After two and a half days of nothing to do except the xenobiology homework he'd been putting off for almost a week, Caleb finally eased back on the hyperdrive lever, bringing the Ferocity-3 back into realspace a safe distance from Denon. At the intersection of the Corellian Run and the Hydian, and an ecumenopolis to boot, Denon had some of the worst space traffic jams in the galaxy. It would never do to come out right in the middle of one.
Caleb switched on his ID beacon without having to be told. It would save the undoubtedly overburdened traffic control staff a little work, at least. Sure enough, a few seconds later, a droid told him over the comm that his identification had been verified, as had his plan to land here, and to "please follow heavy freighter Aether Pearl at a safe distance as your recommended approach vectors coincide exactly. Welcome to Denon." In all fairness, the ship that brought up the name Aether Pearl on his sensor display looked less like an Aether Pearl and more like a Giant Hunk of Badly Painted Durasteel that May or May Not Survive the Next Hyperspace Jump, but it wasn't Caleb's place to judge. With a sigh, he settled his ship into a course directly behind the great junky thing. If the Force was with him, he wouldn't have to follow the eyesore of a vessel for more than fifteen minutes.
The Force was not with him.
A full two standard hours later, Caleb yanked the Ferocity-3 into a hangar bay forming one entire floor of one of Denon's innumerable skyscrapers, dusk falling like a purple-gray cloak over the city. Finally! Trying, with limited success, to release his frustration into the Force, Caleb powered down everything that needed to be powered down and lowered the boarding ramp.
A couple pilots were loitering in the hangar, around a barrel with a few glasses and a bottle on top of it; they took a curious gander at Caleb, sizing him up, then went back to their conversation. For a moment, Caleb panicked - oh Force, what if I screwed up the disguise, am I walking right, am I acting right, what if I fail the mission before it even starts - and then realized he was being silly.
Focus, said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Master Depa. Breathe. There is no emotion, there is peace.
Caleb sighed, then pressed the button on his key to raise the ramp again and lock the ship. He made his way over to the other pilots, wondering which of the four identical doors was the proper way down- or up, he supposed. As he drew close, one of the pilots, a yellow-skinned Devaronian woman, called in a thick Outer Rim drawl, "Welcome, lad!"
"Uh…" Caleb hedged, unsure how to respond.
The Devaronian laughed and gave him a friendly clap on the back, steering him over to the other two pilots. "Shy one, eh? 'S alright. Shy ones got all the secret tricks 'n' traps, that's what I always say. Me name's Cassada Ebejon, call me Cass. This 'ere's Sori," she said, indicating the young male Zeltron who shot Caleb a dazzling grin, "and this is–"
"Choss. Choss Hanerath," the third pilot, a large human man going a little gray about the temples and a little round about the midsection, broke in. "But ye won't hear anyone else callin' me that. I'm Chosski Head t'all these ol' space dogs, or just Chosski if ye're feelin' nice."
"My- my name's Kanan Jarrus," Caleb managed to get out. "Nice to meet you."
"Ooh, fancy manners!" Sori chuckled. "Here, kid, wet your whistle a bit." The blue-haired pilot handed Caleb a shot of whatever was in the bottle. Caleb knocked it back; it turned out to be Corellian whiskey, the really good stuff.
"Don't call me kid," Caleb grumbled, wiping his mouth. He couldn't be too mad, though. The guy was obviously just trying to be friendly, and he had just given Caleb some of their precious drink.
"See, what'd I tell ya?" Cass announced triumphantly. "There's one of 'is little tricks, right there! Don't worry, Kanan or whatever yer name is, we won't call ye kid if ye don't want us to. We don't pick on rookies, ain't that right, Chosski?"
"Damn right!" the man called Chosski Head roared jovially. He tossed back his own shot, then said, "Now, laddie, ye been lookin' a little lost, methinks. How 'bout ye let ol' Chosski show ye 'round the place?"
Caleb gave Chosski what he hoped was a jaunty smile. "Sure thing."
Chosski heaved himself off the small crate he'd been sitting on, with a noticeable pop of vertebrae. "Aargh. 'M gettin' old, more's the pity. Soon enough I'll be stuck somewhere dirtside, no more soarin' 'round the galaxy with gods-know-what belowdecks...ah well, gotta happen sometime. This way, lad." The middle-aged spacer led Caleb past quite a few parked freighters, about half of which looked almost identical to Caleb's Ferocity-3, to one of the four doors. It opened for them onto a turbolift, which Chosski piled into and beckoned for Caleb to join him. Caleb did. The door closed; Chosski pressed one of the buttons on the wall; a couple seconds' descent later, the lift dinged open, revealing what looked like a cross between a Jedi Temple refectory, a freight pilots' union meeting, and total chaos.
"This is the mess hall. More'n one sort o' mess in here, I'm afraid."
Well. Mess was one way to describe it. Caleb would have gone with "what happens when you stick a bunch of beat-up tables and chairs in a gigantic room with a bunch of unruly spacers and leave them to figure out the interior décor on their own," but again, it wasn't his place to judge.
"Oi! Choss!" Caleb and Chosski both turned their heads toward the sound of the voice. A humanoid man with salmon-colored skin and at least fifty headtails instead of hair was making his way across the disorderly room. Caleb had to think for a moment to remember the name of his species: Mikkian. There were a couple of Mikkian Jedi, weren't there? Twin sisters? Caleb couldn't come up with their names, but by then the guy had reached him, and he arrested Caleb's attention completely. His entire presence spoke of energy, as if he constantly had somewhere to be, something to do. His clothes were a little nicer than any of the pilots'. Caleb immediately guessed he was a supervisor of some sort.
"Well, well, Choss, look who you found! You must be Kanan Jarrus, no?"
"Yes, um...sir?"
The Mikkian chuckled. "Surjik is fine. That's my name, see; Mikkians don't have last names. It's a little complicated. You're...oh, an hour and a half late," Surjik said, glancing at his wrist chrono. "But I'll let it slide, 'cause it's your first time and all. And besides, your partner's late too!"
"Wait...partner?"
Hera did, in fact, push the hyperdrive more than a little. She actually went so far as to strip out the compressor and do a couple tweaks on the regulator systems at Algara, the first of her two refueling stops. After that the Ghost didn't last so long on a tank, but it didn't matter because now the little freighter went faster as well. It came out even on the distance front, and to be honest, Hera was glad to have the compressor out of there. The hyperdrive – her hyperdrive – definitely didn't need all that extra stress.
She dropped out of hyperspace at Denon only half an hour behind schedule, but that stretched into an hour, then an hour and a half as she was forced to sit in traffic. She pulled into Surjik's hangar at long last; the shipboard chrono read 1832 hours. Daisjo!
Hera turned everything off as quickly as she could without screwing something up, then ran down the boarding ramp and locked up the Ghost remotely. Spotting a couple other pilots having a drink a little ways off - she thought she recognized the Zeltron from when she'd visited this place with her father, but she couldn't be sure - she dashed toward them, calling, "Hey! You two! Any idea where Surjik is?"
The Devaronian shrugged. "No idea. 'E was in the mess 'all last I checked, but 'e could be anywhere now. I don't remember seein' ye 'round 'ere before; what's yer name, little lassie?"
"Hera. Hera Syndulla. I'm sorry, but I can't talk– I'm late enough as it is!"
The Zeltron took a gulp from his shot glass, then grimaced sympathetically. "Ah. You'd best scoot along, then. But just between you and me, I wouldn't be too worried. Surjik's nice to rookies."
It stung Hera a little to be called a rookie, but she didn't comment on it. "Thanks!" she shouted over her shoulder, already making for one of the hangar doors, praying it was a personnel lift and not one of the huge ones used for cargo.
"Anytime!" the Devaronian hollered.
It was indeed a personnel lift. Hera panicked for a moment, blanking on which button corresponded to the mess hall, but then remembered Surjik explaining how it was only one floor down from the hangar for the convenience of hungry – or thirsty – spacers, when she and Cham had visited. The lift was a fast one, taking only a second or two to drop a floor and let her out into the almighty chaos of a cafeteria. She spotted Surjik's pink head-tendrils instantly.
Surjik was standing in the opposite corner, talking to the old spacer who called himself Chosski Head and another, younger man Hera didn't recognize. "Yes, partner," he was saying to the younger man. "In fact, here she comes right now."
"Sir," Hera panted as she jogged up to the three of them, "I can explain–"
"Ah, no need," Surjik assured her. "Like I was saying to Kanan here, a little late your first time on the job isn't a big deal."
"Wait...I'm a little confused," the young man – Kanan, apparently – said. "I thought I was just gonna get my run from you and go. There was never anything said about a partner."
Hera's eyes narrowed. "And you told me I'd just get a no-frills run, which I assumed meant alone! Surjik, you know all I wanted was to get out on my own–"
Surjik raised his hands, attempting to placate both her and Kanan at once. "It's just for one run, Hera. Mostly for this kid. He's a Core-worlder, in case you couldn't tell. I wanted someone with a little more experience on the Rims to go with him. It's his first run too."
"I'm not babysitting a greenhorn who's probably never left the Core!" Hera exclaimed, at the same time as Kanan growled, "Don't call me kid!"
They stared at each other, a little startled by the simultaneous outburst. Hera noticed, offhand, that his eyes were some sort of blue-green color, unusually pale for his tanned skin and dark brown hair. Surjik took the opportunity to speak again, albeit a little nervously. "Sorry, Mr. Jarrus. That was rude of me. But honestly, Hera, it's not as bad as you think…"
"Yeah, it's really not," Chosski broke in. Hera had almost forgotten he was there. "Really, Hera, ye should be thankin' yer lucky stars. Tandem mission? That happens maybe four, five times in yer entire life! The rest are just you 'n' the ship 'n' cold empty space, ye get what I'm sayin'?"
"Me and the ship and empty space happens to be exactly what I want!"
Chosski sighed and shook his head. "There's just no convincin' ye, is there? Wait a coupla years, a hundred, two hundred freight runs, check back with me then. Ye'll wish ye'd made the most o' this." He lapsed into melancholy silence.
Hera swallowed hard, cracking down on her temper as best she could. Once she was certain she could speak without accidentally shouting, she said curtly to Surjik, "Alright. I'll take it. If you promise to let me go alone next time, and if Mr. Jarrus promises to behave himself around my ship."
A/N: A little longer chapter this time, which is a good thing- my chapters are painfully short for my snail-like update pace... Hope this makes up for it a little.