Two Roads Diverged...

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

This post occurs a few days after the events of Raids, Rogues and Arithmatic

Star Cruiser Valiant - Orbiting Mon Calamari

- - -

Vansen Tyree stood at the viewport of his quarters aboard the Valiant, and sighed at the prospect of it being the last time. His service aboard had been shortlived; only two years had passed since they'd reassigned him from the Liberator after Endor, although the relative isolation of their lone hit-and-fade missions upon Imperial supply lines had made it feel longer; certainly long enough for the ship and its stark Mon Cal interior to start feeling like home.

As he stared out at the starfield, one of the construction facilities that orbited the Mon Calamari homeworld drifted into view. Inside - her grey hull a stark contrast to the white of the surrounding vessels - lay his new command, the engineers making the last few modifications to her before she was finally launched. Not as large as the Imperator Star Destroyer that Vansen had commanded for the Empire, the Dauntless-class Heavy Cruiser still dwarfed the Valiant's meagre 505 meters, and her crew was near ten times the size. The datapad that Admiral Reshmar had presented him with during their meeting told him that Alliance Command had named her the Horizon; it also told him that he was being bumped up to Line Captain, but he was trying not to think about that.

As if a larger ship and a larger crew wasn't punishment enough, Tyree was to have command over four other ships as well. The datapad called the unit - a Nebulon-B, a Liberator Cruiser, a Corellian Corvette, and the Valiant - the 103rd Interdictor Squadron. Vansen thought '103rd Excessive Paperwork Farm' would have been more appropriate; '103-EPF' made for a much punchier abbreviation as well. The Captain had asked why he couldn't command the unit from aboard the Valiant; Reshmar's answer had been infuriatingly logical, although the specifics illuded Tyree for the moment.

At least his mission objective was the same, and he supposed his suggestions that the lack of support was hampering the effectiveness of the Valiant's operations had been taken onboard. If he'd known what the outcome of such complaints would be at the time, he would have known to keep his mouth shut. What on Rendili were these Rebels thinking, doling out promotions and rewards to Officers with initiative? Give him the political pandering and backstabbing of the Imperial over that any day: made it much easier to keep your head down and avoid notice.

Vansen bowed his head slightly, and actually managed a laugh at the irony. It was funny to consider how well his mind had adapted to his changing circumstances over the years. It took the Clone Wars to make him think of himself as a Commander rather than a pilot; a decade of service to the Empire to think of himself as an Imperial rather than a Republican; then the distruction of a planet to think of himself as a Rebel. It was funny to think that he viewed each new stage in his life with outrage, up until that stage threatened to end. There was probably a word for people like him - the ones resistant to change. Lucky for him, his resolve against it had been less strong than with others: he felt truly sorry for those so stuck in their ways that they couldn't see what was happening in the galaxy around them.

The door chimed; Vansen vented one last sigh from his lungs before turning to face the entrance to his quarters. Back to business he supposed, retrieving the datapad from the corner of his caff table and clasping it behind his back. "Come."

Leela stepped into the Captain's quarters, pitch black aside from the stream of light reflected off the Daca atmosphere and through the panoramic viewport. The world was beautiful in its own way, an orb bathed almost completely in crystal blue seas, clouds and storms adding brushstroke flecks of white. Though she had never been down to the surface - not even into the atmorphere, to blast her way across the endless ocean on a starfighter joyride - she vowed that she would do one day. The Galactic Empire had already robbed the galaxy of enough beauty, leaving it behind only in the memories of those who survived. That fate seemed inevitable, despite the Rebellion's best efforts: all she could do was to save as much of the galaxy as she could by harbouring it inside her mind.

She pulled her attention back to the present, and to her curiosity over the nature of Captain Tyree's summons. The message had been crisp and formal, even for him; yet it lacked the harshness that usually accompanied an invitation for a discipline. The fact that he had sent a runner as well, rather than contacting her via comlink made her more uncomfortable. Looking at him now, Tyree seemed almost rattled: that more than anything made the pilot nervous. Her Captain had always seemed to be unshakeable.

"You asked to see me?"

Leela considered throwing in a 'sir', but decided against it in the end. She never referred to him formally, and if she started now he'd know that she suspected something was wrong. If he wanted to tell her he would; if he didn't, drawing attention to it would undoubtably put him in a Rancor of a bad mood.

Vansen seemed to consider the question; one of those irritating instances where a phrase was twisted into one by a nervous or unsure speaker. He had asked to see her, as she knew full-well: she wouldn't be here otherwise. He smiled slightly at the strange logic of it all, but the smile quickly faded. He drummed the datapad behind his back against the knuckes of his other hand.

"I did."

This was getting more confusing and uncomfortable by the minute; Leela scanned the room for a possible escape. Finding none, she decided to aim for the door and hope for the best. "If you're busy, I can come back la-"

"I'm being reassigned," Tyree interrupted bluntly. His one eye blinked at her a few times; his head jerked towards the viewport. "That's my new ship over there."

Leela's brain screeched to a halt. Captain Tyree was simultaneously her most and least favourite Commanding Officer to date; strict beyond measure, seemingly impossible to please, and yet infinately supportive, fiercely loyal, and completely trusting of those who earned it. The obvious 'why?' question popped into her mind, but she dismissed it. The answer was likely either politics or logistics, and neither were subjects worth bringing up in conversation. Instead she settled on the next most pressing one: "Who is replacing you?"

Vansen did his best, but couldn't completely manage to keep the minute hint of a smile from his lips. "You are."

Stunned wasn't a strong enough word. Stunned left you numb; froze your brain so you couldn't think. This was more like being hit in the face with a blaster: you couldn't think because your head had been blown off. Leela searched for some shred of logic, but couldn't find any. Her jaw worked, but her mind couldn't settle on which of the miriad of questions she should ask first.

For the first time in two years, Tyree had her speachless, and relished every moment. "The Valiant will be assigned as part of the unit I'll be commanding. You'll be running the same kind of missions as always; you'll just have a couple of extra ships around in case we stumble across some big guns guarding our target convoys."

He stopped for a moment, a shred of sadness creeping in as he watched her flounder in the face of the new reality he was thrusting upon her. Regret panged in his chest as he revisited his guilt over stealing her from the cockpit, just as he himself was stolen. But unfortunately, as he and Admiral Reshmar had agreed, she was the best candidate: the only candidate, really. She had the shrewd mind for tactics and the unorthadox fighter pilot savvy that was needed to pull off their assigned missions, and had been involved in planning so many that she could likely brief the crew in her sleep.

Leela nodded, reeling in her reactions and fighting to steer her mind back on course. "Understood, sir."

Stepping forward, he offered her a hand, the smile that had been threatening finally broke through on his face. As she took it, he pounced and dropped his final last-minute bombshell. "I almost forgot; the position comes with a promotion."

Leela blinked. "What?"

Tyree's smile morphed into a grin. "Congratulations, Colonel."

Being stunned seemed to be an epidemic aboard the Valiant today, as evidenced by the wide-eyed expression on Jaden Luka's face as he wandered the corridors reading the datapad in his hands, not really watching where he was going. Fortunately for him the rest of the crew were being a little more observant, and had the good sense to dodge out of the way. So stunned was Jaden by what he was reading that he'd left his quarters without his usual tinted glasses - essential to take the edge off the garish white Mon Calamari interior - or any pants. Vaguely, he percieved the chill in the et black deck plates under his bootless feet, but beyond that his attention was completely elsewhere.

Conflict was jumbling up Leela's thoughts as she staked along the corridor, wondering if she wanted this, what she could do if she didn't, and if it was even worth the effort trying to fight a decision that Alliance Command had already made. The promotion was certainly nice, and Colonel Vorega had almost as nice a ring to it as Major Vorega did; it was more the new assignment that bothered her. She had joined the Rebellion to fight back at the Empire, and knew how often Captain Tyree regretted being forced out of his cockpit.

All considerations of her current predicament tumbled out of her mind however as her eyes settled on Jaden. "What the frell are you wearing?"

Cronfronted by the immovable obstacle that Leela presented, Jaden was forced to halt and turn his attention upwards. For a few moments, he seemed utterly confused by her question; it took the passing of two - admittedly quite attractive - flight technicians and their target-locked gaze on his tight-fitting t-shirt and shorts (which left very little to the imagination) for him to realise just how much he'd left behind in his bunkroom.

Shaking her head, she forced out a sigh. "We're near the flight deck," she stated, eyes settling on the deck markings sketched on the wall. "Lets get you to the locker room, and find you some clothes."

* * *

Dressed in his flight gear, the sleeves of the jump suit knotted around his waist, Jaden casually wandered out into the hangar bay as if everything was normal. A quick scan of the crews busily working to patch up the battle damage after their recent skirmish with the Empire identified the two technicians who had passed him in the hall. They seemed to spot him too; Jaden threw them an enthusiastic salute as he passed, which seemed to embarass them a great deal. That made him feel better.

He found Leela sat atop one of the Gamma Shuttles that the SpecForce guys used to ferry themselves around. He wasn't entirely sure how she'd managed to get up there; he made a guess, and began clambering up the nearby equipment. Nearly loosing his footing several times, he finally made it to the roof, and dropped himself down heavily upon the deck plates beside her.

Leela looked at him, her eyebrow quirking. "There's a hatch back there, Jade," she told him, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

Jaden shrugged. "My way was more fun."

That provoked a laugh from Leela, but the mirth drained away quickly. Silence fell over their little corner of the flight deck; without realising, Jaden began drumming the datapad against the back of his knuckles. Leela regarded the device with intregue. "What you got there?"

Jaden had to think before answering. "Oh, this?" he asked, gesturing with the datapad. "Its a message." His voice trailed off into a reluctant wince. "A transfer request, actually; from Commander Perris. He -" Another aborted sentence. "He's invited me to join Rogue Squadron. Oolan too."

Despite the various troubling thoughts swimming about in her mind, Leela managed to muster a smile. "Yeah, I know."

Jaden blinked. "You do?"

She nodded. Kelly and Leela had spoken about it, after the debrief from the joint mission the Valkyries had shared with the Rogues. The fallout of the mission had ended with the Squadron two pilots light - one casualty, one reassignment - and in lieu of a hunt through the hundreds of potential candidates from across the Alliance, Kelly had instead asked to commendeer two of the Valkyries' finest. While perhaps not the best two individual pilots, Jaden and Oolan interacted like a well-oiled machine as wingmen, and though most experienced with the Alliance's A-Wing fighters, Kelly was confident - and Leela agreed - that they would quickly adapt to Rogue Squadron's X-Wing craft.

"Yeah," Leela answered eventually. "Kelly asked for two of his pilots; I picked you two, because even our Valkyrie cast-offs are better than anything the Rogues already have." Her smile broadened at he jibe. "Something slow and lumbering like an X-Wing should suit you guys fine; you never were good enough to keep up with the rest of us."

"Hey!" Jaden protested, with a mock scowl on his face. "Be fair; Oolan isn't that bad a pilot."

Leela chuckled, but couldn't find any more words to contribute to the conversation. She let her amusement run its course before settling back into her whistful confusion. "TIE is leaving," she said eventually, using the pilots' nickname for their grizzled ex-Imperial Captain. Her words remained casual, but her attention was focussed on Jaden, gauging his reaction. "I'm his replacement."

Jaden blinked. His news was major, but hers was not only more significant, but had been fired to sideswipe him. It took a little while for a response to form. "Wow," he said eventually, frowning slightly as he considered the implications. "Its a good thing I'm leaving."

It was Leela's turn to feign outrage this time, catching Jaden with a playful jab to the arm. "Yeah, yeah, flyboy," she muttered, laughter shrugging off some of the stress she'd been lugging around with her. "So much for respecting the chain of command."

Their conversation pretty much ended there; a few trivial jibes were fired back and forth, as they verbally assassinated anyone who sprang to mind. Before they escaped back to their minimal off-mission duties however, Leela had one last question to field. "One thing, Jaden."

"Yeah?"

Leela worked her jaw, trying to wrap her mouth around the right words to articulate her concern. She settled on the simple minimum. "What about Amos?"

Amos sat in the SpecForce mess hall, trying to look at anything - everything - that wasn't the gods-aweful datapad on the table before him. His eyes swept across the few fellow patrons as he lazily poured the last of the beer between his lips. The dregs drained, a tongue whipped out and liberated the last few vestages of liquid and foam from the bristles that covered his face. A hand shot down from nose to chin, stroking his whiskers back into alignment. Amos sat in the SpecForce mess hall, trying to look at anything - everything - that wasn't the gods-aweful datapad on the table before him. His eyes swept across the few fellow patrons as he lazily poured the last of the beer between his lips. The dregs drained, a tongue whipped out and liberated the last few vestages of liquid and foam from the bristles that covered his face. A hand shot down from nose to chin, stroking his whiskers back into alignment. Still, the downloaded letter loomed at him from behind the datapad's darkened, deactivated screen, the words silently grinding away as they replayed themselves in his mind.

The hiss-swoosh of the mess hall's door opening came as a blessed distraction. Amos' eyes climbed, and settled in surprise on an unexpected sight: a rocket-jockey arriving to slum it down in the ground-pounder's bar. Since coming aboard the Valiant, he hadn't seen Jaden all that much. It wasn't that the kid avoided him or anything: the Valiant was fairly small, and they saw each other around often enough. It was just that, after spending years cooped up in the tiny metal box of the Astral Queen with each other, and having spent most of that time plucking the kid's backside out of the pan, he felt a little userped at having been replaced on plucking duty by Major Vorega and the guys from Valkyrie Squadron.

Jaden spotted him, and Amos fired back a smile of recognition as the kid wandered over, although that took some effort. He settled down, offered enthusiastic greetings; waved over a beer for himself, and a refill for Amos. The SpecTrooper nodded along, making the right noises and throwing in the appropriate commens at the appropriate moments, but in truth he wasn't entirely there; his mind kept flicking back to that datapad, to its contents, and to the implications of those. So distracted was he in fact that Jaden's bombshell nearly slipped by him.

"Uh-uh... wait. What?"

Jaden hadn't noticed his friend's distraction, and took his sudden outburst of surprise as a match for his own enthusiasm. "Yeah - Oolan and me both. Apparently we impressed the guys over in Rogue Squadron when we flew together; offered us the chance to round off their roster."

Even as a SpecForce Trooper, Amos understood the significance of that kind of invitation. Over the years he'd learned a little about piloting aboard the Astral Queen, usually when Jaden had underestimated his alcohol tolerance and was too hungover to legally fly. He could get them from A to B; he'd even managed a couple of landings without snapping bits off or leaving any dents, which was an achievement he was proud of. What these fighter jocks were capable of was impressive enough; the opportunity to fly with some of the elite in their field was certainly not one to be passed up.

"Thing is -" Jaden winced as he reached the catch. "The Rogue's don't fly from the Valiant. I'd be reassigned to a new ship; Force knows where. I don't want to -"

"Are you kidding me?" Amos' interjection was a little louder and more forceful than he intended; he mentally reigned in his tone. He knew what Jaden was trying to say; he wanted to make sure that after dragging his travelling companion into this whole Rebellion thing, he wasn't going to abandon him completely. He knew it was a comraderie thing; the brotherly kinship they'd struck up. Funny: Amos had always thought of himself as the one that was doing the looking after.

"After seven years of getting shot at because of the trouble you get me into, the break will make for a pleasant change." He managed to muster a smile, even squeezing out a brief breath of a laugh. "Seriously, Jaden: being a pilot is the childhood dream that the Empire stole from you. For you to slam their denial back in their faces on the wings of the Rebellion's finest?" He shrugged, leaning back in his seat and taking a draught of his new beer. "I'm not going to stand in the way of that."

Besides, I probably won't be hanging around anyway. Amos kept that particular truth to himself for now. No use bursting Jaden's happiness yet, especially when all he'd wind up with was helpless pity. That definately wasn't something Amos needed right now. Instead he watched as Jaden remained silent; he seemed to be considering something. As the lull in conversation dragged, Amos frowned in concern. "Something wrong?"

Resolve formed on Jaden's face as he settled upon his decision. "I want you to have the 'Queen."

Amos blinked. That had come out of the blue. "By have, you mean - ?"

Jaden nodded. "I'm not going to need her while I'm with the Rogues and, well -" He decided not to mention the fact that Amos had actually made more use of the craft than he had since they'd joined the Rebellion. He went for a more tactful phrasing instead. "- she's gonna be of more use to you than she will to me."

Amos' eyes settled on the datapad, again. You don't realise how true that is, he thought to himself, a stab of remorse sparking in his chest again.

Jaden spotted the shift in emotions this time, and followed his gaze, noticing the datapad that had been a silent third member of their conversation thus far. Jaden quirked an eyebrow. "What've you got there?"

Amos tried to sound casual, but couldn't manage to break his focus away from the device. "Just a letter from home," he half-lied, his voice oddly quiet. "Nothing important."

Jaden wasn't convinced; his seven-years friend wasn't all that good at lying. "You sure?"

Finally lifting his eyes, Amos nodded. "Yeah," he said, faking a smile. "Really, it's nothing."

At least Jaden knew when not to press a matter; instead he shrugged the subject off, and grabbed for his beer, draining the last of the contents. Since they'd been in dock, the selection of beverages aboard had been somewhat interesting: the planet below had provided them with a number of kelp-based drinks that, while an odd shade of green, actually turned out to be surprisingly pleasant in taste. It did however have the unfortunate side effect of leaving a slight green tint to the tongue and gums for about an hour afterwards, as Jaden now demonstrated with a broad grin.

Setting his glass back on the table, he levered himself to his feet. "Guess I'd better go break the news to Trip," he teased, but his departure was slowed slightly as his eyes settled on the datapad again. Amos would tell him about it when he was ready, he decided. "Watch your six, Serge," he offered as a parting platitude, and disappeared towards the exit.

Amos sighed and picked up the letter, thumbing the datapad back into life so he could read it one last time. His eyes flicked across the words, skipping many of them while his mind filled in the blanks from memory. He reached the end with a sigh. "I'd better go talk to Glayde."

There were times when Captain John Glayde found that he couldn't quite believe his senses. One time in his youth, he'd seen a man on Corellia apparenty turn a Reekcat into a Sand Panther; as he'd grown older, he'd learned to understand that such magic tricks were merely optical illusions. Another time, he'd been wandering past the pilot's mess hall when he'd heard someone shout "You're the one that shoved it up there; how the frell am I supposed to get it out?" That one had certainly taken a lot of explaining. Today was another of those times - this time his eyes and ears had joined forces to confuse him.

Eyes rising from the formal request that Amos - Amos! - had written, he blinked in disbelief. "You want me to grant a leave of absense?" Amos nodded. "Compassionate leave?" Another nod. "And you don't want to tell me why."

A third nod. Amos, apparently, couldn't see the problem with that concept. "Yeah, that's about right."

Glayde kicked back in his chair, rubbing his hands across his face and through his hair as he tried to unravel the knot of stress beginning to form in his brain. "I know this isn't the Empire, Amos; if you want to leave, you're free to do so. But -" There was always a but; Glayde knew it should be there, hence prefacing it's arrival. However, as he searched his mind, he couldn't quite place his finger on what it might be. As he'd said, there was nothing that the Rebellion could do to prevent his leaving, should they want to. Certainly his reasons were mysterious, but this whole Rebellion thing was ultimately voluntary.

He sighed, giving up on his protests, and settling for just presenting the facts. "We're due to ship out in a few days; the Valiant is joining up with a new unit, and we're back to active status, raiding Imperial supply lines again. We'll be out there for months at a time between resupplies, and we'll be constantly moving to avoid detection. We wont be easy to find." As he spoke, he settled his gaze on Amos, the Sergeant that he'd served wth so closely these past months. It'd be a frelling shame to loose the guy, but there wasn't much he could do.

"There's a good chance you might not be able to come back. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Amos sighed, his shoulders slumping. His eyes seemed a little glazed, as if he felt numb to the real world. He shot a glance towards the formal request, implying the mystery circumstances as he spoke. "It's important."

That was that, then. There would be paperwork to fill out, and superiors to inform; that could all wait though. Even more since their trip to Raxus Prime to rescue Sel, he'd thought of Amos as a friend; a krizzing reliable one at that. His combat skills and years of experience aside, Glayde would really notice the loss of that kind of person from his command.

He deflected the topic slightly, pushing those thoughts from his mind. "You'll be taking the Astral Queen, I assume." Amos' attention returned to their conversation; he signalled an affirmative. "I'll make arrangements with the deck crew to have her prepped for launch before we head out-system."

"Thank you," Amos said simply, the sincerity in his voice filling in everything else that went unsaid.

John rose from his seat, and stepped around the desk. He extended a hand, which Amos gripped firmly. "It's been a pleasure, Mr Iakona. Force willing, I hope our paths cross again."

Amos flashed a smile. "I'd like to see it try and stop me."

Despite his permenant, carefully-cultivated disgruntled mood, the grizzled scowl he constantly wore, Vansen Tyree couldn't have been more proud as he ammended the rank insignia attatched to Vorega's uniform. You had to serve with the man for a long time to begin to notice the subtle shifting of his emotions; fortunately, John Glayde was one of the few that qualified. He watched with the slightest hint of a smile, watching as Tyree fought to keep one of his own at bay. Eye contact with Glayde made the new Line Captain clamp down on that one pretty fast.

Vorega on the other hand seemed overwhelmed, which was pretty unusual for her. She did her best to seem calm and confident, but Glayde could spot the telltale signs of her discomfort; though in truth, he couldn't be sure whether it was the attention, the promotion, or the dress uniform that was the main culprit. Her shoulders visably shifted as Tyree stepped back, as if she was somehow growing accustomed to the extra weight of the increased stitching. A few paces further back, and Tyree came to a halt, throwing her a salute which Leela smartly returned. Finally, the Captain allowed his mask to slip, and cracked the slightest of smiles as he extended his hand.

"Congratulations, Colonel," he said, even managing to conjure some genuine warmth into his voice.

Leela gripped his hand, and offered a smile of his own. "Thank you, Captain."

Glayde led the applause for the newly-promoted Vorega; Vansen was glad to see that. While the Colonel would no doubt be able to rely on Valkyrie Squadron to ensure the support from the Flight Deck, she'd need more than just their respect to run the ship effectively; her reputation as a bit of a loose cannon could present her with a few obstacles if she didn't find a way to make it work to her advantage. Granted, Tyree would only be a short shuttle ride away aboard the Horizon if there were any problems, but it wouldn't be very good for morale if he was seen to be clearing up her mess. Leela would need to beat them into shape themselves.

She'd have other obstacles to contend with as well. One of the other members of their new Squadron was the Intrepid, an old Nebulon-B recently refurbished by the boys here at Mon Calamari. She came loaded with two brand new fighter Squadrons, fresh from the Starfighter Corps' training programs. Granted, there were a couple of more experienced pilots thrown into the senior roles, but Vansen had been uncomfortable having all that green blood concentrated aboard one command, particularly With half his own Wing aboard the Horizon being fresh as well. He'd made arrangements for the Intrepid and the Valiant to exchange a Squadron: the B-Wing unit Dagger Squadron exchanged for the mixed Gauntlet Squadron. Training concerns aside, he knew he could rely on Vorega to make the best use of the variety.

For a moment, he wondered how Leela had reacted to the loss of two of her pilots; no doubt she'd still thought of them as hers wherever they were assigned, but still. He realised that he hadn't had an opportunity to discuss the matter with her; an oversight on his part perhaps, given what she was being plunged into. Still, now was hardly the time for that kind of thing. There was still one thing that he needed to do.

Vansen brought himself fully to attention, and flattened the smile away from his face. "Colonel Vorega," he intoned, his voice gravelly and serious. "You have the bridge."

There was a collective silence as the crew awaited her text-book reply. "I have the bridge," she mirrored; more applause sounded in the wake, and Tyree took the opportunity to duck back into the gathered crowd, but it was cut short as the assembled waited for her to say more.

As if to prompt her, the Officer-of-the-Deck stepped forward - a young Lieutenant suddenly thrust further up the chain of command by the Valiant's internal restructure - dropping into a smart at-ease pose before his new Captain. "Awaiting your orders, ma'am."

Tyree watched, as Vorega's eyes swept across her new officers, taking them all in with her gaze as she selected her words carefully. Her hands were clasped tightly behind her back; for a few moments, Tyree was stunned to see her bravado and recklessness tumble away to leave only the laser-straight, icy professionalism that the Imperial Navy must have drilled into her. She'd already become a wild one by the time Tyree first met her, after Endor: he supposed the obliteration of your homeworld could easily do that to a person. And then, when Vorega finally spoke, Tyree decided that he couldn't have chosen more appropriate words himself.

"You have the conn, Lieutenant," she said, directly to the Officer-of-the-Deck. "Our orders are to break orbit as soon as instructed by the Horizon. I'd prefer not to keep my superiors waiting on my first day."

The Lieutenant looked a little taken aback, but went ramrod in response to the orders. "Aye sir; I have the conn," he replied, before scurrying off to relay the necessary instructions.

Vorega rounded, settling her gaze on Tyree; she even caught the Captain off-guard, although he didn't let it show. "To that end, Captain; may I escort you to the flight deck?"

Tyree unleashed a snort of a laugh. "Eager to get rid of me, are you?"

Leela couldn't help smiling as she replied. "Of course not, Captain: the Commanding Officer of the 103rd is of course welcome aboard at any time."

He didn't even bother to supress his laugh in response to that perfectly diplomatic answer. He chuckled to himself as Leela gestured for him to exit the bridge first. "You'll do fine," he muttered, as much to himself as anyone else. "Just fine."

The flight deck was a hive of activity. Though expanded somewhat from the basic MC40, the allocated hangar space aboard cruisers of the MC40a class - of which the Valiant was a member - were hardly cavernous affairs: barely space for the two Squadrons that were usually crammed aboard. With so much traffic flitting about between the vessels of the 103rd Interdictor Squadron, it was a wonder that any of the myriad shuttlecraft had succeeded in finding a space to set down.

Vorega led the way across to one of the more exclusive-looking shuttles: an old Cygnus Spaceworks T-2c that looked like it had seen better days. Apparently Captain Tyree disagreed with that assessment: the craft had already been separated from the Horizon's standard compliment as his personal courier, should he ever need one. Leela supposed that the design must seem familiar: more like the Republic and Imperial craft that the grizzled old officer had served on for most of his career. She supposed that same similarity was what put her off the craft: TIE Pilots rarely thought of the slow, lumbering shuttles that the Empire employed with any kind of fondness.

Vansen seemed to have slowed his pace a little; Leela dropped her own to match, so as not to draw attention to his reluctance to leave. This had been Tyree's command since Endor, and while she herself had never grown so attatched to a starship before, she likened it in her mind to her loyalty to Valkyrie Squadron. Their new assignments seemed to show a strange parallel: both were leaving their comfort zone, and while neither was straying far from their old command, the distance was still too far for either officer's comfort.

Tyree seemed determined not to make a scene; after one last whistful look around the bowels of the ship, he turned towards Leela and flashed her a smile. "I suppose it's time I left the two of you to get aquainted," he said, fighting to keep a jovial tone in his voice. Leela could see the conflicted emotions dancing behind his one good eye. His expression faltered, words turning to a strange mix of gravity and pleading. "Take care of her for me, will you?"

Despite her personal promises to the contrary, Leela felt herself drawing part way to attention at the request. She mustered a curt nod, but couldn't find the right words to respond. "I'll do my best," was all she could manage.

Surprisingly, Vansen's smile was warm - not beaming, like the grin he'd occasionally throw her way when a plan came together just right; more like the proud smile of a mentor, who had just witnessed his student coming into their own. "It's been a pleasure, Colonel Vorega."

Leela snorted. "Frak has it," she shot back, her usual shield of sarcasm powering up to full.

A hand on her shoulder blasted the generators to hell. She blinked, not sure what it was she was reading on the Captain's face. "For all your bluster, and all your ego," Vansen said, voice gentle, "You're the most self-loathing pilot I've ever met. You're so proud of your people and their achievements, that you never bother to save any for yourself." Another flash of smile. "You deserve this, Leela. Be proud of yourself for a change."

He didn't give her a chance to respond, disappearing through the crowd of technicians and up the ramp into the shuttle's belly. It took the whine of the repulsorlifts as they strained to heave the weighty craft from the deck to shake her back into the present. When she finally returned, a smile began to form on her lips. It was short-lived however, blasted out of her mind as her gaze settled on the unlikely Corellian and Verpine duo busily hefting their gear into one of the other waiting shuttles.

She let out a sigh. Speaking of my people and their achievements...

"The rats are fleeing the sinking ship, huh?"

Jaden halted mid-swing, the heavy canvas carry-all he was trying to hurl up the loading ramp to his wingman dropping back and slamming into his knees. He muttered a string of curses under his breath before climbing his eyes upwards, seeking out the source of the voice. Spotting Leela, complete with her shiny new insignia, he smiled. Her reference to nautical folklore processed slowly through mind. "Something like that, yeah."

Dropping the carry-all by his ankles, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his onepiece and shrugged, awkwardly. "Sorry we missed the ceremony," he cringed, gesturing with his eyes towards Leela's new rank insignia. "I'm afraid they didn't give us much time to make our rendezvous."

Leela dismissed his appology with a smile. "Don't worry about it, Jade; you guys stood at the back sniggering would probably have spoiled the mood anyhow."

Long-legged and stick-thin, the slight Verpine frame of Oolan Valx'ir appeared from inside the transport. A string of clicks, rattles, and high-pitched chittering escaped from his mouthparts, the droid components strung around his neck cutting in with their harmony a few moments later. "I do not believe that my vocabulator is capable of generating sounds of that nature," it translated flatly, the Verpine striking an open-armed pose that the Valkyrie pilots had agreed was his version of a broad grin.

The Colonel threw back her own human version. "I'll try not to keep you any longer than I have to."

Oolan stepped forward, extending one of his long, slender arms towards Leela, gripping her own limb just below the elbow. "I was asked," the Verpine explained, amid insectoid chirping, "By Commander Perris to convey his congratulations to you, and his commiserations to the rest of the crew." Despite his large, unblinking eyes and mostly immobile facial structure, Oolan still managed to somehow look thoughtful. "I believe that part of his statement may have been in jest; I would however like to offer sincere congratulations of my own."

Leela bowed her head, mimicking the gesture that the Verpine often used to indicate his thanks. "You have mine as well. Unit rivalry aside, an invitation to fly with Rogue Squadron is quite an achievement."

Jaden chuckled. "Don't worry," he preempted, "We'll keep that admission classified."

"You'd better," Leela countered, with a twinkle in her eye. She cast a brief, appologetic look towards the Verpine. "Would you mind if I borrowed your wingman for a few moments, Oolan?"

"Not at all," he replied, folding himself near in half. "I believe the loading process may in fact be accellerated in the absense of his participation."

Jaden rolled his eyes and exaggerated a scorned look, but as Leela led him away and he recognised the concern on her face, his own expression shifted to match. "Something wrong?"

Leela nodded. "I'm worried about Amos," she said, simply. She gestured across the bay towards where the man in question was busy loading supplies into his already prepped transport. "He requested leave not long after the news of your reassignment came through, and he isn't exactly hanging around." She dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. "Is something going on?"

"I don't know." Jaden's brow twisted into a frown. "I thought something might have been up when I spoke to him the other day, but he didn't really want to talk about it." He paused, considering that for a moment. "He's not really all that talkative, to be honest."

Jaden remained quiet for a few moments longer, studying his friend as he worked. Amos seemed to have thrown his all into the task as always, but there was something about the way his shoulders slumped that didn't look right. Something was weighing on his mind; something hefty.

Jaden shot Leela a determined look. "I'll talk to him." Leela shot him a look. "Don't worry," Jaden muttered, defensively. "I'll be subtle." A disbelieving look flew his way this time. "I can do subtle, you know," he countered, with a scowl. "Remember that time when I went a whole ten minutes before telling you that you looked like you'd been dragged backwards through a supernova?"

"Hey."

Amos didn't need to look up to identify the source of the voice. That in itself warranted a grunt. He followed up with a scowl, and as Trip suddenly stopped what he was doing to determine whether or not the vague address had been aimed at him, Amos turned the stare on the droid full-force. "Keep working," he muttered under his breath, as Trip completely failed to interpret the non-verbals.

Straightening up, Amos turned his attention to his former travelling companion, and tried his hardest not to look like he was in a bad mood. Unfortunately, since his natural relaxed expression was somewhere between gormless and scowl, there were very few times when he didn't look like he was in a bad mood. Add to that the fact that he was actually in a bad mood, and the result doomed his efforts to failure.

"Hey," he grunted back.

Jaden ambled casually over, pretending to pay more attention to his ship than to Amos. Figures, the man from Naboo thought to himself. The younger man had always operated under the illusion that he was difficult to interpret, and that he could hide his true intentions by briefly directing attention elsewhere. Amos did actually take a moment to look at the ship's hull, now that Jaden had drawn attention to it; he picked out the corrosion scars where Raxus Prime had taken its toll on the alloys that Amos had never bothered to learn the names of. He supposed he probably should now; if he planned to be gallavanting off about the galaxy, that seemed like the sort of question that people might want to ask.

He was still looking; staring up-close at the hull while he tried to collect his thoughts. Amos sighed. "I'll save you the trouble," he called, folding his arms across his chest. That attracted Jaden's attention; annoyingly, he tried to pretend that he had no idea what Amos was on about. Perhaps this was his plan all along - allow the awkward silence to drag the truth out of Amos, and save him the effort. Cunning bastard.

Amos reclined himself against the hull of the Astral Queen, and stared at the deck plates for a few moments while he collated his fragmented thoughts into something coherant. "I got a message from home," he said eventually. "Mother's ill." Whatever illusions Jaden may have had about the reason for Amos' low seemed to have been blasted to oblivion; even so, Amos continued on. "It's not fatal or anything, but I was away from home when my father died; haven't been home since the funeral."

Jaden's jaw worked, but his mind bailed before he managed to muster out a sound. He tried again a few times before he finally succeeded. "Want some company?"

Despite his mood, Amos managed a snort of laughter. "The Rebellion is going to suffer a big enough blow with me gone; no use in making it worse." There was a hope-kindling flash of a smile here. Amos let it relax slightly, but grasped onto it tightly, forcing it to linger on his face a little longer. He shook his head. "I need some time to be alone; having you around while you're feeling sorry for me is the last thing I need."

Jaden faked denial. "Sorry for you?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm just worried about my ship; figured you could use someone who was a little more graceful with the controls than a randy bantha."

Amos tried a glare, but the mental image of a ten-foot hairy mammoth humping the flight controls proved to be too amusing to let it suceed. "I'll manage," he muttered, giving up on his attempts to appear stoic. He sighed. "Besides: if you can manage, it can't be that hard."

A click over Jaden's comlink drew his attention over his shoulder; beside the transport that was waiting for him, he saw the long, lankey arm of Oolan Valx'ir throwing him a wave. He turned back to Amos, and winced. "Looks live I've gotta go."

The pilot hesitated for a moment; rolling his eyes, Amos grabbed him into a bear hug. "Vape a few of those eyes or squints or whatever it is you call them for me, alright?" he muttered.

Jaden chuckled. "Take care," he shot back, before rounding on the Utility Droid that he was leaving in Amos' charge. "And you do whatever Amos tells you."

Trip cocked his head to one side, seeming to contemplate that instruction. "As instructed, Master Jaden."

That prompted a wince as Jaden recognised the flash of annoyance that crossed Amos' face when the droid spoke. "Don't...break him," he requested, a slight pleading tone in his voice. "He's kinda expensive to get repaired."

Amos threw the droid a scowl. "No promises."

Glayde was waiting in ambush for Colonel Vorega as she tried to escape from the hanger deck, presumably off to brood on her own. To his surprise, her mood seemed to be surprisingly positive, but he wasn't quite ready to assume that all was well; not just yet. Stepping out from his concealed vantage point, he fell into step beside her as she quickened her pace. "Hello, Colonel."

That she seemed momentarily startled filled John with an instant of childish glee, but given her new-found seniority and notoriously bad temper, he decided that flaunting his victory was perhaps unwise. Adjusting his expression into a stoic mask, he appologised. "Didn't mean to startle you, ma'am."

That earned him a scornful look. "Either stop referring to me as a superior, or I'll have you promoted so you aren't able to."

Glayde couldn't help the grin that blossomed on his face. "Its good to see that promotion hasn't ruined your sunny disposition," he quipped; instantly, he rose his hands for protection before her withering glare even came to bear. "Okay; sorry. Won't mention it again." He lowered his arms slowly, voice dropping to a mutter. "Major and Colonel just don't have the same ring as Captain Glayde."

Leela sighed, and chuckled. "I can always swap you to the Navy branch you know," she teased. "Commander doesn't sound that bad. You might even make it to Captain again."

"I'd rather work kitchen detail," he muttered, darkly. He shot out a warning finger. "That was a figure of speach; I don't need you to flaunt your new powers and make it happen."

As their encounter rolled on, the duo wove their way through the corridors of the ship, forced to use the rampways to pass between decks thanks to an inconveniently-timed series of routine overhauls of the internal elevator system. Leela voiced her speculation that Tyree had only accepted reassignment because his hips couldn't handle the stairs as well as they used to. Glayde had laughed, but he knew that this was just distracting chit-chat to prevent him from erroding his way down to meaningful conversation. Spotting a convenient break, he jammed in a wedge, hoping to crack the discussion open. "How are you holding up?"

Leela shrugged, pretending not to completely understand the question. "I'm fine; although I've been avoiding my office. I don't want to know how much paperwork Tyree has left me."

Glayde grabbed her arm, dragging her to a halt, and fixed her with a look that would have been more appropriate on the face of a preschool teacher. "You know what I mean, Leela. How are you coping with all the reassignments?"

For a while she was reluctant to answer, gaze focussing anywhere but on Glayde. Finally, he managed to coax some eye contact, and she repeated her earlier reply. "I'm fine."

The Captain could tell that she wasn't providing the whole truth; he wasn't sure whether she was mourning the loss of anyone specific, or just the lifestyle, the friendships, and the all-night drinking that she'd be forced to leave behind now she'd accepted command. However, he could also tell that she'd handle it, whatever she was hiding. She was a survivor, planet of origin as case-in-point. Despite her attitude, despite her reputation, and despite her personal world view, she'd never let anything get in the way of the performance of her duty, and had never let anything hamper the standards to which she held herself.

Finally conceeding the battle, Glayde spurred them back into motion again, and a few silent meters followed before Leela spoke. "How's the friend of yours that you rescued?"

John winced. Yeah, I deserved that, he thought to himself, as the Colonel twisted the conversation around to his own personal issue. Ever since they'd arrived back from Raxus Prime, Selinica had began to develop a reputation among the crew. No one was entirely sure who she was, or what it was she did aboard the ship: just that she could usually be found attempting to drink anyone in range under the table.

"I think giving her computer access was a bad idea," he confessed with a sigh. "I think she's sleeping her way through the crew manifest in alphabetical order." The grimace on his face showed that he was only half-joking.

Leela feigned disappointment. "Alphabetical?" she echoed. "Damn it - I finally reach the chain of command summit, and she has to use the only list where I'm at the bottom?"

John laughed, appreciating the attempt to cheer him up, but the sound was hollow. "She's like a sister to me; it pains me to see how badly her life has turned out." He shook his head. "She needs a direction; a cause; a focus. Something." A sigh followed. "Much as I want to keep her around and keep an eye on her, I'm not sure she'll find what she needs here."

Adopting a sisterly tone, Leela draped her arm around his shoulder. "Listen, Johnny," she began, waving her arm for emphasis. "What you need to know about women is ..."

Alliance Cruiser Horizon

- - -

"Captain on deck!" someone shouted. Vansen wanted to find the source of that gods-annoying phrase, and break the jaw of whoever had issued it forth. That said, the instant snap-to-attention that it produced amongst the Officers stationed on the bridge was reassuringly professional, and implied that he hadn't been lumbered with a bunch of green and wets; or at the very least, someone had gone to the effort of running them through the basics of etiquette and protocol. It wasn't perfect; it wasn't ideal; it wasn't the Valiant; but hell, it'd do, for now at least.

The Captain came to a halt at the center of the ship's nerve center, a radically different configuration to the Mon Calamari designs he was used to. "At ease," he called, making a custory analysis of how Sullustan mentalities had grouped the various consoles and stations; noting how the strategy table was encircled by a narrow platform to allow the shorter Sullustan's a little extra elevation. He noted that his crew had ample Sullustan representation as well: both Navigators, and a Damage Control Officer. The environmental differences were a pleasant change too; a slightly lower temperature on the standard settings, and more subdued tones on the walls and consoles, intended for the Sullustans and their sensitive vision.

"At ease," Vansen said eventually, and the bridge finally got around to breathing again. He fought back a sigh; the crew felt like a new pair of shoes - painfully tight and inflexible until you'd spent some time wearing them in. He turned his attention to the strategy table, where a Human officer was standing over a holographic representation of the fraction of Mon Calamari orbit that the Horizon and her entorage currently occupied. He was also, Vansen guessed, the source of his annoying, heralded entry. "Status?" he barked gruffly, hoping the sudden burst of noise would catch the Lieutenant off-guard.

It didn't. "All transports and shuttlecraft have cleared Squadron airspace," he announced, turning calmly to face his new CO. "The Odyssey, Intrepid and Zelbinion all report ready for deployment, and are awaiting transmission of hyperspace data." Despite it being obvious that one of the Squadron's vessels was notably absent from that list, the Officer still felt the need to state it explicitly. "We've had no word from the Valiant as of yet, sir."

Vansen turned his steely gaze onto the much younger man, blasting aside his accusation with the totalitarian ferrocity of a superlaser. The Lieutenant visibly shrank into his uniform. "Begin jump prep," he instructed quietly. "Transmit the coordinates to the rest of the Squadron. We'll worry about who is ready and who isn't when we've got a set of green lights across the board."

Obviously shocked that his new Commander wasn't impressed by his steadfast attention to protocol, the Lieutenant nodded, and swallowed hard. "Helm!" he called, raising his voice over the bridge's ambient noise. "Commence navicomputer calculations for a hyperspace jump to the Toong'l system. Relay to communications upon completion and confirmation." He shot a nervous glance towards Tyree, wondering if the new Captain would disapprove of any of his other actions. "Comms: upon reciept, deceminate jump coordinates to the Squadron."

The Captain wandered casually away, appearing at the shoulder of one of the Auxiliary Communications Officers. "Get me Daca Orbital Control," he requested.

"Aye, sir," came the response; Vansen accepted the offered headset and slid it into place, careful not to disturb the strands of cord holding his eyepatch in place. The Comms Officer - a young woman whose accent sounded vaguely Coruscanti - worked the controls at her station. "Patching you through now."

A confirmation tone chimed through Tyree's earpiece. "Orbital," he said into the microphone, gripping it loosely between his fingers to ensure it was properly aimed towards his mouth, "This is Horizon Actual. Request permission for hyperspace departure from the Daca Defense Perimeter." The reply from the Mon Calamari officer sat monitoring one of numerous orbital mapping consoles was heard only by Vansen, but sparked the slightest hint of a smile from the old man. "Much appreciated, Orbital. Horizon out."

A questioning look was cast his way by the Officer of the Deck; Vansen nodded to the Lieutenant, and gestured for him to proceed. "Calibrate jump clock with the Squadron, and prepare to engage in thirty seconds on my mark." He hesitated, glancing across at Tyree to ensure that the Captain didn't want to give the final order himself. Vansen shook his head, almost imperceptably. The Lieutenant replied with a similarly subtle nod. "Mark."

Alliance Cruiser Valiant

- - -

There were numerous complaints that could be made about Mon Calamari design; their blinding choice of colour scheme; their strange bulbous hull configurations; their eternally frigid and humid environmental systems. However, no one had ever complained about the chairs designed by the species - at least, not to Leela's knowledge. As she settled down into the Captain's throne, she began to wonder if perhaps she now knew the reason why.

Sweeping across the command center on the long articulated arm that allowed her easy movement across the bridge, she came to rest behind the Communications Officer; the individual she expected to speak next. "Hyperspace coordinates recieved," he spoke almost instantly, confirming her suspicions. "Squadron Actual instructs thirty seconds until jump."

"You heard that, Helm," she echoed, sweeping to a more central position on the bridge. "Jump in 30; initiate when ready." Leela couldn't quite make out the officer's reply; she wasn't used to dealing with the warbling tones of the Mon Calamari so directly, particularly if said Mon Cal wasn't delivering some sort of slow, clear and elloquent speech. She assumed from the fact that an indicator appeared on the data screen mounted to the arm of her chair - informing her that a thirty second countdown prior to hyperdrive activation had been initiated - that his words had been of confirmation.

Leela watched the hypnotic numerals trickled away on her display. She'd seen similar sequences on navicomp displays in her A-Wing, and she'd experienced hyperjumps from other locations on the ship - and indeed, on other ships - but something about this was different. Sitting here in the nerve center of such a large craft, knowing that everyone within was her sole responsibility added profound new levels. Down in the mess hall, she was never consciously aware that she was entrusting her continued existance to the calculation skills of the few individuals up here, every time they entered hyperspace. Rarely did she fly a craft that contained more than herself; whenever she made a jump, hers was the only life, and hers were the only shoulders upon which blame could rest. Though she hadn't physically manipulated the controls, she had become responsible for nearly four thousand souls when she'd issued that order. Suddenly, she wanted to take the words back, and deliver them in a more respectful way.

She stared out of the main viewport as space folded around her - around her ship - and reclined into her new chair. Colonel Leela Vorega, she mused, plucking a stray piece of space-fluff from the seam of her uniform. I could get used to this.

Rogue Squadron Staging Area

- - -

This was... strange. Aboard the Valiant, he'd become used to the familiar shapes of the A-Wings and B-Wings that littered the flight deck. Aside from one brief mission, he'd never even seen an X-Wing up-close - well, save for that one time when the pirates had tried to raid the Astral Queen, and one had skimmed perilously close to the cockpit viewport. The differences - the straighter edges, the lack of curves - were extreme, as if the craft had been designed for a completely different set of physics laws. He ran his fingers down the length of one of the wingtip cannons; made the rookie mistake of trying to prize the two surfaces apart, only to wind up straining against the numerous mag-locks holding them tightly together. Weirder still was being told that this particular X-Wing - this one of a dozen - was his.

"I dunno," he muttered to his wingman. "Head-on the cross-section is a tad slimmer, but there's a hell of a lot of ass back here; not sure it's safe to be dragging around all that extra baggage." His brow tugged into a frown. "These gun placings are gonna bug me as well - spread way too far apart. How are you meant to get close and personal with your targets before you vape 'em, if you're lasers won't converge in time?"

Oolan seemed to ponder that thought. "Given the inferior speed and agility of this craft as compared to an A-Wing," he pointed out, "I do not believe that the designers expected the craft to be capable of closing with a target to such a close range without an unavoidable collision."

Jaden mulled over his wingman's insight, but apparently other thoughts had been designated with a higher precedence in his mind. "I wouldn't want to fly these things in atmo, either. Sure, it'll turn better than a TIE Fighter, but you'll get all kinds of crazy sheer surfaces with the s-foils open." He shook his head, and sighed. "Is it to late to ask the Valiant to ship our A-Wings over?"

"I'm afraid so," a new voice to the conversation answered. Stepping around the back end of Oolan's new X-Wing, the Technician scrubbed the worst of the engine lubricant from his hands with a rag that was probably in a worse state than his skin. He propped himself up against an engine cowling, and shrugged. "I wouldn't write the T-65 off just yet, though; we keep our birds well above standard specs around here, and they'll take a lot more punishment than those RZ-1's of yours can handle." He flashed a smile. "The Astromech'll save you a hell of a lot of hastle in the long run, too."

Jaden's attention perked up at that. "Astro droid?"

The technician chuckled. "We had a few new ones shipped in recently; the Quartermaster will probably come find you to allocate your new unit after you've a little downtime." A thoughtful expression crossed the technician's face. "Has anyone shown you where the bar is, yet?"

A smile blossomed in Jaden's expression. "Are you volunteering yourself to rectify that problem, Specialist?"

The technician threw a mock salute. "Aye, sir!" That prompted laughter from both humans; even Oolan made an attempt of his own, although the vocabulator translation robbed some of the mirth from the sound. Oh, and by the way -" he added, his tone shifted becoming almost conspiratorial, a wink thrown in for added effect. "Welcome to Rogue Squadron."

"Now, this way," the technician called, waving with an arm and already heading towards the door. "I'll warn you though: some of the grease monkeys brew their own 'shine..."

Astral Queen - Orbiting Mon Calamari

- - -

Amos watched as the familiar shape of the Valiant lanced out at lightspeed into the void of space, a quartet of other vessels racing alongside. He felt a pang of regret, and wondered if he'd made the right choice. It had been a long time since he'd been home, and he'd hardly left on good terms; was genetics enough of a reason to abandon one family for another?

He pushed those thoughts aside, burying them deep in the back of his mind. Amos wasn't the sort of man who second-guessed decisions; if he did, he'd probably spend the rest of his life replaying and scrutinising everything he'd ever done. He acted, right or wrong, and dealt with the consequences. No use dwelling on what was past and unchangeable. And yet, even as he thought that about himself, he knew it wasn't entirely true. He'd spent years hating the Empire for the decisions they'd made on his behalf; the same was true of his father, too. No: Amos was a cynic - the kind of person who second-guessed everything but his own actions.

His own actions were set in motion now; the Valiant had jumped, and short of lingering at Mon Calamari until they returned, that phase of his life had taken a step into the background. There were more important things to worry about right now. Such as which of these damn screens was hooked up to the automatic navigation systems.

"Trip," Amos called, and instantly regretted it. Since sealing the hatch, the droid had been content to lurk on standby in the aft section of the ship, and while Amos' voice hadn't been particularly loud, the droid posessed an uncanny ability to detect its own name being mentioned, seemingly from miles away.

Sure enough, the familiar, ominous whirring of his motor servos echoed down the cockpit access corridor; a moment later, the droid's familiar head appeared beside his terminal. "Yes, Master Amos?" Trip asked in his perpetually gormless monotone.

Amos resigned himself with a sigh, and turned his attention to the droid. "Which console accesses the autopilot?" he asked. While capable of plotting a hyperspace course if necessary, the location of the Mon Calamari system and the complex security protocols surrounding the motion of craft within it made for a headache for rookie pilots. One of the Navigation Officers aboard the Valiant had been kind enough to write a patch for the autopilot program that would fly the Astral Queen to the relevant coordinates, and initiate a hyperspace jump to a more benign system. From there, Amos should be able to fend for himself. Hopefully.

"Beside the navigational computer," Trip explained, matter-of-fact, altering the angle of his neck to keep his ocular receptor permenantly focussed on Amos as he moved around the cabin. "Adjacent to the auxiliary communications controls," he added, for extra clarification.

Amos sighed. "Yeah, of course," he muttered, sarcasm lacing his words. "That really helps."

The tone of Trip's vocabulator changed ever so slightly, seemingly attempting to convey some sort of pleasure in response to the presumed praise. "You are most welcome, Master Amos." Without saying any more, Trip rotated on the spot and trundled off back to the aft.

Trial and error - and actually reading the half-faded Aurebesh notations on the various banks of controls - finally uncovered the relevant device, and after a brief conversation with Daca Orbital to explain why he had remained stationary for so long - he made up a convincing lie - the Queen was finally spurred into life. As the ship begin to sweep through the void of its own accord, Amos felt vaguely uncomfortable, and almost considered abandoning the helm for his usual position behind the pilot's seat; it was creepy to be sat there while someone else was flying, even if it was just a disembodied subroutine in the ship's navigational computer.

The craft manoeuvered into position, and a request for hyperdrive confirmation flashed on the screen. Amos searched his initiative for a witty throw-away remark, but after realising that the only person around to hear it would be Trip - and he really didn't want to talk to the droid any more than was absolutely necessary - he filed it away for possible use later, and punched the hyperdrive control.

Starlines raced towards him; an instant later, he was gone.

These events continue in: New Friends; New Beginnings