Author's Note: Reviews are always welcome, you know. And I don't own Star Wars just my characters yada yada yada…

An Unusual Report

"Sir." The communications officer sounded bored.

Vice Admiral Mark Harris didn't look up from his desk or stop typing on his personal computer. The pile of "paper"-work that went along with the day-to-day running of a New Republic base had finally grown to large to ignore. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, we have just received an unusual report from the captain of a salvage freighter," the lieutenant huffed, clearly annoyed that he even had to repeat the story, but Harris was not a man to overlook the improbable—such reports were to be brought straight to him. They broke up the tedium of postwar "peace keeping." Even his base, orbiting high above Belkadan on the farthest fringes of nowhere, got its share of crazies with doomsday theories and knowledge of secret Imperial bases—most of which (if they existed at all) had been destroyed ages ago or taken over by pirates and smugglers. Still, Harris figured, this close to Imperial space there's no telling what a few crazies could find. He was willing to waste a frigate's time if it meant the chance to annoy a few Imps. The Senate called him a warmonger—one of their nicer terms for him.

The Vice Admiral stopped typing and looked up at Lieutenant Cracknar, a Mon Calamarian with sickly pink skin, who was standing at attention, saluting. Harris toyed with the idea of letting him stay that way but instead returned the salute. "At ease."

Cracknar lowered his fin-like hand but stayed stiff. When he remained silent, Harris growled, "Well?"

The Calamarian sniffed and raised his head a bit higher, his bulbous eyes flashed with a hint of hauteur. Harris remembered why he didn't care for the esteemed Lt. Cracknar: He's a fucking prick. How did I get stuck with the one Mon Cal with his head shoved up his own ass? The lieutenant must have noticed the murderous glint in his superior's eyes because he cleared his throat with a watery gurgle and repeated the story of the Salvage IV's captain.

Harris leaned back in his chair and folded his thick arms across his even thicker chest. An upstart ensign had once made the unfortunate mistake of comparing him to a Gamorrean, and the description (though apt) had not been appreciated. The ensign was rumored to have been marooned on Gamorr—no one had heard from him since. Now, Vice Admiral Harris's eyes gleamed with an inner fire that drove away any resemblance to the dull, piggish creatures. If it's true… His gaze fell on the wall of military honors awarded to him for bravery and daring in the fight against the Empire. They didn't call me a "warmonger" then. He knew there was probably some protocol he was breaking—he considered informing his superiors about the tip, but decided against it. I'll make it easy for the damn bureaucrats. They won't have to argue about attacking the base—just my decision. He smirked. They'll love that.

The comlink on his desk beeped. "Yes?"

Cracknar's voice gurgled across the line, sharp and peeved. "Lars Welk and Shirra Hirss have arrived as ordered, Vice Admiral."

"Good. Send them in." He ran a hand across his bald scalp and looked eagerly toward the door, already formulating a plan of attack on the Imp's prison.

Harris beamed at the human and Selonian who strode into his office. He liked the look of them: Welk, a short man who looked like he'd been attacked by a krayt dragon, and Hirss, a slender Selonian with sharp, confidant eyes who stood protectively close to her companion. Of course, they could have been Hutts for all he cared—they were his salvation, messengers sent by the Gods of War.

"So you're the two I have to thank for interrupting the peaceful little existence I have going here." Lars and Shirra shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond, but Harris just stood and offered them his hands, laughing. Lars returned his powerful handshake without wincing, but Shirra barely touched the proffered hand, uncomfortable with the human custom and especially the smiling man before her.

"Thank you for taking us seriously…um, sir," Lars said, clearing his throat. After the cold reception the Mon Cal Lieutenant had given their news, he and Shirra had been surprised (to say the least) to be invited aboard the station to meet with the Vice Admiral.

Harris waved the statement away. "Now, I got the basic story from Lt. Tight-Ass Cracknar, but I want to hear all the grimy details—anything that could help with the assault."

"Assault?" Lars Welk looked shocked.

"Yes…assault. Nothing big: a Nebulon-B frigate, a squad of fighters, a company of troops—the best naturally…"

"Don't you…I don't know…have to report…I mean…there's a cease-fire isn't there?"

The Vice Admiral frowned at the scarred human and raised a black eyebrow. "Let's not drag politics into this. You honestly expected me just to report your claim to my superiors? Without investigating the validity first? That's all I'm going to do: investigate. And if we should happen to be attacked, we'll fight back. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now," Harris continued, leaning forward, "details."

It was Shirra who spoke first, closing her eyes: "The prison was comprised of five blocks—four forming a square around the fifth. They were connected by durasteel arms, walkways, I imagine, and each was surrounded by an atmospheric bubble."

"Any weak points?"
"Yes," the Selonian continued, "one of the arms connecting two of the outer blocks was broken off—and I think one of the atmospheric domes wasn't working."

Vice Admiral Harris almost giggled in delight. "Excellent! And you also mentioned TIEs—how many?"

"Well, we didn't stop to count them," Lars broke in, "but it looked like a few squadron's worth."

"So nothing my fighters can't handle…good." Harris fell silent, strategies whirring inside his head.

"There's something else," Shirra hissed softly.

Startled from his plotting by her unexpected tone, Harris peered closer at the Selonian. Her brown eyes were tinged with worry. "Yes?"

She lashed her tail. "We intercepted a call for help from a girl inside the prison."

Now it was Lars' turn to start. "Girl? How do you know it was a girl?" He turned to Harris who was watching interestedly. "We hit a patch of static when we got near the base…looking for salvage…and it sounded like someone said 'help' underneath the static, but who knows what it was."

Shirra's ears flattened, and she smacked Lars upside the head. "Don't be stupid—you heard her just as well as I did…" She broke off and started muttering about "pathetic human senses." Lars rubbed his head.

Harris blocked them both out. A rescue mission…perfect.

Shirra was ignoring Lars, staring sullenly out at the stars as the Salvage VI left the pull of Belkadan's gravity.

"I said I was sorry, Shirra," Lars huffed from the pilot's seat.

She turned up her pointed nose, growling softly. She wasn't really mad at him anymore—well, not very mad at least. Her upbringing in a colony on Selonia had taught her to value the good of the whole over herself. She snuck a glance at Lars who was readying the ship for its jump into hyperspace. Humans were selfish creatures—she still couldn't believe that Lars had disregarded the call for help, but then, he was Lars, ignoring any information he deemed unnecessary, and he was her substitute for a colony, even if he was male.

Lars noticed her look and he grinned sheepishly at her. "Forgive me?"

Shirra sighed. "Yes, but…" She was still worried about the girl—something about her voice had chilled Shirra to the core. She felt only slightly consoled by the fact that Vice Admiral Harris had promised to give his best squad the mission of finding her…some sort of knights.

"But what?"

"What if I called for help?"

Lars reached over and rubbed the soft, brown fur on her shoulder, his eyes serious. "I'd come to your rescue, sweetheart." He laughed at the disgusted look that flashed across Shirra's face.

"I'm sterile," Shirra snarled, pushing his hand away, then one side of her mouth quirked. "But thanks."

"Anytime, lover," Lars laughed as the modified INCOM Y-4 shot into hyperspace.