There was a scuff of black rubber next to Tellan's booted toe – the right shade and width to have been a product of his own restlessness. It was nearly directly beneath the bowed bolt connecting the prefab table to the bulkhead. Perhaps an officer of less fastidious concern with the shine of his boots had bent it, trying to work the table loose in a fit of boredom.
A state that Tellan was quickly becoming acquainted with.
More than a year at war had run the shipboard sterility of the fleet into shabby – if not yet comfortable – familiarity. Officers of Tellan's breed had quickly been decanted from the ramshackle schools and hastily built academies with frightening alacrity from Coruscant, Bothawui, Corellia and too many more Core systems to name. After all, clones could not command.
Yet in the interim, while the skeleton of a military was built from peacekeeping Jedi, docile clones, and conniving Senators, there had been a great deal of waiting. Tellan not had graduated in the first class, nor the last, but seemingly in the middle. In a room like this, waiting beside a comrade like the officer he shared the table with, examining the prefab walls and table and tile and shoes he wore.
Ignoring the importance of the other objects of his scrutiny, Tellan turned his attention to his comrade. A woman. She was fair and pretty and confident looking – enough so to drive his senses into momentary unreality. In these times, female officers were for some reason becoming a scarcity in the gradual way that he rarely noticed but in the moments where he looked.
In the barracks, before his first mission he'd heard pilots joking that "not looking" was quickly becoming a marketable skill. He didn't quite know what to make of that, perhaps because he wasn't thinking about it. It occurred to him that he would make a very capable officer.
The girl – the female officer – beside him tapped her nails on the table. She cast him a sidelong glance, non-regulation length hair falling to frame her face.
"So, what are you in for?"
Tellan nearly started. He immediately chastised himself.
Granting himself a slender smile, he responded, "Newly requisitioned lieutenant, tagged for flight duty."
She raised an eyebrow.
Unsure what she was waiting for, he added, "Tellan Issara of the Lower Equatorial Prefecture, Coruscant."
The female officer took another pause, looking him over. Then she grinned and extended her hand, "Hurana Denalt, Lieutenant Junior Grade from Dantooine via the glorious and very secure Coruscant Officer's Academy."
He relaxed, "Then we must have schooled together. Tell me --"
There was a loud expulsion of air as motors heaved the door up and then down, effectively interrupting Tellan. Between the bursts of noise, Commander Kina had entered. He was a sharp man who looked worn by his duties.
Both Tellan and Lieutenant Denalt stood, snapping to attention. Tellan's chair tottered slightly from the effort.
Commander Kina took no notice of them, eyes fixed on his data pad. Curiously, he waved his free hand correctly in Tellan's direction.
"Lieutenant, this is an impressive service record. Four battle zones in two months. You are already an ace, correct?"
Gazing at another scuff, incongruously in his line of sight, Tellan nodded, "Yessir."
The Commander made note of something. Gesturing at Lieutenant Denalt, he continued, "After consideration, I suppose that you, Lieutenant, have made the most of a bad situation."
Lieutenant Denalt seemed to grit her evenly spaced teeth, "That is in the past, sir. The distant past."
"Of course. In that case, I welcome you both to the Queen of Air," he said dryly.
Again Commander Kina tapped his data pad. Turning smartly, he opened the door. The Lieutenants strode after him; two pairs of eyes warily watched the underside of door.
A lone clonetrooper waited in the corridor.
"I assume that your possessions have already been delivered to the barracks." They nodded. "Private, show the Lieutenants to their squadron. I believe they are in the lounge?"
Neither Tellan, nor Lieutenant Denalt, nor the trooper responded. Commander Kina exited directly, taking the lift upward.
"This way," said the clonetrooper, heading away from the lift.
They walked past troopers in white, officers in gray, and mouse droids in black. They walked past walls and doors of gray to arrive at another nondescript door, gray.
"Lounge Alpha-2-6, designated for use by officers." The trooper stood silently by the door.
Lieutenant Denalt reached out to finger the lights and switches on the door control panel. She tilted her head to the side, "Private, you are dismissed."
Boots sounded on durasteel flooring. Lieutenant Denalt opened the door.
Inside, the standard issue assortment of pilots played games, watched holovids, slept, and cheated egregiously at sabacc. No discernable change in their activities occurred as Tellan and Lieutenant Denalt entered. However after a few moments, their continued silent, uncomfortable presence drew the eyes of their fellows with undeniable magnetic appeal.
One of the sabacc players - a thin, squarely framed young man – waved his hand at them in consideration; the other players, a female Bothan and a very pale man, snuck glances at his cards as he did so.
"Interesting meeting you here. Hope you're Sabres. We don't tolerate any other cards around here."
A dark haired girl, mostly obscured by the couch she had sprawled on to channel surf the holovid, spoke up in a Core accented voice, "That's right, that is. It's our lounge. We made a flag and everything."
The new Lieutenants raised their eyes to the wall. On it hung an enthusiastically painted banner, decorated with a badly outlined sword and blue stripes that trailed enthusiasm onto the military gray wall.
"It's very nice." Tellan complimented. "That's a . . . saber?"
The gazes fixed on them hardened. In her evident startlement, Lieutenant Denalt accidentally stepped on his foot. Hard.
"It's a lightsaber," replied the channel surfer.
"Haven't met the Commander yet, have you?" A new voice chimed in.
Tellan and Lieutenant Denalt simultaneously bent at the waist, looking for the source of the voice. It came from kneecap level. A Duro, who looked to be relaxing in a state somewhere between a trance and death, had taken a chair into an extreme recline.
He spoke again, blue face flexing to produce stuffy sounding words, "Are you sure you are in the right place?"
The dark haired card player replied, "Can't be if they don't know the Commander."
The pale card player tapped the table in exasperation. He rolled his eyes.
"His Lordship is brilliant, you know," said the channel surfer. "Saved my life. Flies more demon than man. Heart of storm, though, poor bastard."
The card players, save the pale man, nodded solemnly. Other scattered about echoed the motion.
"Our Knight has known nothing but hardship," she continued. "All he may ever know . . ."
"Trapped between two worlds, he struggles between the duty he has known as a Jedi and the glory of the Navy uniform – never to be of either and never to know joy," a new voice with an un-placable accent, flat with sarcasm picked up the Core pilot's oration.
Leaning against the doorframe, which had opened with mysterious quiet, stood a tall, lanky figure. His uniform was crisp, his hair neat, his lightsaber glinted silver from his belt. His jaw was set, his expression hard.
He looked over both Tellan and Lieutenant Denalt stonily.
Then, with a bright, sarcastic smile, he concluded his speech, "Woe is me."
"Commander!" "Milord!" "Master!" A general shout of greeting, in various rotations of titles, filled the air.
"I'm glad to see you, too." He paused appropriately for the faux-bashful "aww" and then asked, "Can I assume you're through breaking in the newbies?"
The three primary co-conspirators of the breaking in process - the Duro, the channel surfer, and the card player – exchanged a look. The card player suddenly pointed towards the porthole.
"Hey! What's that?"
Gamely, the Lieutenants looked to the porthole. The other ships in their battle group drifted against the starscape.
The squadron burst out laughing. Wiping his eyes, the card player said, "Now, we're done."
The Commander smiled tiredly, "Right. You are all very cute. Well, those of you who are actually here." He looked to the Bothan, "Darius? Savann? Raaf?"
"Got a girl. Got a boy. Got tired," responded the Bothan, ticking off fingers.
"Of course. Now, leave."
"Aw, you're not going to introduce us?" groused the card player, even as he and the rest of the room gathered themselves up and obeyed.
As they filed out, the channel surfer hung back. She gazed up at the Commander, "You okay?"
He ran his right hand, gloved, over his face, "I'm fine. I just hate meetings."
"And authorities figures."
"And authorities figures. Except when they're me. Now go."
She grinned, squeezing his arm briefly, and left.
The Commander straightened, shaking off both his weariness and the warmth he had shown for his squadron.
His voice descended into professional drollery, "As you might have guessed, I am Commander Anakin Skywalker. You have been assigned to the prestigious Sabre Squadron because you are the best. It's my job to keep you from being bent, spindled, or mutilated. Funny as that would be."
Commander Skywalker rested his hands on his hips, coming to stand before Tellan. He dropped his flat tone, and continued, "Lieutenant Issara, you came highly recommended. I know that you have a sparkling record. Your previous commander requested the transfer because he believed it would be a good step for your career, correct?'
Tellan nodded, "Yessir."
Commander Skywalker's eyes flashed over him and then he moved to stand before Lieutenant Denalt. A slight smile tugged at his lips, "Hurana. I never thought I'd see you again."
"Nor I you, sir," responded Lieutenant Denalt warily.
"Although, I should probably amend that. I requested you, after all."
"I -- Sir?"
Commander Skywalker smiled, "I understand that with your record it was inevitable that you would run into trouble with your squadrons. Since your record is my fault, to a degree, I decided to take responsibility."
"Sir, how is my record your fault?" asked Lieutenant Denalt; she looked overwhelmed.
"I arrested you."
"Sir, I did try to kill you."
Based on characters and situations created by George Lucas, copyright Lucasfilm Ltd. Not for sale, no copyright infringement intended.