. Their mission to disrupt trade routes, aggrivate border controls, and generally unbalance and annoy the Empire had seemed to be a noble, exciting and all-together worthwhile goal. Nearly a year after setting out, patience with the operation had begun to wear a little thin everywhere, most of all with the Captain. The ships they fought were on the fringes: small cruisers and frigates deployed in the Outer Rim by the Empire because they viewed the region with less significance. Their targets were left wounded: an extra strain on the Imperials to rescue their people and repair the damage. The loss of supply runs would eventually force them into committing more resources to escort and defend their convoys, and no doubt they'd reach a point where their patience with these raids expired. All those extra ships had to come from somewhere, and that was bound to open up holes the Rebellion could exploit.

But the victories were hollow. A wounded ship wasn't a victory, at least not to the crew. Fighter pilots couldn't paint that on the side of their fighters; no one cared that you could have destroyed a ship, but didn't. The Empire had blasted entire worlds out of oblivion, and were the roles reversed the Rebels would likely not be shown the same mercy. Defeating over an outdated frigate was nothing to write home about. It wasn't the frigates and the cruisers that laid waste to worlds, decimated enemy fleets, and struck fear into the hearts of any who dared to oppose them. When a Star destroyer - a true Imperial symbol and something worth destroying - showed up, they were forced to flee like everyone else in the galaxy.

There's no challenge in only fighting the battles you can win.

If they wanted to win this war, they needed decisive blows. They needed victories that would shake the public, and show them that the Imperials could be defeated. Once the Empire stopped being an insurmountable opponent that was bound to shift public opinion. As soon as the Rebellion had a chance of winning, they turned from merely being casual raiders and terrorists into a genuine side in this Galactic Civil War: a side that real people could choose, rather than being stuck with the alternative.

Tyree grunted, draining the last of the glass of Corellian Brandy in his fingers. It was all politics, this war of there's. Maybe he was better off here, out of the way from all of that, fighting the battles he could win because he was the right person for that job. But hell, it would be nice to have a proper fight one of these days: a chance to skin the Empire, rather than just shave it.

Settling his glass back down onto the table beside him, his eyes fell on the datapad he'd been ignoring: a letter from Lieutenant Glayde. Vansen hated it when the SpecForce Officer did that: collating his thoughts in writing, rather than explaining it to his face. It wasn't that he didn't like to read, but more than, face-to-face, he had a better chance of shooting everyone down before they bothered to explain everything properly. If he had it on paper, he felt obliged to read it all, and invariably discovered that said subordinate had a good point after all, regardless of how uncomfortable Tyree might be with the principle. Vansen had his rules: one of them was a promise never to meddle in the affairs of the Air Wing and SpecForce: to concentrate on running his own ship, which gave him almost no scope to refuse the Lieutenant's perfectly reasonable request. Damn, the thought to himself, staring longingly at his empty glass. I'm gonna need another drink.

* * *

The mess hall was empty; it got like that at night. Amos sat alone, turning the Pazaac cards in front of him over slowly. It was a simple game that he was playing, designed for just one person: a game of patience, logic, and subtlety. No wonder he was terrible at it. With a sigh, he scooped the cards together into a deck and shuffled them again. He'd been taught the game twenty-seven years ago by his father on a rather boring shuttle ride and fishing trip to Ohma-D'un. Nearly three decades later, he still hadn't managed to complete a game without outside help, and that was usually met with a great deal of scowling. The last person who tried to point out a move he could make nearly recieved a knife through the hand; fortunately, their reflexes had been sharp enough.

The door clanked heavily, and Amos' hand went straight for his blaster. It took a great deal of effort to drag it away, particularly when he recognised the silhouetted figure backlit from the corridor. "There you are," Captain Tyree announced, his tone disturbingly friendly. Amos eyed him suspiciously as he paced across the deck and retrieved himself a mug, grabbed the caf pot and poured the luke-warm contents inside. Making an awkward attempt to look casual, he shuffled over to Amos' table and eased himself stiffly down into a chair. Swilling the caf around, he breathed in the rich scent, and smiled. "They don't brew it like this in the Officer's Mess," he explained, allowing himself an indulgant mouthful, and offering a reminiscant laugh. "Back when I was a pilot, tech-strength caf was the only thing that kept me going some days. The Officer grade stuff just doesn't have the same kick."

"Is this about the Twi'lek Sergeant?" Amos asked, picking up his deck of Pazaac cards and beginning to shuffle them again. He hadn't exactly earned himself a reputation for being patient in the past, nor did he have a particularly high tolerance for idle chatter and small-talk, unless he was the one doing most of the talking. Right now, at this time of night, he didn't feel very much like speaking at all, let alone being spoken to; the sooner the Captain could be driven away.

Nodding to himself, Vansen settled the mug down on the table. "I'll get to the point then," he agreed, interlacing his fingers and leaning back in his chair. "I'm hear to offer you a job."

Posessing a particularly unexpressive face, the look that formed on Amos' face didn't seem nearly enough to articulate how surprised he was at that statement. Mid-shuffle his hands froze, his eyes stayed fixed on Tyree, waiting for some sign that he was joking, trying to throw him off balance, or just suffering from some form of psychosis. His eyes detected nothing, and he got the sense that the Rebel was being genuine, which made things even more confusing. Eyes flicking away, he went back to shuffling his cards. "I think you'll need to explain that one a little more, Captain."

Tyree cracked a half-smile, shifting slightly in his seat. "After that fiasco on the Carina, Sergeant Kash has been relieved of leadership of Red Squad. We're moving Sergeant Misu from Gold Squad over, but that leaves us with an opening in the Rangers." Reaching forward, Vansen grabbed his caf and downed another mouthful. "Lieutenant Glayde wants you."

You could tell a lot more from what someone didn't say than from what they did. Amos quirked an eyebrow. "You don't?"

Vansen let out a laugh. "I'm sure you'd do a great job." He shrugged. "I'm also sure that you'll say no."

Amos' brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Because you don't hate the Empire enough," he clarified simply. He'd explained that to the Lieutenant, but Glayde had insisted that there was never any harm in asking. Tyree disagreed - there were plenty of times when asking questions could get you shot, but had agreed to ask anyway. If nothing else, it was an excuse to grab a mug of proper caf. Maybe Corporal Denison...

Setting his cards down on the table, Amos placed his palms flat against the metal surface, and stared at them for a few moments. "I don't hate the Empire," he agreed, after a time, "But I do hate what it does."

Tyree's eye widened, genuinely surprised. "Is that a yes?" he asked, not bothering to try and supress the tone in his voice.

Amos nodded. "Something Lieutenant Glayde said," he explained. "Someone needs to stand up to the Empire, and from what I saw on that mission, someone needs to make sure its done properly." He shrugged. "Why not me?"

Damn, Vansen thought to himself. That's me fifty creds out of pocket. He sat quietly, gaze scrutinising the former Stormtrooper. His words seemed genuine, and there was no lie in his pose, but there was a certain amount of discomfort there. Obviously, he wasn't entirely convinced about the decision he had made, but he could tell already that Amos was the sort of person who would hold up his end of the bargain: seven years following some whelp around the galaxy out of nothing but loyalty made that fact abundantly clear. Whether he'd come to terms with what his decision made him was another matter, but he wasn't the first Rebel who viewed himself as a necessary evil, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. A certain Captain fell firmly into that category.

"Alright, Sergeant," Tyree announced, levering himself out of his seat. "There's a staff meeting at 0900 tomorrow." He glanced at the chrono on his wrist. "You'll probably want to get some sleep."

Amos shook his head, lips curling into a slight smile. "No need," he explained, brandishing a partner mug to Vansen's.

The Captain smiled. "Good man."