The planning discussion can be found here.


<b>11 ABY
Carida air space</b>

“You are facing an enemy fighter in the Hoth system.  Mid-fight his engine seems to stall but then he gains the upper hand and wings your TIE.  You are losing altitude at a rate of fifteen kilometers per second.  Cadet Emyn!”

Paron shot up out of her seat and stood at attention.  “Yes, sir, Major Hrruck, sir!”

“What do you do next, cadet?” he barked from his position behind his desk.  Pressing a button, the situation he had described appeared in front of the class via a holo image, with the addition of smoke choking from the charred side of the TIE.  Paron’s eyes took in the picture but she replied automatically.

“I would check my cabin pressure, sir, to decide on the next course of action.”  Immediately she wanted to thump herself on the head.  Check cabin pressure while doing a nose dive?  Brilliant.

“Then you’ll be dead in fifteen seconds, cadet!” Hrruck shouted at her as if he could hear her own deprecations of her stupidity, pointing a jagged finger in her direction.  “Then how will you serve your empire as you lie there in flames and die?”  In the back some of the students grimaced at Hrruck’s words, knowing the story behind the half-blind instructor’s vehemence towards flippancy in the military.  One student paled when he saw Hrruck start to reach for his glazed left eye to prepare himself while Paron swallowed hard.

Villem Hrruck’s reputation of pulling out his false eye to show a smartass what happens when not paying attention scared about twenty-five percent of the class to usually drop out before the first week was through.  Whoever stayed behind was considered either exceptionally strong, or exceptionally stupid.

A few rows behind Paron, a student snickered despite the fear.  “She’d be doing better than behind the gears.”

Laughter bubbled through the room and Paron fought the heat in her face but faced Hrruck and ignored the jeers from her fellow cadets.  “Actually, sir, I wouldn’t have been winged in the first place.”

“This is not a situation for you to brag about your <i>supposed</i> flight skills, Emyn.”

“No, sir, but I would have crashed into the Rebel before I let it wing me into a defenseless stone.”

Silence fell through the room.  Hrruck cleared his throat before speaking.  “Do you know what your words imply, Emyn?  You would be willing to sacrifice your flight skills simply to take the risk of killing a Rebel and his fighter?”

“I would do my job, sir.”  Paron swallowed hard.  “I would do that until my dying breath.”

A male voice started to protest but Hrruck snapped his hand out in the direction of the speaker, silencing him effectively, while his dark, working eye studied the girl standing there at attention.  “Give me a summary of the oath of allegiance taken by pilots of the Galactic Empire, Emyn,” he finally said, his hand moving back to fiddle with the pocket chrono dangling from his uniform.

“A pilot is to not know the meaning of fear, to know only that he is a humble servant of the Empire and do whatever it takes to keep her safe, even to the point of sacrificing his own life if need be, sir.”  Paron took a deep breath.  “A successful mission means more than a life support system.  We are the Empire’s, in name only belonging to ourselves.”

“Correct, Emyn.”  Hrruck pounded a fist on the hard surface of his desk, making every student visibly jump except Paron.  “You must remember that it does not matter whether you live or die, but rather if you have served your Emperor.”

“Yes, sir.”  Paron tried to not visibly shift from the strain on her knees from standing at position, wishing she had stepped out of her desk before standing.  But her face remained calm and devoid of any emotion while Hrruck studied her.  “I would like to make a minor correction, sir.”

“Speak, then, Emyn.”  Hrruck continued to stare as if he could see through her very bones.

Paron allowed herself a small smile.  “I don’t have supposed piloting skills.  I have the highest score on this simulation.”

Before the class could react to that outrageous statement, a sharp beep sounded and the door automatically opened to the class room.  “Remember to read the next chapter in your assignments and bring a detailed essay on what you would do in this situation.  If I see a repeat of Emyn’s work then I will not be pleased.”  A collected groan waved through the crowd.  Before she could pick up her bag, Paron paused to hear Hrruck’s voice.  “Emyn, come here.”

“Yes. Major Hrruck.”  She slid her shoulder bag on and hurried to the front.

Hrruck sat back in his chair while his warped fingers tapped the desk and he examined her.  “Your father must be very proud of your record here on Carida.  Least amount of demerits in two classes, high scores…”

“I like to think so, sir.”  Paron shifted and wondered if there was a purpose to this.

“Has he decided whether or not your brother belongs here still?”

The question made Paron’s heart stop beating.  “Pardon me, sir?” she asked, keeping her face blank.

Reaching for a stack of papers, Hrruck flipped through and handed her one.  “The only reason that Alron has even made it this far is that he’s riding on your coat strings, Emyn, and once you two graduate you’ll most likely be separated.  He will have to face the galaxy on his own.  Are you prepared to let him go?”

“Alron is smart!” she argued automatically, forgetting the bond of professor and student for a moment.  “He just needs someone to check his work for him.”

“Well, he needs to stand on his own two feet.  Not on his sister’s.”  Hrruck took the paper back.  “That will be all, Emyn.”

Paron opened her mouth to argue again but then let it shut with reluctance.  “Yes, sir.”  She turned and walked away with a heavy heart.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

11 ABY
Outside Mos Entha, Tatooie

The loud crackle of fire burst into beautiful embers that rose up above the make-shift camp, the light of fire illuminating the young face of a female Twi'lek, and opposite, a bearded male, poking the fire with a stick before tossing it on.

"Well, i think the fire is big enough, at least" he smiled, rummaging into his pack before taking out a thin block, breaking it with a snap before unwrapping it and handing her a piece, the youth quite happy at taking it and putting into her mouth. "Learn'd from the best" she smirked, her hand still holding onto the end of the sweet as she bit onto the end, breaking it off in more managable pieces. Her father smiling and deciding to pull the rifle up next to him, unrolling the sleeping bag, along with hers.

"Best get some sleep." Mark smiled, watching her finish her sweet while he placed his fists on his hips, looming over her. "Aww." she complained quickly, the an chuckling as he loomed over her with his back bending. "Well, we could stay up. But then you'd sleep all day." she shook her head with a grin, stiffling a giggle until he lurched foreward, hands meeting her sides and tickling her ferociously, stopping only as she called mercy between laughs. "Bed" he smirked, the girl nodding as he gave her a kiss on the forehead.

"Night dad" she sighed while sliding into the sleeping bag, watching as he walked over to his and sat on the larger blue bag, which was his. "Night, love." he responded, poking the fire with another twig while he kept eye on the surroundings.

Morning..

It didnt take long for the sun to wake them both, Mark having fallen asleep with the rifle in hand. She sat up, yawning and glancing to him. Ambers between them where the fire had lived and now died. The girl crawled over to him, shouldering both lekku to keep them from dragging while she shook him. "Morning!" she called, waiting for the response, but recieved nothing. "Dad." she poked his shoulder, given he was facing away from her. Slowly, she leaned in, trying to look at his face until he flinched. "Rargh!" he mocked, causing her to laugh. "You try too hard." met with a smile from the older figure. "You think? a sharp nod replied, making him sigh as he got up and out of the sleeping bag.

He yawned, looking about the surrounding area before placing a few pieces of wood on the fireplace, so it may reignite later. For now, the embers would be hot enough to cook on. She was busy entertaining herself, sorting out those tails. Practically fighting with them. And checking her face in the mirror she brought, as girls do. "Don't worry, it's still there and dirty." he grinned, met by a sarcastic look. "Let's cook breakfast then" it didn't take much more than that to have her turn on her seat, bringing up her legs to watch as he readied a pan-type item on the embers, risen slightly by two small strips of wood. He had cleverly brought a cooling bag, taking slips of pre-prepared meat  out and laying them onto the hot pan.

The smell was wonderful.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

11 ABY
New Republic Carrier Derra IV
Ord Mantell Space

”Lieutenant Margolin, please report to Commander Acton’s office.  Lieutenant Margolin to Commander Acton’s office.”  The monotone female voice carried clearly even over the chatter in a multitude of languages, the whine of power tools, and the occasional yell directed at a particularly recalcitrant starfighter part, usually including words the speaker’s mother would give them a good swat on some body part or another for saying out loud.

If the mother of the subject of that comm page heard the words out of her mouth upon hearing it she’d likely have done just that.  If Amia been sober enough to catch her anyway.  “Frak me sideways”, Mischa spat out, glaring at the speaker as if the comms officer on the other end of its wiring could actually see her.  

All she had wanted to do was spend some quiet time tinkering with her fighter off in a corner of the hangar after the two day liberty from the nine hells that the squadron had just returned from.  Stay under the radar so to speak. Out of the line of fire.  Avoid any “chats” with command staff.

Yeah, right.

“Alright folks, shall we start taking bets now on how much time Margolin’s going to be spending in hack this time?” Evin Huwllett’s cocky voice carried across the Derra IV’s hangar, joined by catcalls and more comments from other pilots and deckcrew, much of it good-natured.  But still she couldn’t let it pass without some retort, even if it were just to walk the gauntlet with her head up, a scowl on her face, and a few choice curses in Old Corellian accompanied by a gesture recognizable galaxy-wide as conferring disrespect.

She couldn’t really blame her shipmates.  They were only voicing the same things she had been thinking herself.  Once they’d caught the shuttle back from the station she knew it would only be a matter of time before the CAG would be calling her to his office.  It was becoming something of a tradition following each leave, short liberty, payday. Whatever.

Another day, another mark on her record.

Hesitating at the door to CAG’s office, Mischa glanced down at the scrounged up dirt stained coveralls with a grimace, wishing she’d had time to change. The man on the other side of that door could be kindly enough and always fair.  One of the best commanders she’d served under in her years with the Alliance that soon turned into the New Republic, and not just because he put up with way more of her crap than any other before him.  

But when Commander Paol Acton summoned you to a face to face you did not slow down, detour, or delay for any reason.  

“Come in!” She heard the hail through the door just before it slid open to reveal the speaker seated across the room behind a desk whose surface was cluttered with stacks of flimsy and datacards, a lamp and framed holos along with brilliantly constructed scale models of fightercraft made for him by two of the Verpine crewmembers.  

Glancing up from the datapad he’d been furiously scribbling away on, Acton raised one eyebrow taking in her appearance as she held her salute and nodded toward one of the chairs across the desk.  “There’s my little trouble magnet.” He said mildly, “At ease and park it, Lieutenant.” He added before turning his attention back to the work he’d been doing when Mischa came in, ignoring her for the time being.

Sitting down in the chair, Mischa waited patiently for him to speak again, resisting the urge to say something first.  And to pick up the tiny X-Wing model on the desk in front of her in order to more closely examine the miniscule work of art.

Instead she ran through her head everything that had happened over the course of the liberty weekend to try and figure out exactly what she was about to be ragged out for.  There hadn’t been anything that bad.  Nothing she could remember anyway.

And Stone would have happily reminded her if there was.  Other than the first night at the station after he’d left the station’s cantina with that female deck officer from the Chandrila Hope he spent most of the night dancing and flirting with, they’d more or less been in the same places.   

Although the next night at that officer’s lounge…

She heard the click of the stylus as Acton dropped it on his desk before he turned his attention back to one of the biggest disciplinary problems he’d ever known during his career as either a private ship’s weapons officer early on, and now as commander of the 3rd Air Group flagship’s fighter group.   Good thing for Margolin he saw the potential in her to be a great pilot and more.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” Vac broke the silence again first.

“Interesting liberty?” The CAG asked a question of his own as an answer.

She couldn’t keep that damn smirk from slipping out before replying.  “What I can remember of it, yes.”

“So I heard.” Was all he said in reply, giving her a pointed look as if she were to elaborate on the rest.

“Hey if this is about that Marine, we…”

Acton held up one hand, “What two consenting adults of equal rank do in their off time away from this ship is their own business, not mine.”  He reached over and picked up a sheet of flimsy from the stack to his right, glancing over it briefly.  Although Mischa had the suspicion he already knew exactly what was on it word for word.  

“I’m referring to an incident that took place that following day in the officer’s rec space.” He finished with another pointed look.

“Hey…that was not my fault.” How many times had he heard those words come from that mouth.  “That jarhead should NOT have assumed that just because we spent one night together he had some sort of frakking claim on me and I told him several times not…”

“Can it, Lieutenant. I know.” The CAG cut her off, holding up the document in his hand. “Everything’s right here in black and white from the MPs on duty that night.  “Frakking ground pounder should have kept his hands and mouth to himself was the general consensus amongst the witnesses.”

Giving him a look of surprise and puzzlement, Mischa asked, “Then why am I here if not to get put on head cleaning duty at the very least?”

Acton’s eyes went to the stack of flimsies again, a subconscious gesture really. “I called you in here to give you a warning.  Off the record.”

Mischa’s eyebrows went up at that. She’d gotten plenty of warnings before, what was different about this?  But she kept quiet, letting him continue.

“We have some…VIPs coming aboard soon for a training exercise in preparation for an upcoming…event.”  Eyes going to the bits and pieces of information on his desk again.  “Can’t reveal anything to you or anyone else without the proper clearance level right now.  All I can say is, you’ll all know soon enough.”  He grew stern, putting on what Vac had always teasingly called his Dad Mask.  

And I’m going to also say this and you had better listen and pay attention, Margolin.  You are to be on your best behavior.  And I don’t mean best for you.” He pointed one finger at her. “I am talking about exemplary action as an officer of this air group, your squadron, and starfighter command.”

She was all ready to give him some smartassed remark in reply, but the serious look in his eye stopped her and she gave him a grave nod.

“One more…incident in your file, Lieutenant and I have clear orders from higher up that the further disciplinary action is to be carried out.  This isn’t only something that will effect you, Mischa but reflects on me and my command as well.  So for the love of the force, promise me you’ll keep your nose clean while they are here.”  

His almost pleading tone at the end is what really got to her and Mischa looked the older man right in the eye, answering firmly, “You have my sincere word on it, Sir.”

Acton studied her quietly for a moment before replying, “You’ve a talent for flying kiddo that’s almost as big as the one you have for being a pain in the ass.” He gave a quick grin at that, one that Mischa returned before trying to school her features again into a more serious expression and thanked him.  “You could be a fine officer one day too…if you straighten up and fly right.  And I don’t mean just out there in that ship.”

Alright, dismissed. But don’t forget a word of what I said here today, damn it.”  He picked up the stylus again and waved it in the direction of the doorway as Mischa stood and turned to leave.  “And Margolin?”

“Yes, Sir.” Mischa stopped, expecting more admonishment and was not disappointed.

“Next time, was the hydraulic grease off your nose before you report to a commanding officer.” Acton said wryly before his head went down and he started scribbling again.

“Yes, Sir.” The cockiness returned to her voice, accompanying it with a little salute as she stepped back through the door and almost right into the path of her partner in crime, wingman, and best friend.  

“So…who won the pool this time?” Jon’son asked, one eyebrow raised in unconcealed amusement.

“If you bet zero, that’d be you.” She looked up at the man with a grin as they headed back toward the hangar. “Just a warning was all.”

“The lack of Marine escort out of the office should have been my first clue.” Dethrider replied with a grin.  “So what was the warning about.” He asked as they stopped outside of the entrance to the cavernous space of the hangar.

She gave him a smirking smile, “something about being on my best behavior because we’re being graced with the presence of some VIPs soon.”

“VIPs?”  Stone grumbled, “More likely to be PITAs.”

Mischa laughed in complete agreement.

“He say why they were coming?” Jon’son asked.

She glanced around them quickly, “Nah, all hush hush whatever it is.”

Stone frowned back, “Guess we’ll find out soon enough then.  I’ve got to get back to the sims trainers, nuggets are running me crazy but I’ll still meet you in the mess for dinner?”

“Sounds like a plan, Big Man.”  Msicha grinned, “I still need to hear about your “date” this weekend…okay maybe not all of it.”  She kept the smile on her face as she watched him retreat back down the corridor.   The expression changing to a scowl not unlike the one she wore on the way to Acton’s office as she heard another remark from Evin upon seeing her return to the hangar and not in the brig.

“Keep yapping and I’ll be happy to ensure you live up to your callsign next time we’re out in training, Vape.” She told Huwllet with a cheery grin as she passed him, picking up the hydrospanner she’d set aside earlier and going back to work on the forward skid strut rather than the other pilot’s head as she would have preferred.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

11 ABY
Yavin 4
500 meters away from the Great Temple

„Ooow“ The cry of pain was followed by a colourful string of curses as Commander Corran Antilles rubbed the numb spot at his behind. Sweat ran over his face and body, caused by the moist climate of the jungle surrounding the clearance, he had chosen for his exercise. The frakking training device whirred around him, searching for an opening in his defense. Corran was sure that the small machine would mock him, if it would have a voice decoder. Gripping the hilt of his lightsaber even firmer, the Corellian waited for the next attack. Again the machine fired one of its painful shoots. But this time Corran managed it to dodge at least, but his blade didn’t reflect the blast. “Skrag!” Corran cursed again.

A chuckle behind him made him turn around, just to see an amused Master Skywalker watching him. The distraction was exactly what the training device had been waiting for. Once more it hit Corran, for a change into the back of his thigh. “Frak!” the pilot revolved around again, angrily. This time his green blade blocked  the bolt. “You see, you can do it, Corran.” Luke said, calling the device to his hand, switching it off. “But you need to learn to control your temper. I know that it’s hard for a Corellian. But not even my brother-in-law curses that much.”

Corran deactivated his lightsaber, clipping it to his utility belt. “Yes, I know, Master. But it just made me so angry.” He sighed. There was suddenly something very old in Luke’s eyes, even when he was just two years older than Corran. “Anger can be a very dangerous path. It strengthen you for that moment, but weakens you in the long run.” Luke began to walk back towards the Massassi temple that sheltered his newly-found Jedi Praxeum. Corran followed his teacher, still limping slightly from the shoot into his thigh. “How can it weaken me?” he asked, not sure if he understood the older man’s words completely. Luke looked at him. “Anger leads to the dark side.” Corran frowned. “I don’t think that I can agree with this different sides of the Force. It’s all the same. Just how you use it, is important.” The Jedi Master's face was very serious. “You need to learn a lot still, Corran.”

***

Freshly showered Corran left his quarters a while later. He checked his chrono. One hour till dinner. Enough time to study at the library. Corran chose one of the holocrons, that had been found in Palpatine’s secret part of the Galactic museum. One of the few that hadn’t been destroyed while the purge. Corran listened to the ancient Jedi Master, talking about the old orders history. It should have been an interesting topic, but the Jedi’s voice was monotone as he rattled off names of council members of many centuries.

Fighting to not falling asleep, Corran was pondering, why he spent his first shore leave since a long time here instead of partying with his squadron comrades. They had fought hard at the battle of Coruscant. And now after the Empire was beaten, he deserved some vacation. But instead he decided to go to Yavin 4. Getting up early every morning, training and learning all day long. A kind of Jedi boot camp.  

Maybe he wanted to approve that he was more than a flyboy. Maybe also to honour his mother’s heritage. Corran wasn’t sure about his motives yet. But he was stubbornly sure about something else:

The Force had no sides.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

11 ABY
Location: Bastion






“Move” A voice commanded… “Break” Grumbling from the background of the location could be heard to people passing by. Within the rather massive hall was a hand to hand combat class, enrolled different members of the Imperial Academy. Working on a throw hold, first how to create it second how to use it and last how to get away from it.


Te’gan was the second person in the rotation so she was the practice unit so you could call it. A man nearly twice her size was working on learning how to first do the hold. Second how to throw the person properly, even though she was not a rag doll it was not hard to move Te’gan.  With the instructor currently trying to verbally explain how to hold the next person properly she didn’t bother to really pay attention. She was the one getting thrown.

“De’Lain.” Her name was called, standing up from her kneeling position until she was needed “Sir.” She snapped to a salute and moved over closer to where he was. “Alright everyone watch closely.” Suddenly before she knew it Te slammed back first onto the mat half way across the room. With a thud and a soft groan from her own lips the class ooh and ahh’ed at her willingness to be thrown.

The instructor once more called her back to show the proper hand placement for the grip. This time when he went to throw her he threw nothing. Te’gan to his surprise and her own when she did it broke his grip quickly, and perfectly.  That was going to be the next item shown to the class. But they were far to busy throwing one another in delight or if you were the tossed there was a little less delight about it.

Two hours of hand to hand combat training could only do one thing for you. Make your body hate you. Sore was never the word she was after such an encounter. Exiting from the location Te ran her hand down her left leg then looked upwards at the rest of the class exiting from the building.

“Come on De’Lain you have lab in 15.” A friend of her called mostly because he was her lab partner and he didn’t understand a thing without her there to put into lemans terms for him.

“I know Jack, I won’t be late.” She grabbed her bag from the floor and started up the path directed in the proper location of the lab.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

<b>11 ABY
Cloud City
Bespin System</b>

Hey Oralie,

vacation greetings from Cloud City!

It’s really awesome here. The guy in the travel agency didn’t exaggerate at all! The hotel rooms are pure luxury and the food is excellent. But the best are the casinos. I had a nice lucky streak, won a lot of credits. They started to give me free drinks as they noticed that, thinking I would gamble away my money again. Well, I didn’t and so I had free drinks in addition of it. I wish you and Raf could be here too. It would be a blast.

Cai sends his greetings too.

Till soon

Nathanael


<i>Decryption code Senth-Aurek-Forn running…. processing… cover letter decrypted… </i>

<b>Year 46 after the Great Resyncronization
ISD Ravisher
Kuat System</b>

Dear Mother,

fraught with worries I learnt about the news. It is unbelievable that Imperial Center fell into the hands of the rebels. How could the fleet retreat without battling until the end? Rumours say that they fled without orders even.

I wish Admiral Dodonna had been in command. Then it would have been a victory for the Empire. Instead the <i>Ravisher</i> is ordered to protect Kuat Drive Yards, while our darkest hour takes place in the core. But it is idle to ponder about what could have been.

You said in your message, that the rebels arrested Father, because of his connections to the military. I wish I could be with you as support, but I have my strict orders. The Admiral thinks that it is too risky if I would come home. It is clear that the rebels want to use Father to state an example. A propaganda trial to show the crimes of the Empire. So they would love to have an Imperial Elite pilot in their grip too. And I’m afraid the judgement in my case wouldn’t be a benignant one.

But in Father’s case I assure you, that he will be free soon. After all he designed the ships only, which Dunn Industries constructed. It will pay off now that Father treated the slaves and forced labour convicts fairly always. And I am sure that your charity work over all the years will be helpful too. Now it will depend if the rebels are as righteous as they claim to be. Will Father be allowed to choose his solicitor?

It was a relief that I read in your message that Donal and Nora are with you. I considered them part of the family always. Good to know that for some people loyalty is more than a word.

I need to finish now. It is time for my patrol flight.

My thoughts are with you and Father.

Your son

Traven

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

<b>Carida</b>

“Alron!”  Paron hit her twin’s shoulder hard to try and rouse him from his nap.  “Al, c’mon, we need to get up!  Now!”

“Mmmph,” her brother only replied before rolling over onto his stomach and snoring louder.  Paron bit her lower lip in frustration.  Formations for dinner were in ten minutes, and her brother could not afford to gain more demerits after a stunt he pulled with putting a toga on Lord Vader’s statue.

“C’mon, get up!”  She shoved him once more, forgetting that her brother’s bunk wasn’t against a wall.

Alron fell with a loud thud onto the floor followed by a stream of words that would make a buckethead blush.  “Frak, Paron!” he finally finished, sitting up with his dark hair sticking out in every direction.  “What the hell was that for?”

“Formation’s in,” she glanced at her wrist chrono, “eight minutes.  You gotta get into full uniform!”

“<i>Frak me sideways!</i>”  In the blink of an eye her twin was running around hectically and grabbing various parts of his uniform.  “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”  He didn’t catch his sister’s roll of her eyes.  “Gods, I’m in such trouble.”

“Maybe Hrruck was right,” Paron said, watching him.

“What about Hrruck?” Alron’s head was halfway in his locker as his shoes and belt flew over his shoulder onto the floor.

“Maybe you aren’t cut out for Carida.”

Alron froze and moved out of the closet, walking over to his sister with his ears turning bright red.  “Take that back, Paron.”

“It’s the truth, Al.”  She looked at him critically.  “You shouldn’t need me to get you up for formation.”

“Then don’t get me up, Paron.  I can handle myself.”  His jaw jutted out stubbornly, so much like their father’s, and Paron wanted to wrap her fingers around his neck to throttle him.  “I’m old enough that you don’t need to baby me.”

“Then prove it!” she snapped back.  “How many times have I had to cover your ass to keep you from getting demoted?”

He had the decency to look sheepish.  “I stay up late-”

“Partying with your classmates.  I stay up late studying so I can stay here, and you’re failing your classes.  I should write to Mum and Dad and tell them what you’ve been up to so they’ll get you out of here.”  Paron blew out a breath and shook her head.  “You don’t have what it takes.”

“Is that you or  Hrruck talking now?” Alron demanded.  His dark eyes, so much like hers, flashed with anger.  “You don’t know what this means to me, to be here.”

“You’re wasting your time.  Any other student they would kick out by now but they can’t because of Dad.”

“Take that back, Paron.”  He flinched at her last words.  “It’s not true.”

“Wake up and smell the caf, brother.”  Paron turned on her heel and marched out of the room.  “Four minutes until formation.”

The doors swung shut behind her, and for a moment Paron wished Alron would come running out, begging her forgiveness and promising to do better in the future.  He could change.  He could stop staying up late and study harder, make better friends, make a bigger commitment—

And then she sighed, shaking her head and walking towards the exit for the building.  “He could, but he won’t.”

Alron and she had always been different, even as children, and yet somehow they always covered for each other, but now they were grown up and joining the military.  The Empire they both loved so dearly was close to extinction.  The Empire needed her military to be full of strong and worthy fighters, not the sons of rich men who only were allowed into academies thanks to their father’s checks.

<i>If they keep accepting men like Alron</i>, Paron thought as she entered the courtyard where the fellow cadets prepared to line up for dinner, <i>then we’re doomed.</i>

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

Imperial Park– or the Imp's Graveyard, as it was known to locals– was a repository for all the immense Imperial monuments that had once dominated the galactic capital during the long years of Imperial oppression. After the Galactic Empire was finally ousted from Coruscant, their imposing statuary was removed from perches throughout Galactic City and exiled to this desolate field on the outskirts of it, surrounded by durocrete walls and industrial-strength power lines. Now towering figures of Palpatine, Vader, Tarkin, and other heroes of the Empire, arranged in overlapping rings, stared silently at one another, condemned to eternal obsolescence and irrelevance.

By day, Imperial Park was a popular tourist attraction, luring curious hordes from across the galaxy to gawk at the outmoded monuments. But tonight, only a few minutes short of midnight, the park was totally deserted.

Or, at least, it appeared to be.

Sully Anre hid behind a huge metal portrait of a flag-waving Imperial stormtrooper. His dark brown hair and dirty black trench coat blended with the shadows cast by the lambent moons as he kept careful watch over the park below. A Blastech DL-44 and E-11 were slung and holstered beneath his coat. His slender fingers gripped an expensive night-vision holocamera. He waited impatiently for an opportunity to use both the holocam and the blasters.

Especially the blasters.

He paid no heed to the monuments looming around him, whose historical significance meant little to him. The Galactic Civil War may have ended, but his own war continued, just as it had for the better part of this century. A shadow war fought by the underworld's organizations and syndicates: Black Sun, the Mandroxan cartel, the Hutts, the Tenloss Criminal Syndicate, and several more. Prince Xizor may be gone, but Black Sun still remained one of the strongest crime syndicates in the galaxy, thanks to his employer, the Bothan named Tarsk Mal'fey.

<I>Soon</I> he thought. Tonight's prey had not yet arrived, but if his information were to be believed, it would not be much longer now. <I>Let's hope our spynet's intel is correct</i>. Beneath his stained black attire, his lithe body was tensed for action. <I>I haven't had a job in weeks. I can't blow this one…</i>

He glanced across the empty park, checking to see if his partner was in place. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the park, a large granite bust of Grand Moff Tarkin looked out over the gravel pathways winding around the collected monuments. Sully could not see Gray, his droid, lurking behind the mammoth bust, so he raised his gloved hand to signal it.

An answering wave greeted him from across the way.

<I>Good</I>, he thought, lowering his hand. Everything was in order. With luck, his targets would never know he and Gray were there, until it was too late.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

The door echos with a thud as a noisy patter of feet indicate the girl is home. From what could be described as the kitchen, a pale face with a unpleasant lack of expression stares out with grey-hazed orbs. "Mum! We're home" the girl chimed in her soft beckon, as the grey-skinned female, slightly bloated to the stomach turned and offered a weak smile, leaning down to the passing girl and hugging her carefully, every motion of the female was slow and fluid, careful in each movement.

"No troubles this time" she smiled, walking to the table too large for her and pulling up a stool to sit on, waiting for her father to walk through the door, he usually was slightly behind, putting away their things. "Hey honey" he smiled, walking in and hugging her gently, kissing her cheek. "How are you feeling today?" she nodded weakly, as he wrapped his arm around her. "Alright." as almost in a telepathic link to her movements.

Joy was fairly unaware of this, or chose not to believe it. She seemed to mentally busy herself as her adopted mother clearly grew weaker. Towards the night, they huddled on the large couch that folded back in the main room, where a small fire would be lit for heating in the desert nights. "Sing it." she begged, leaning up on her fathers chest which brought him to sigh as he looked to his wife sat towards the other side, relaxing and smiling back to him.

"Alright." he stood, walking out of the room and retreiving an instrument as joy cuddled up with the other parent, a thin hand smoothing her head patiently in anticipation of the old man to return. It wasn't very long until he returned with a circular instrument laced with wires from a long barrel. He sat on the edge of the chair near them, and made sure the sound was correct, before flicking out a small intro, slowly beginning to sing the song of the family.

His soothing slow melody echoed the room with the vibrations of the instrument, in chorus. "I'll sing it one last time for you." he looked to the girls who smiled and made themselves comfortable. "Then we really have to go. You've been the only thing that's right. In all I've done"

Joy closed her eyes and snuggled to the warmth of her mother, her legs outstretched along the couch, as the guitar played the rythmn of her dreams. "And I can barely look at you. But every single time I do, I know we'll make it anywhere. Away from here." his voice was soft and cooing, slightly raising in pitch as he entered the next part of the song, his wife too falling softly to sleep.

"Light up, light up. As if you have a choice." he proceeded to hum the next few words, his voice slightly raising in volume, trained in the song for many years of many proformances. "Louder, louder. And we'll run for our lives. I can hardly speak I understand. Why you can't raise your voice to say." the music halted as he brought a cover and tucked both ladies in, sitting down to continue the playing, joining back in with his vocals, looking over the pair.

"To think I might not see those eyes… Makes it so hard not to cry. And as we say our long goodbye… I nearly do." he decides, rather than continue he'd just play the instrument to himself, finding tears welling up in his own eyes, the sound of music vibrating out into the outside world from the little farm house almost built into the tatoonie sand.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

11 ABY

Coruscant



“Grzwhatzzzit?” The barely intelligible sound coming from beneath the covers couldn’t be mistaken for any known language.  Okay maybe Toydarian, so thought the man who pulled those covers back to reveal the frowning face of the red-haired woman who muttered it.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” He said with exaggerated cheerfulness before leaning down to kiss her forehead, shower damp hair tickling her face.  Laughing when she tried pulling the covers out of his grasp and back over her head.

“Please tell me it is not morning already, you evil man.”  She groaned, peering past the dark haired man to squint at the chrono on the bedside table.  

“Sorry, Val” His smile grew as he watched her stretch languidly beside him. “No rest for the wicked.” He leaned down to kiss her once again before turning to get out of the bed, conscious of her eyes watching him admiringly.

“What time’s the briefing again? She asked with a yawn before throwing back the covers, rolling over and rising from the bed herself.

Val pulled on the dressing gown that had been draped across a nearby chair and walked across the room to the tall man.  

“0900 sharp and you know when Phaeden says that he means be there at 0845 at the latest.”  He smiled at the fleeting grimace that crossed her face at their section commander’s name.  “Don’t look like that, Val’kia.  Once the briefings done we won’t even have to look at him or this planet until this mission’s done, and then after the debriefing…”

She smiled at that, “After the debriefing you are all mine for a month.  No work, no bosses, nothing but beaches and sunshine, peace and quiet.” Her smile grew wider as she slipped her arms around his neck. “And my new husband.”  

“I love the sound of that more and more every time I hear it.”  Diric grinned before kissing her again. “Now go ahead and shower while I make breakfast.”

She gave him another quick kiss back before heading toward the refresher throwing a less than respectful salute and a “Yes, Sir” to accompany it.

Val found him in the sunny small kitchen eating area a small portable data terminal open on the table in front of him after she showered and dressed.  The scents of fresh caf, warm pastries, and fruit making her realize how hungry she actually was.  

“So,” she poured herself a cup of the dark hot beverage, adding a small amount of sweetener to it. “Everything all booked for Corellia and the ceremony?”  She asked, picking up one of the small iced pastries and taking a bite.

“Just confirming everything with the hotel now.” He grinned, taking a sip from the glass of starfruit infused mineral water in his hand.  “Private villa for two, beachfront access, all inclusive small wedding and honeymoon package.”

“Perfect. Now if can just be sure that the best man and the maid of honor and the rest of the guests can make it…” Val frowned slightly.

“Stop worrying, Val.  I am sure Corran is going to do his damndest to be there, he is[/is] the one indirectly responsible after all. If he hadn’t given me the nudge I needed to talk to you that last summer back home…”  He stopped at the look she gave him, the memory of the events of that year still painful to recall.  “Hey, I’m sor…”

“Diric you don’t need to apologize.” She placed one hand over his own.  “I still remember the good more than the bad because of you.”

“Just grateful we found each other again.” Nabira glanced down at their joined hands, “Better hide that though from the Old Man.” He motioned toward the corusca gem mounted ring on her fourth finger.

“I’ll do it in the turbolift to the briefing.  Not taking this baby off any more than necessary.” She grinned before her eyes fell on the wall mounted chrono over Diric’s shoulder. “Speaking of, we’d better get going.  I’m not looking forward to this as it is without having to worry about one of Phaeden’s damned lectures on time management coming along with it.”

~*~*~

The ride to NRI HQ was uneventful and the two of them spent much of it discussing the plans for their small wedding animatedly, joking about who was likely to get drunk, give the best toast…or the worst, who would bring who as a date and so on.  

Entering the building their demeanors grew appropriately professional, meeting up with two of their team members, Cris Denson and Lants Mi’iriw at the bank of turbollifts.  “Look at her.” Cris gave a wink and a smile as they boarded the first available lift.  “Ever see Val glowing like that before, gentlemen?”  

“It’s all the boss’ fault, you know” Lants joined in on the good natured ribbing of the couple that continued until the lift’s door slid open and they walked toward the briefing room, Val giving the two younger men a warning look before they walked through the door.

Tomi Shirin and Elis Dyson, the last two members of their ops team were already seated around the table along with an older, balding, mustached man in uniform, Colonel Bron Haddon, who gave a discreet nod and a brief smile to the red haired woman who returned the greeting.

The other person in the room stood at the head of the table, his carriage imperious and commanding with eyes that missed nothing.  A neutral expression on his lined face as the team took their seats after the compulsory salute to their superior officers and the at ease order that followed.

Without another word resembling a welcoming greeting, General Earryk Phaeden, commander in chief of NRI’s Special Operations Section got right to the business at hand.

“This is Algara II.” He nodded toward the display screen behind him, “Mid rim world, located in the Algaran system and not typical considered a planet of any strategic significance by either side until recently.”

Val glanced over the sheets of flimsy on the table in front of her as she listened to Phaeden’s presentation, looking back up as she became aware that he’d stopped speaking and was giving her a look of impatience until he was assured he had her full attention again before he continued.

“Apparently there has been a great deal of interest shown by some rather aggressive factions of the Imperial Remnant and activity on their part to accompany it.  Something that has elements on the world, as well as some others in the system with leanings toward the New Republic, rather concerned.”  He paused for a moment as new images replaced that of the topographic view of the predominantly green planet.

“One of the main possibilities for the Imperials’ interest, along with the usual conscription activities, is that the planet is a source of two rather popular recreational drugs the could help to fund their war chest if they gained control of the planet. It’s all in Dorman’s pre-operations portfolio.”  Phaeden pointed to the printouts in front of each person seated at the table, “Now you can read it, Navin.”

Val ignored him, scanning the data compiled by one of her oldest friends and former Alliance operations partner while she was just out of childhood, now with Field Analysis.  It was all there in black and white and static color holos.  At least one Star Destroyer had taken up orbit around the system’s capital world and a buildup of troops was readily apparent on its surface.  But the exact whys and whats were still an unknown.

“So our part in this is?” She heard Diric ask, the tone in his voice indicating that he was just as unhappy about the relative lack of solid intelligence as the people he led were.  Each of them exchanging the same look around the table while Haddon avoided her eyes altogether.  Suddenly finding the view out of the window to his left more interesting than the goings on in the room.

“Major Nabira I want your team on the surface for recce.”  Phaeden eyed him evenly.

“And?” The Ops team leader replied, feeling instinctively their boss was leaving something out.

“And assist the building resistance cell there in any way necessary including evac if things go bad…and any other measures you deem appropriate.”  Phaeden replied. “You’ve been approved for those measures directly based on whatever your findings on Algara II may be.  I leave that to your experienced discretion.”

“Frak.” Val thought to herself, working hard to keep an icy glare in Phaeden’s direction from her face.  Just the type of mission Diric hated leading and the rest of them despised just as much being part of.   Going in based on supposition and not enough solid fact.

“I’ve got an appearance in front of the Senate Intelligence Group in a few minutes so I’ll take my leave.” The General began gathering up his files and placing them in the briefcase at his side.  “I shall leave it to you, Major as to how you will approach this operations wise, but I hope there will be sufficient planning as to not having a repeat of the incident you narrowly missed on Drukenwell.”  He gazed coolly at the head of his Special Operations Team, snapping his case shut. “Had a hard enough time cleaning that mess up and I would prefer not to have to do so anytime soon again. Get your Ops planning report to my office by the close of the day and prep however you need.”  

He finished on that, walking out of the room along with Haddon while Val shot mental blaster bolts at his retreating back.  Only keeping her mouth shut because she knew Diric wouldn’t approve.  And it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good anyway.

The dark haired man only shook his head, frowning briefly before glancing around the room at the five people he trusted most in the Galaxy then turning his attention back to the reports in front of them with a resigned sigh.  “Okay,people let’s see what we have to work with.”

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

It was a while since the dinner, as Corran sat down in the library again. But his mouth and tongue burnt still from the stew, one of the other students had cooked . Luke Skywalker thought it would be a good and interesting way to learn more about the others and their cultures, if they would take turns in the kitchen. In Corran’s opinion it sprang more from the source that the Academy didn’t had a big budget yet to pay for staff. After he was able to speak again after the first spoonful of vegetable and ground meat, Corran had asked his fellow learner for the name of the dish. The cook answered that translated to Basic it would be “fire stew”. Very fitting. Corran felt as if he could spit flames now.

Even now Corran felt the aftermath of it, but tried to ignore it as he switched on his datapad. This time he wasn’t learning about Jedi history or fighting styles. He stared at an empty page of his document processor. Corran had never been good with speeches, but now he had to write one. It was only a few days until Val and Diric’s wedding. And as a best man it was his duty to deliver a perfect speech for them. He felt very honoured that they had asked him, but in Diric’s eyes he had been the matchmaker even.

Corran felt old almost as he thought back to that summer on Corellia eleven years ago. They had been 16 years old. The last summer before CorSec Academy. Corran remembered very well the secret gazes between Val and Diric when  they thought the other one wouldn’t notice.  But Corran recognised them very well. And first it killed him almost, because he realised that Val would never look at him like that. The following week had been like hell for him. He had been obnoxious at home until his mother talked sense into his stubborn hurt teenage mind. Maeve, in her calm kind, had explained that his behaviour wouldn’t change the situation. Maybe only into the direction that he would lose Val’s friendship. The thought had startled Corran. They had been friends since they had been five years old. Not for all spice on Kessel Corran wanted to risk that. So he decided to give the obviously clueless Diric a nudge into the right direction…

And now over a decade later there was a happy ending finally. All three of them had changed since that summer. But they had ended up in the Rebel Alliance, Val and Diric in Intelligence, Corran as pilot. Their friendship and bonds still close. Finally an idea ran through Corran’s mind and he began to type into the datapad. The speech started to take shape as another thought distracted Corran. He had no escort for the party yet. His fingers stopped typing as he pondered through the list of girls he had dated in the last time. None of these <i>conquests</i> seemed to be close enough to the term <i>relationship</i>. They had been fun, but Corran wouldn’t choose one of them as his date for that day. He sighed, then shrugged. Well, maybe the maid of honour would be cute. That thought made him grin lopsidedly.  

“Are your studies that amusing, Corran?” A female voice behind him made him turn around on his chair. Tionne, one of the other students, came closer, sitting down next to him. “I’m not studying right now. I’m writing something.” Corran replied. The blonde woman looked surprised. “Writing? Something like a journal? Or a book? You don’t seem like somebody who…” She stopped a little embarrassed. “I apologise if I'm too curious. But as an artist, I like to meet other creative beings.” Corran had to smile at her. “I’m afraid, I’m not that creative. It’s a speech for the wedding of friends of mine. And right now I’m stucked.” Suddenly his smile widened. “But you… as an artist and musician… maybe you can give me some tips?” Tionne started to grin too. “Well, maybe you want to learn a song to entertain them?” Corran laughed loud. “You never heard me sing. That’s no good idea.” She winked at him. “Who knows? But instead you can read to me what you have written.”

“Alright.” Corran cleared his throat. “This is what I have so far…”

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

CORUSCANT DAILY NEWSFEED
     
[11:4:16/CDN/J25L/COR.1.IPC/POL/B. Kamen]

Finally Decision In Dunn Trial

By Bal Kamen

Today one of the biggest war criminal trials of the last months ended with a surprising verdict.

The judges of the High Court, without question gentlebeings of integrity, adjudicated on the fate of Tyrell Dunn, 60, CEO of Dunn Industries. Obviously no easy decision, because the Court members had been discussing for five hours behind closed doors.

Dunn, the Empire’s favourite engineer of war machinery, had been accused of war criminals for designing and construction of the Imperial Fleet’s different TIE models. His attorney Rerick Varm, senior partner of the famous law firm Varm, Tyer & Dade, held an impressing final speech, defining Dunn’s position. According to Mr. Varm the accused Mr. Dunn had not much of a chance to refuse the cooperation with the Imperial military. It is a matter of common knowledge that not many beings denied the Emperor’s orders. Darth Vader, Palpatine’s right hand and henchman himself, had made threats against the Dunn family to force the engineer into collaboration.

But nevertheless Dunn Industries became one of the top ten of the Empire’s most flourishing companies. The Imperial Credits made Dunn to an even richer man, adding more and more to the fortune his ancestors had gathered over the last centuries. Dunn and his wife Lanah, 55, were often seen guests at exclusive events like the Emperor’s ball. Their only son Traven, 30, was handled as one of the most eligible bachelors of Imperial Center’s High Society.

While the whereabouts of the young Dunn and his connection to the Empire raises questions, it is Lanah who played an important role in the exculpation of her husband. Lady Dunn, who attended in the court room wearing a suit by fashion designer Gaeriel Bonheur, appears as a cold beauty. But everybody who had the pleasure to meet her in person, learnt that she cares for the deprived. Since her marriage to Tyrell Dunn she took care that their company donated spates of Credits to different charitable organisations.

And it is exactly that point, as well as the fact that slave labourers and non-humans were treated fairly when working for Dunn Industries, that saved the CEO’s neck.

The High Court of the New Republic pronounced the following verdict: Tyrell Dunn is released on parole and sentenced to pay 500000 Credits to the Galactic War Orphans Fund, also the government of the New Republic will take possession of the shipyards and Dunn Estate on Coruscant .

Especially the last part of the sentence caused an uproar among other industrialists and manufacturers. Alix Wyndaru, CEO of Arakyd Aerodynes, said that “the expropriation, the New Republic is practising, isn’t a bit better than the Imperial regime”.  

Despite the loss of his company and estate Mr. Dunn seemed relieved as he left the Galactic Courts of Justice Building. He answered our question about his opinion to the verdict: “I got a fair trial and can leave as free man. That is more than I expected.”

Attorney Rerick Varm announced that a press conference is scheduled for 1600.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

The sound of an approaching landspeeder sent his pulse racing. Sully ducked behind the large stormtrooper, pressing his face and body against the cold metal as though to merge completely with the shadows draping the sheltering statue. His own speeder was discreetly parked several blocks away in the adjacent housing complex.

A stained, red landspeeder stopped in front of the park, which was marked by a brick facade. Sully watched as the speeder disgorged a trio of shadowy figures, who furtively entered the park by means of an inconpicuous side door next to the main gate. The trio consisted of two Firrerreos and one wookiee, with feral eyes and sullen expressions. The wookiee's brown fur was matted and grungy. <I>Figures, wookiees don't bathe</i>, he thought, studying the three intruders through the high-powered lens of his holocam.

Tonight's primary objective was reconnaissance: to find out what these underworld types were up to and perhaps even trail them back to their secret location. Once he and his droid discovered what they were dealing with, he could report back to Mal'fey's majordomo or his other agent, Yara Hawke– but only if he could be patient.

The three figures reached the center of the park, a small island of grass surrounded by gravel, and looked around suspiciously. "Where is he?" the first Firrerreo asked. Her greasy hair looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in weeks.

"He'll be here," the second Firrerreo replied gruffly, followed by a grunt from the wookiee. From his tone and posture, Sully guessed he was the leader of the team. Muscular and shaven, his right hand gripped the handle of a scuffed leather briefcase. "Just be ready."

The wookiee grunted a few phrases to the leader. A gold canine tooth glittered in the moonlight. He and the female Firrerreo drew blaster pistols from beneath their clothing, while the shaven Firrerreo rested his briefcase on the ground beside his spacer boots. Wary eyes scanned the moonlit park, forcing the pirate to retreat farther behind the tarnished statue.

Sully cursed the wookiee they brought with them. He posed a threat to him; not only was he twice as strong, but it also meant he could scent anything or anyone nearby. If the wind shifted, Sully understood, things could get hairy, in more ways than one.

The sound of a second landspeeder approaching distracted the figures from their relentless scrutiny of their surroundings, much to Sully's relief. He swung his holocamera toward its direction, where a gleaming black speeder had pulled up in front of the gate. Four passengers emerged from it.

The new arrivals turned out to be a Twi'lek male accompanied by three thuggish Gamorreans. Sully recognized the wormhead as Florzu, a well-known arms dealer. A stout being in an expensive spinsilk tunic, Florzu had blue skin with his lekkus tied back. His well-groomed appearance stood in marked contrast to the scruffy attire of the waiting clients, not to mention that of his own hulking bodyguards.

<I>Florzu is a traitor after all… he's making deals behind Black Sun</i>, Sully thought with satisfaction. He made sure to get a good shot at the entire scene. <I>Seems Yara knew what she was talking about…</I>

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

"Atten-<i>shun</i>!  About face!"

Alron grit his teeth together and ignored the sweat pouring down his face under the heat of the boiling sun overhead.  Surrounding him were hundreds of perspiring bodies, aching muscles and glistening skin as the Carida cadets did their hour of training exercises about formation before dinner.  And two rows ahead of him Paron glanced over in his direction during her turn before fixing her gaze ahead of her into vacant space.  He felt his blood simmer at her look.


What in the seven hells was she thinking?  He could handle something as simple as their training without her babying him, something as simple as a damn order.

<i>Wake up and smell the caf, brother.</i>

Her earlier words made his neck burn with increased agitation, and a shade of embarrassment.  Did she have reason to believe he wasn't taking this seriously?  Was she angry with him now?  He hated whenever she felt something such as anger or shame towards him and their family.

He now recalled the various times Paron applied to Carida, back after they heard about Trylan.  Their older brother's death at the moon of Endor had only increased her resolve to join the military of the Empire despite the many setbacks in her way with her gender, her family connections that worked so well for Alron but made her look like Daddy's Little Girl, and their family's economic situation.  She was a single woman from a family of good means who wanted a military career and could potentially leave for a husband and family.  And yet his sister worked harder than him every single day to prove that she belonged at the Carida academy.

<i>And I laze around and miss my classes, forget my assignments, sleep in all the time… </i>  He fell to his face when Sarge Krraf shouted for push-ups, shouting at the top of his lungs as he counted out loud along with the men at his side.

As far as he could see, his sister was the only female cadet.

From his position Alron watched Paron do the same amount of push-ups.  Once they reached one hundred, however, her arms wavered for a moment and she paused, gulping in a breath she needed to avoid passing out.

"EMYN!"  A seargent caught sight of her and marched over, hollering, "You disgrace this academy with your lax approach.  What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry, sir!" she yelled back.

"I can't hear you!"

"I'm <i>sorry</i>, sir!"

"Again!"

"Leave her alone!" Alron shouted, rising to his knees and looking up with defiant eyes.  "She's a girl, leave her alone!"

Silence fell through the yard and Alron felt his heart skip a beat.  <i>Oh frak,</i> he thought with misery as the Seargent stalked over to him with an unholy gleam in his eyes.

"What is your name, cadet?"

"Emyn, sir.  Cadet Emyn is my sister, sir."  He looked straight ahead despite the close proximity of the Seargent.

"Did I ask for your opinion, Cadet Emyn?"

"No, sir."

"Did your sister ask for your help, Cadet Emyn?"

"No, sir!"

"So what gives you the right to come to her defense?" The words shot out of the man's mouth with the intensity of an ISD's death ray, burning Alron's ear with heat and the stench of rations from the Seargent forgetting to brush his teeth in the last week (or longer).  "You and your sister, start the procedure again.  Now."

Groaning Alron fell forward as Paron did the same, continuing while the Seargent yelled for everyone else to continue from where they were.

And above, the sun's rays intensified just enough to be noticeable…

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

She’d made a promise, not just to her CO, but to herself as well.  Behave as an officer of Starfighter Command should from the moment she woke up through lights out each night.  Ignoring not only the frequent semi-amused looks Stone kept sending her way, but the purposeful jibes from the others aboard the carrier aimed at getting the usual reaction out of her.  None of them used to this more subdued version of Margolin.

She could do this.  It <I>was</I> only for a few days after all.  Wasn’t it?  

<I>“So far so good”</I>, she thought, smiling at Jon’son as he sat down across from her in the mess that morning.  “Thanks for keeping your snoring to a bearable level last night.”

“You know I sleep like the dead after those long range CAPS.” He replied, settling his tall frame into the chair and giving the tray in his hands a sniff.  “And speaking of dead.”

“Yeah they must be serving the good breakfast slop to those hot shots running around the ship” Mischa grumbled, looking up in time to see a small group of said pilots walking through the entrance. “Or maybe not.”

He turned his head in the direction she was looking and gave a grunt and a shrug of his broad shoulders before turning his attention back to his morning meal.  “How lucky for us to be graced with their presence.”  He gave a roll of his eyes, washing away the grimace on his face with a drink of juice.  

Mischa looked back over at the pilots making their way toward the chow line. The one who seemed to be in charge, a dark haired man, handful of centimeters taller then she with casually handsome features and a brawler’s build caught her eye and winked then muttered something to one of his companions. Gestures she pointedly ignored.

“You going to be alright to fly those training exercises later?” She asked, pushing something that might have been nerfsausage gravy around the plate with the biscuit in her hand.  

“Of course.” He gave her a look as if to say stupid question.  “Had a good night’s sleep and-“

<I>Lieutenant Margolin, report to Commander Acton’s office</I> The tinny voice overhead could have been a recording, which would have been a convenience for the comms officer given how often it was broadcast. <I>Lieutenant Margolin, to Commander Acton’s office.”</I>

“Ah, frak me.” She muttered, tossing the uneaten biscuit onto the tray.

“What did you do now?” Jon’son asked after another spoonful of overcooked eggs.  His appetite didn’t appear to be suffering in spite of his earlier comments about the food.

She gave a shrug in return as she stood up and grabbed her tray, “No idea, Big Man. Guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

“Need me to come along for backup?” He asked, “I know for a fact you’ve been nothing if not a model member of this air group since the last time he talked to you.”

“I’ll be fine, Stone.” She said it reassuringly, but he still made note of the pair of small lines between her eyebrows as Mischa turned away.  “I’ll see you in the hangar later and fill you in.”  Adding to herself, <I>“I hope”</I>.

She walked toward the messhall hatchway, feeling the weight of someone staring at her the entire time as she crossed the room. The same pilot from earlier and she glared in his direction before dismissing him from her mind completely.

The small knot of dread in her stomach that had awakened her from deep sleep an hour earlier than usual, keep her wide eyed and staring up at the bulkhead until the alarm sounded, then kicked her desire to eat in the ass seemed to grow larger with each step she made through the causeways to the CAG’s office.

And it wasn’t just because of his warning delivered the last time she had been there.  This was something else that seemed completely unrelated.  Some intangible feeling of worry that whatever she was being summoned for, it was not likely to be good news.

Normally she was good at reading Acton’s expression, his mood right from the start, as she could with pretty much anyone.  One of the dubious, yet useful gifts she’d acquired from spending her formative years with an alcoholic parent prone to a highly labile temperament.   

Not to mention that the man whose office she’d just entered normally own public emotions ran to a far narrower range than Amia Margolin’s ever had. Usually calmly efficient, blandly annoyed, at times sardonically amused, and on rare occasions that called for it, red in the face volcanic.    

Any of those she could deal with and expertly handle, but the sober look that flashed across his face as he’d met her at the hatchway left her off-balance, wary, and speechless.

“Come on in, Mischa and have a seat.” He sounded solemn and oddly gentle as he escorted her to the chair she’d found herself in quite often these past months, answering for one minor disciplinary infraction or another.  This time though instead of seating himself on the other side of the desk from her, the CAG took the chair next to it.

“So? What are they saying I did now?” She asked, surprised at how unsure her voice sounded. The subconscious little bounce of one foot on the floor that she did when she nervous was going strong as she waited for him to reply.

“Nothing at all Lieutenant.” He replied in that same calm tone, “I just…this came through from HQ a few minutes ago.” He passed a folded sheet of flimsy. “And thought it best that I be the one to give it to you here.”

Her eyebrows went up questioningly as she took it from his hand.  Not sure what to expect.  Thinking it a notification that the brass higher up had decided to at the very least revoke her flight status, likely worse.

Worse was right.  But not for any of the reasons Mischa had thought. Bentler had mentioned feeling unusually exhausted last time they had talked. A rare moment of complaining from the man, but…

After reading it she sat stock-still. Even the bouncing of her foot had stopped, and for a few seconds it seemed her breathing did as well.  Then she blinked once, crumpling the notice in one small tight fist.

Throughout it all Acton was watching her almost warily, unsure of what reaction to expect from what was normally the most volatile pilot in his entire air group. “Are you okay, Mischa?” She heard him ask, shaking her out of the fog a bit.

But she only nodded once in reply before standing up and turning toward the hatchway door.  

“It might be difficult to arrange funeral leave at the moment.” Acton told the back of her head. “This big camp-“

“I understand, Sir.” She cut him off in a flat, dismissive voice. ”I’ll make the arrangements as I can from here.” She added before walking out of the office, the notification still clenched in her fist as she headed to the quarters she shared with Jon’son as if on autonav.

Once inside the confines of the room she opened her locker, pulling out the slightly faded static holo of a female Zabrak whose blue tattoos accentuated her graceful features, a Kiffar who matched Stone in stature, a younger version of herself, and an older human male with kindly eyes set in a well-traveled, seen it all face. All of them on the boarding ramp of a slightly beaten freighter bearing Corellian registration marks and silvery star whose paint job had seen better days.

Staring at it for a moment before she dug around in the bottom of the cabinet for the bottle she had hidden away, then with the only the light in the refresher on for illumination Mischa slid to the floor in one corner of the room.  Grieving for the first person to truly care for her unconditionally and the only father she’d ever known.

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

In retrospect, Dethrider should have recognized the signs of impending explosion since he did know her better than anyone else on the entire carrier. The subtle yet unmistakable facial expressions and body language she displayed when she was near the brink of losing it and ripping the guilty party’s head off.

In all fairness it wasn’t completely Janson’s fault.  The pilot didn’t know about the death of the only real father figure Mischa had known in her entire life when he let his mouth get away from him that night.  She hadn’t shared the news with anyone and barely spoke of it with Stone himself after he’d found her in a shadowy corner of the quarters they shared, empty bottle in one hand and a fading holostill in the other. Who knows how long she’d have been sitting there like that if Acton hadn’t run across him outside the main briefing room.

He’d listened as she muttered miserably, gently prodding her in the direction of the refresher to clean herself up before running out to get strong caf, a few of liters of water, and beg the deck chief, Dorgen Kinlock  for a dose of his homebrewed sober-up elixir.  Even if it only did work fifty percent of the time it was still worth a shot.  He needed to get his fellow pilot back in some semblance of flying order before that afternoon’s crucial practice run.

Thankfully it managed to do the job this time.  Somewhat.  Misch had still looked like hells, although having to choke down the foul concoction likely contributed to that more than a little bit.  And she still had an expression of understandable abject grief and misery in her eyes, but after accepting a heartfelt hug and more words of sympathy from him, the petite woman slipped on a mask of surly determination and a wall of stoicism between herself and everyone else on the ship.  Even him.

Still, her actions during the maneuvers had been less than stellar.  Once he’d had to bark at her himself over the comm to correct her position and cursed himself a moment later, but it was better than having her take out her fighter or someone else’s.  Save the latter for the enemy craft in the battle to come the day after tomorrow.  

The CO had known the reason for her distraction, even if he couldn’t completely excuse it.  He had his job to do just as Mischa had hers, but he’d not even gotten a chance to speak with her after all the wings had landed back in the Derra’s bays safely.  Captain Janson had taken it upon himself to perform that duty himself the moment Margolin reached the bottom of the ladder.  Stone would have intervened if not for the Commander’s warning look.

So he just watched as Misch stood in front of the Nova Squadron CO and lead of the upcoming mission, one hand on her hip, tapping the flight gloves she held in the other against her thigh.  A blank expression on her face as Wes gave her a far worse dressing down over her mistakes than Acton would have done.   Jon’son protective streak toward his wingmate had him glaring at the senior pilot as he ranted at Mischa, but he still respected the CO’s unspoken order to stand down.  Barely.  From what he had been told and even witnessed himself over the past few days of the interaction between Mischa and the other pilot, Stone has his suspicions that Janson’s anger with her was edging over into the personal.  Some people just couldn’t handle rejection as well as others.
 
His glare turned into a frown of concern as he noticed both of Mischa’s small hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists, the blank expression now replaced by a small defiant pout accompanied by the appearance of two fine lines between her brows as she looked away from the dark-haired man in front of her. “Oh frak” He thought, inwardly groaning. “She’s going to do it.”

But thankfully at that moment Janson tired of his reprimanding duties and turned away.  Both Stone and Mischa and likely everyone else who’d watching the incident let out a collective breath of relief.  Although in some cases he suspected it was more of disappointment.

“Okay, show’s over.” He heard Acton tell the already dissipating knot of pilots and deck crew, as the CAG walked in Mischa’s direction.  But she was already heading toward her quarters, thankfully in the opposite direction Janson and his Nova compatriots had taken.

She’d still not wanted to talk about any of it when Stone had joined her there a few minutes later.  Curling up in the upper bunk she occupied with her back to him.  Whether she actually had slept, or was just acting like she was, either way her mood seemed a bit improved when he’d returned to the point that he was able to talk her into  coming down to the pilot’s lounge for the last bit of downtime they’d likely get to enjoy for a while.

Whether it was the idea of getting out of the confines of the small room as a distraction, the promise of him buying a couple of rounds, or the thought of taking some other poor sucker pilots for some hard-earned credits over a few hands of sabacc, it worked.   She was almost to the point of appearing to be her normal self again. Wisecracking with the crew, taking advantage of the last chance to knock back a few of the lounge’s selection of drinks before the place was locked up for the duration of the mission, gleefully winning the spending money of those sitting around the table with her.  And graciously conceding a few creds of her own over one hand.  

Until.

“Speaking of an Idiot’s Array.” She smirked at Jefra Kelsh’s comments and peered through the thin veil of smoke trailing from the cigarra in her left hand at the group of Nova Squadron pilots who had just walked through the lounge’s doorway.  Two of them heading directly for her table. One of them being her least favorite of them all.

Janson grinned down at the pilots and two marines seated around the table, reserving his widest smile for Margolin as if the events in the hangar, not to mention his unwelcome attempts at flirtation over the past few days, were all forgotten.  “Bespin Standard Rules?” He asked as he sat down uninvited across from her, his squadron mate making a trip to the bar before returning with drinks in hand for the squadron leader and himself, to sit at the empty chair to his left.

“Corellian Gambit” Mischa replied, before draining the small glass in front of her, feeling her halfway decent mood slipping away.  Even as she wanted to get up and leave, the thought of fleecing the arrogant frakker across the table from her over a few games was stronger.  

“And if you can’t put up, then shut up and get up.” She heard Stone say from her right and grinned as the assembled players pitched their bets into the pot in the middle of the table while the small dealer droid shuffled the new deck.

In spite of her initial reservations, things seemed to be going okay.  At first.  Even as she saw the pool of winnings she had accumulated over the course of the evening start to shrink a bit after a few lousy hands, the conversation stayed good natured, thanks mostly to her big brother and the drinks kept coming.

Too bad it couldn’t last.  

She was getting more and more frustrated at being unable to concentrate on not only the game, but anything else as well.  The alcohol in her system was a big part of that.  Not only playing havoc on her cognitive abilities, but she was a moody, sentimental drunk after having more than a few and all of that combined with some really bad timing contributed to everything that happened next.

“So, Dethrider.” Janson asked from behind the growing stack of credits piled in front of him.  “Why do they call you Stone anyway?”  

“Callsign” He uttered around the cigarra between his teeth. Dark eyes coolly moving between the cards in his hand and the dealer droid on the other side of his own just as impressive stack of winnings.

“Ah!” Said Hewlet Alban, the other Nova pilot “Heard some of the other squadrons did that whole callsign thing.  So how’d you get it?”

“It’s that soooo serious face of his.” Jefra answered up first. “Guy doesn’t smile. Ever.” Her voice became teasing, “Although it’s rumored that on the rare occasion he actually has, Margolin’s the only one who’s seen it.”

“Awww, well isn’t that nice? I bet she sees it all the time in those quarters you two share.” Janson’s voice made the grin Mischa had been giving both Jefra and Stone fade to a scowl. Jon’son, whose temperament at handling frakwits who had said similar things in the past was infinitely greater than her own just ignored him. Knowing that soon enough the mission would be over and they, Force willing, would not have to see these Bantha asses again anytime soon. “So, Margolin? What’s yours?”

She was going to ignore him at first, as she had found herself doing more and more since his bleary-eyed leer had become more pronounced, his innuendo laced comment growing more frequent as the evening and drinking had gone on.  Instead she finished yet another shot of whiskey and replied, “I guess I’ve just done nothing memorable enough yet to earn one, Sir.”  The last word coming out with more of a sneer behind it than she intended.

“Well, I think Vacuum would suit you perfectly.” He gave her a slow smile, leaning toward the center of the table.

Mischa went back to studying the discarded cards in front of her, looking up for a moment to hand her empty glass to Stone as he got up to get a refill for himself after tossing his hand on the table with an “I’m out”.  The big man patting her shoulder briefly as if warning her to behave and likely feeling the highly strung tension of the muscles beneath her skin as she leaned in Janson’s direction.

“Really?” Mischa replied, those small lines reappearing between her copper brows raised in cool amusement.  “And why is that, Captain?”

“Because”  He smugly flashed his pure Sabacc hand before sweeping up the credits from the pot as everyone else beside he and the redhead groaned, “Your sabacc playing, like your flying sucks like hard vacuum. You don’t belong in a fighter cockpit.  In fact whoever taught your ass to fly, Margolin should have stuck to operating kiddie speeders at the Galactic fair. Which is where you should be before you end up killing someone.” He flashed her that self-satisfied grin again, before leaning back in his chair. Picking up his glass he turned toward his squadron mate, still grinning.  “Although it fits with that mouth too, I bet she could s…”

It was all he got out before roughly fifty kilos of alcohol, grief, and anger fueled pilot launched herself across the table at him.  Her shoulder hitting him square in the nose as his chair flew backward with the two of them along for the ride.

“A better man than you will ever be taught me how to fly and now he’s dead, you karkhead.” She didn’t know if she was saying it as she punched the still too startled to react man in the face over and over and over, or just thinking it again and again in her head.

She was still swinging away when Dethrider pulled her off Janson.  If the other man had just kept that drunken mouth of his from running, Jon’son would likely have been spared the fate that was to befall his best friend and wingmate.  But no, he had to let his mouth and his hands keep talking, leaving Stone little choice but to happily reply in kind in defense of the woman he considered his little sister in everything but blood.

By the time the MPs arrived there wasn’t much for them to do except haul two inebriated, smiling pilots down to the brig.

“I heard what he said, Misch.” The big man sat on the bench as Margolin wrapped her arms around her knees beside him. “And he’s wrong.  You don’t suck. At anything.  Okay, except at maybe staying out of trouble.”

“Thanks Big Man.” She snuffled once, “But you should have stayed out of it.  I can handle my own battles.”


He gave her a wry look, “What have I said to you before in another situation like this?”

She let a hint of a smirk break through. "A friend is someone who would try and get you out of hack, but a best friend would be sitting beside you saying 'Damn that was frakking awesome?’”

“Damn, that was frakking awesome.” He grinned as she rested her head on his shoulder.  

“Think I finally found my callsign at least.” She yawned. “Acton’s gonna be pissed.”

“Yep, pretty much a given.  But we’ll worry about that in the morning.  Need sleep.”  Jon’son leaned back against the bulkhead, a smile on his face at the last words he heard Mischa mumble before fatigue claimed them both.

“Thanks for being my best friend, Big Man.”

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

Florzu and his goons joined the three sentient beings at the center of the park. Facing off in the moonlight, the two parties exchanged intimidating glares and scowls. Florzu's Gammoreans drew their own weapons in imitation of the armed aliens.

The lead Firrerreo did not waste time with small talk. "Do you have the sample?" he demanded. His low voice echoed in the stillness of the night.

"Of course," Florzu replied. Despite his confident tone, Sully detected a note of trepidation in his voice. He didn't blame him; bodyguards or not, the wookiee staring across at him could easily reduce the Twil'lek to a pile of flesh and bones. "I'm a professional."

He snapped his fingers and one of the Gammoreans stepped forward, bearing a large metal case. Florzu opened the case and removed a small vial from it.

The Firrerreo leader easily snatched the vial from Florzu's hands. He examined the green liquid inside it carefully, testing its color in the moonlight. His dark eyes peered as the solution easily flowed in its vessel.

Ever the salesman, Florzu rattled off specs while his potential customer inspected the merchandise. "Easily consumed, undetectable in the bloodstream, and no side effects. It will take merely a few days for Jarga the Hutt's gladiators to double their strength and stamina in time for their next match." He glanced nervously at his chrono, as though anxious to conclude the encounter. "Strictly top-of-the-line quality. Only the best, I assure you. Black Sun has no idea I have taken a batch of their work. Now Jarga can finally turn the tables in the gladiator games."

Palming the sample into his hand, the Firrerreo leader grunted in satisfaction. "We'll take twenty samples," he announced, handing the vial off to the scruffy female, "plus fifty more if Jarga accepts." He lifted the briefcase from the ground and opened it in front of Florzu. Sully glimpsed stacks of multicolored bills, all New Republic credits. "A down payment," the Firrerreo said, "as discussed."

To the pirate's surprise, Florzu didn't even bother to count the cash. "Excellent," he declared, hastily accepting the briefcase. His gaze darted toward his waiting speeder. "As always, a pleasure doing business with you."

<I>So that's what that slimy Twil'lek has been doing. He's selling off the serum to the other syndicates to supply their gladiators in order for them to gain the upper hand. Florzu then bets on the gladiator as he knows he will win!</i> Tarsk had long suspected Florzu of conducting business underhanded to others, but now he had definitive proof to present to the waiting Vigo. <I>Maybe I will get promoted for this.</i>

Sully raised the comlink on his wrist to his lips. "Tarsk, have you been seeing this? Shall I order the strike?"

Then, just as Florzu and his guards pulled away toward their vehicle, the breeze shifted direction. The wookiee immediately reacted to the pirate's scent. Eyes wide, the wookiee lifted his nose and sniffed the air. The heads around him turned toward the massive bust hiding Sully and his droid, Gray. "Gaartatha smells an ooman!" the female Firrerreo snarled.

<I>Shavit!</i> Sully thought, their cover had been blown. He thrusted his holocam into the pocket of his jacket and reached for his blaster. <I>No time for Tarsk's reply. Gotta move now!</I>

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

Before Sully could draw his weapon, however, a shiny metal object came flying through the air from the rear of the park. The sphere-shaped projectile caught a glint of moonlight before plummeting to the ground right where the three aliens were standing. It exploded on impact, unleashing a sudden blast of heat and noise.

Sully dived behind the durocrete base of the statue. His ears rang from the explosion, and the smell of baradium filled his nostrils. A thermal detonator, he realized instantly. <I>But who…?</i> The detonator had not come from either him or Gray, that was for certain. One of Florzu's people, doubling back behind the park?

Lifting his head, he peered over the top of the durocrete base at the aftermath of the explosion. Smoke and dust clouded the air, but he could see the three aliens lying sprawled on the ground around a smoking crater. Their blood, foul and toxic, stained the ground, while the wookiee groaned and whimpered in pain, not yet dead but clearly injured. Jagged shards of shrapnel jutted from their bleeding bodies.

Tearing his gaze away from the intoxicating sight of the wounded aliens, Sully turned his eyes toward the rear of the park, searching for the origin of the mysterious detonator. A flicker of movement caused him to zero in on an impressive sculpture depicting the late Emperor Palpatine raising his hand upward triumphantly into the sky above.

Before the pirate's startled eyes, a figure emerged from behind the statue and hopped onto the ground in front of it. <I>That's no human or alien,</i> he grasped. <I>That's a droid of some sort.</i> He couldn't help admiring the ingenuity; chances were, the mechanized stranger had been hiding in plain sight all this time.

<I>Who in the world sent it?</I>

Sully was reluctant to expose himself before determining the droid's intentions. Just because the detonator thrower had attacked his targets didn't necessarily mean that it was an ally. As far as Sully knew, this droid was probably hired by another underworld syndicate to mess up the deal.

He started to signal Gray to stay down, only to see the droid produce another thermal detonator from its metal chassis. At first, he thought the droid intended to finish the aliens off, but, to his horror, the bucket of bolts hurled the detonator directly at Gray. Sully then recoginzed the droid from the gleam of moonlight that it was an assassin droid– an IG-88 model made by Holowan Laboratories.

<I>No!</I> Sully though, his brown eyes wide with shock. <I>How did IG-88's become online again? They were all destroyed when the Death Star II exploded!</I>

Before he had a chance to warn Gray, the second detonator blew the massive bust apart. Broken chunks of durocrete went flying into the air, along with the flailing metal body of Gray. His fellow co-pilot, his metal chassis scorched by the heat of the explosion, crashed to earth only a few feet away from him…

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

(This is a repost from an Into the Past story written a couple of years back…just fits perfectly here and saves me from eseentially rewriting the same events over again :p)

__________________________________________________________________

Mischa Margolin shifted uncomfortably in her chair, only half the reason being that she had to wear the damnable New Republic Starfighter Command dress uniform. The other half being the occasion its wear merited. Honestly she'd prefer to wear the standard issue brig resident's attire.  At least it was more comfortable.

Glancing at Jon’son she suppressed a smile at the look of even greater discomfort on her best friend and wingman’s face. Instead giving him a look of sympathy at having to wear the ridiculous getup, combined with more than a touch of penitence at being part of the reason he was here with her today and having to be dressed in it in teh first place.

It was far from the first time Mischa had called before a board of discipline for sentencing, drunk and disorderly being her offense of choice, and if she wasn’t drummed out of Starfighter Command after today there was no guarantee it would be her last. A trouble magnet was Commander Acton’s favored descriptive term for her during most of the time she served under his command with Blaze Squadron, even if he did say it with some humor in his voice. Her skills as a pilot were the one thing that kept her butt on active duty in spite of the various relatively minor transgressions over the years, but this time she heard rumors even that may not help her case. Or Stone’s.

Assault on a superior officer and insubordination on top of the usual D&D. Those were the charges the two been found guilty of during the trial phase “Superior officer? More like superior ass.” Margolin thought to herself as she stole a quick look at the complainant himself seated at the next table and smirked at the dark-haired man she’s been accused of inflicting bodily harm on.

A discreet nudge from Jon’son diverted her attention towards the doorway to their right as two men and one woman, all in dress uniforms themselves, entered the room. A small groan passed Margolin’s lips as she recognized the dark-haired serious man wearing the insignia indicating his Commander rank. “Wedge Antilles” the redhead thought and rolled her eyes, “Wonderful.” “It’s been nice working with you, Big Man. Better get ready to start working on buying that freighter” She muttered under her breath as the three officers took their seats at the table in the front of the room facing accuser and accused alike.

“This disciplinary board of inquiry session is called to order. Myself, Major Wildin, and Commander Antilles will be presiding over this sentencing hearing today.” The woman, Lieutenant Eutarin said. “I realize that the Commander served with the plaintiff, Major Janson and is an acquaintance of his and I’m sure there will be questions raised regarding potential conflict of interest. But at the moment there are no other officers of his rank available to sit in on a board and due process requires that such matters be carried out in an expeditious manner. The defendants have already been found guilty of assault on a higher ranking officer of New Republic Starfighter Command as well as gross insubordination.”

Commander Wedge Antilles looked down at the datapad on the table in front of him as Lieutenant Eutarin continued speaking to those present in the room. The records of the two pilots were laid out in plain basic on the screen as he scrolled through for the third time. The good and the bad. Both Margolin and Dethrider were gifted pilots, of that there was no doubt, but they were also quick tempered and prone to trouble, especially the young woman. Wedge hadn’t been present for the trial board, but he had heard about it and read the transcript in preparation for today’s sentencing.

Looking at Mischa, he wasn’t surprised at all having read her side of things. She possessed the looks and personality that likely provided Wes the kind of challenge he craved. Yes, he had to admit Lieutenant Margolin would have been just the kind of woman Janson would have pursued with his typical stupid male aggressiveness. The man thought with the wrong body part far too many times. And from what he heard off the record from some pilots who’d witnessed the events that caused this whole trial board to be necessary, Janson still wouldn't stop talking about wanting the woman. “Wes, what the frell is wrong with you?” Antilles thought, shooting an annoyed look at his friend.

Apparently the two Blaze Squadron pilots had been in the ship's lounge along with pilots from several other squadrons involved in a joint mission. According to Margolin’s testimony, a small group had been sitting around a table playing sabacc. Janson being one of them. Both Margolin, Dethrider, and some of the others stated that Wes had been making advances toward Mischa for several days and she had repeatedly rejected him, but that he’d semmingly taken it good-naturedly as had she.

That night though he had pushed the woman too far. Overhearing Misha calling Lieutenant Dethrider “Stone” one of the other pilots at the table had asked what it meant. Margolin had replied that Blaze Squadron liked using callsigns and that was his, due to his straight-faced demeanor. Someone else asked Jon’son what Mischa’s was and she replied that she hadn’t done anything to earn one yet. At this point a mildly inebriated Wes said something to the effect that hers should be “Vacuum” because she sucked at everything including playing sabacc and at flying and that whoever taught her both should have done a better job.

The normally quite competent woman had been off her game on both counts over the past couple of days due to learning of the death of someone close to her, the man who actually had taught her to do both of those things, so Wes’ comment didn’t go over very well. Kendrik Bentler had been a freighter captain who was the closest thing Margolin ever had to a father and his passing following a crippling lung disease had crushed the young woman. Her wingmate had to nearly drag her bodily from their quarters to the cantina to try to get her out of the saddened state she was in for just a little while. Took her out to cheer her up, and then this happens.

Looking up from the datapad again, this time at Jon’son, Antilles wondered again how these two ended up being the inseparable duo they had become since being assigned to Blaze. From Actons’ report he knew they always flew together and quite well, were usually seen in each others company during downtime more often that not, and that the muscular, intimidating man was extremely protective of the slightly younger woman, but their relationship was strictly platonic, rather like siblings.

He also noted that the two of them shared a problem with disciplinary issues and they usually involved fighting and a cantina and ending up in the brig. Almost as if it were their off-duty hobby. Usually she would start swinging and Dethrider would jump in a moment later.

From all accounts it was inevitable that a fight was going to happen aboard his ship. Did Janson deserve the pounding he got from Margolin? Possibly, Wedge thought while trying to retain a neutral expression at the mental image of the petite woman damaging the handsome features Wes was so proud of, the evidence of that damage just barely still visible when the Commander looked over at him. Should she have done it? As an officer of the New Republic she should have used better judgment, retained a cool head and just walked away. Instead she chose to fight and so did her wingmate and protector, just as he always did.

They were both far too valuable to lose as pilots, but they couldn’t go without some type of reprisal for their actions or else you’d have lower ranking flight officers knocking around their superiors for saying something out of turn at the drop of a hat. Wedge had already decided on the best course of action, so this whole hearing today was just a formality to him. Eutarin, Wildin, and everyone else involved with the case wanted to see the two of them stripped of their rank and dishonorably discharge from the Fleet. But Wedge had a better idea, although he was sure the two pilots on question wouldn’t see it that way, and after much arguing that morning before the hearing, he had gotten the others on the board to concur with him.

Both of the other officers seated with him had finished their statements and Wedge stood and indicated that Mischa and Jon’son should as well.

Looking at Jon’son as they got to their feet Mischa thought, “Here it comes”. Suddenly feeling crushed at the thought that after today she’d never get to fly her fighter again and anger towards herself for allowing things to come to this. It’s what she was born to do. Margolin honestly believed that. And she had no clue what the frak she would do now with her life if it were to no longer be a snubfighter jock as she held her breath in anticipation of Antilles’ statement.

“Lieutenant Jon’son Dethrider, Lieutenant Mischa Margolin.” Commander Antilles started, acknowledging each pilot in turn. “It is the decision of this body before you today, that as punishment for being found guilty on the charges of gross insubordination as well as assault and battery on a superior officer of New Republic Starfighter Command, you are hereby demoted one rank level to that of Flight Officer.”

Mischa and Jon’son shot a quick, incredulous look at each other, both of them thinking the same thing. “That can’t be it?” Apparently Janson must have been thinking the same judging by the barely audible “What?” coming from his mouth.

And they were right, as evidenced by Wedge’s next statement. “You are both good pilots, the New Republic has put a lot of time and credits into training you and keeping your skills up, but,” he continued in a sterner voice “you are a disruption to the order necessary to the proper functioning of a military unit. My colleagues would like to see both of you, but especially Flight Officer Margolin, discharged or given a good long turn in the brig. I on the other hand, disagree.”

I have decided on a more constructive method of rehabilitation.” Wedge paused for a moment, noting the puzzled frowns on the defendant’s faces. Dethrider’s more on the side of subtlety, while Margolin’s was blended with defiance. “Effective tomorrow, you are both to be transferred from Blaze to Womprat Squadron under the command of Captain Leto Tariq. You will be expect to follow his orders, you will be on probation just like any other rookie, and for a period of two galactic standard years, if you commit an infraction as minor as littering their will be alternate sentencing imposed. Do you understand this, Flight Officers?”

“Sir, yes sir.” Mischa and Jon’son replied in unison. Margolin thinking inwardly, “I’d rather be discharged or locked up in the hole.” For his part, Jon’son was thinking that being sent to the Womprats was the equivalent of a death sentence. The squadron’s reputation around the fleet was as the worst of the worst. Rookies, washouts, troublemakers, sentenced criminals like themselves made up the bulk of that unfortunate group. All just unwanted, yet necessary cannon fodder for the New Republic cause. Their commanding officer did the best he could with what he was given, Dethrider had also heard, but lost pilots at an alarming rate and many times through no fault of his own.

Jon’son didn’t know who Tariq had pissed off to be given such a raw deal command assignment, which wasn’t going to get much better with the addition of two very unhappy new arrivals, but he intended to try and find out. Should he and Mischa survive long enough that is.

Antilles had his another reason for sending them to the Womprats. He knew Leto Tariq, and even admired the man despite his squadron’s abysmal reputation throughout the fleet. With the addition of two pilots whose skills were far above the usual ‘Rats lineup the other pilots there might stand a fighting chance to increase their life expectancy and improve that reputation.

“If either of you have anything to say, you may speak now.” Wedge concluded. Mischa started to lash out verbally at the Commander and the rest of the board, but a bump on the arm from Stone, who’d anticipated she might say something to make things worse, kept her quiet although it didn’t erase the angry look she flashed to the brass at the table before her.

Seeing that neither of them were going to comment, Lieutenant Eutarin dismissed them to their quarters where they were to packed their gear then remain under guard until a shuttle took them to the carrier their new squadron was stationed on.

Wedge watched them walk out of the room, pointedly ignoring Janson and thinking to himself with a shake of his head, “I really hope I’m not punishing Captain Tariq along with those two.”

Re: A Year of Fire (11 ABY)

Was Gray still functional? Sully had no time to find out, as a third detonator came flying straight toward his hiding place. He threw himself away from the doomed location, leaping across the ground. The explosive went off right behind him, the shock wave propelling him through the smoky air. Sully fired wildly in the direction of the mechanized terror before plunging face-first into the ground.

The crash landing left the pirate stunned and breathless. His face stung from numerous small cuts and abrasions. He tasted blood on his lips and realized it was his own. A stabbing pain in his right side cause him to hiss in agony. Blinking the grit from his eyes, he discovered a razor-sharp piece of shrapnel embedded on his hip. Blood streamed from the wound, pooling on the ground. "Shavit!" he cursed at the sight of the injury. The wound was not life threatening, but it still hurt like hell.

Looking up from the ground, he saw the IG-88 assassin droid scanning about the direction of his last targets with its massive blaster rifle in hand. Sully stared in shock as a stream of rapid blaster fire was unleashed and swept the area before the droid, igniting everything in its path. The bright red lances of laser fire lit up the night.

Sully could feel the heat of the bolts left by blaster fire upon his skin as the assassin droid marched toward him. Scrambling to his feet, he darted behind the nearest convenient hiding place. There weren't a lot of things in the galaxy that could take out an IG-88 assassin model for good, but fire could be a start.

Striding across the park, the murderous droid turned the blaster rifle on its previous victims. The female Firrerreo went first, her fallen body igniting as blaster bolts riddled her body. The second was the wookiee. A howl of pain erupted from the furry being, who thrashed wildly on the ground as blaster fire consumed him.

The pirate felt sorry for the wookiee.

The male Firrerreo was next, his anguished screams supplanting the female's as his peppered form fell still and silent, except for the sizzling flesh. The nauseating stench of it suffused the warm night air.

The IG-88 assassin droid turned toward Gray, and Sully realized that his fallen droid was next in line to be blasted to pieces. "Leave the droid alone!" he shouted angrily. Peering out from his hiding place, he fired at the assassin in a desperate attempt to keep the scrap pile of bolts away from Gray. Pain and blood loss left him dizzy, however, while the spreading smoke and flames interfered with his aim. A few lucky blaster bolts bounced off the IG-88 model's metal chassis, but most of his frantic shots went wild. Crouched behind a large tree stump, the blood-slick shard of shrapnel jabbing into his side, he could only watch in dismay as the blaster rifle's blazing spray of laser fire found Gray.