0618 standard hours

The mess hall is unusually empty as I enter, provoking a flutter of movement from the few assorted people as they stand and salute, with no small degree of grogginess. I would usually favor them with an "at ease," but I am just a little too cranky this morning; the early wake-up call and hangar bay catastrophe did nothing to improve my temper. I say nothing, instead waving them angrily back into their seats with a rather gauche arm motion. Stars, but I need my caf! Admiral Ackbar has noticed the discrepancy, offering to let me cut him in the already-short line. I am too out of sorts to be surprised by the fact that he's actually drinking caf, a change from his usual preference of tea or salty chaaliyas broth from his homeworld– it's one of the few creature comforts he insists on. He must have heard about my bad mood. Word certainly travels fast around this base. With a nod of gratitude to him, I place my cup under the caf dispenser.

"Senator! If you have a moment, please!"

General Rieekan is sprinting towards me, still wearing a communications headset. I turn around to face him, wondering what could have gotten him into such a tizzy. Apparently he takes this as acknowledgement; he continues, "I've just got a call from Captain Selesse on the cruiser Mon Lematra– he's been in a battle and barely escaped, got some twenty-odd soldiers needing a real medbay ASAP, and his fuel's running low too, only he can't land because the only berth big enough is covered in pilots duking it out with flamm retardant! Would you happen to know anything about–"

"Yes, thank you, General, I know all about that, since they were just doing the same thing with paint ten minutes ago! You can go sort it out, since I trust Agent Fulcrum hasn't disabled the intercom again; tell them from me to stop it at once and get out of the way. I've been down there far too recently for them to disregard my orders!"

"Thank you, Senator, I'll go– wait, did you say paint? And disabled the intercom? Is that even possible?!"

"Yes, I said paint. And in case you hadn't noticed, Agent Fulcrum is a capable slicer, so yes, it's possible. Now go, please. I'm sorry, but I desperately need my caf."

"Of course, Senator." Rieekan turns smartly on his heel and runs off again, trailing a loose wire from his headset.

I sigh and turn back to the caf machine. Pilots. And no doubt Fulcrum and company have joined the fray too. Thinking about the rashness inherent in all young beings (and some older ones too), I go to press the button on the dispenser– and stop in my tracks, because my comlink is buzzing in my pocket. What can it be now?! Ackbar is regretting his decision to let me ahead of him, I can tell. Muttering a quick apology and an even quicker curse, I pull out the 'link and check who's calling: it's an ensign at the high-security comm suite, probably having just relieved Rieekan. And as far as I know, only a very few people have the comm codes for the most highly secured (not to mention illegal) base in the galaxy, so whoever it is, they're important. Stang. I have to take this call.

At my direction, the ensign puts the caller through; though his voice is garbled and his face hidden by a hooded cloak, just in case the call were to be intercepted, I can tell it's Bail. By this point I recognize his distorted voice just as well as his real one. He starts without pleasantries, which is how I can tell his news is urgent. "Mon, I don't have much time- I'm on Devaron under a false identity which is about to be blown. You were right, there's a slight resistance movement going on in the capital, mostly due to the sizable Twi'lek community on the west end of the city. What's important is that there's a Twi'lek and a couple sympathetic Devaronians among the higher-ups in a huge ship maintenance chain based out of Devaron, and they might be able to get us some mechanics and supplies if we can find them a safe place to meet with Rebel leaders. The Twi'lek – he's my direct contact – gave me a one-use comm number. I'll tell you when I get back. Too risky here. I have reason to believe I'm being tailed. They don't know who I am yet, but I'll just have to hope the disguise holds up if I'm forced to open aggressive negotiations. Speaking of negotiations, how are things with the Lanniks?"

"Haven't met with them yet. It's scheduled for this afternoon, local time. That's great news regarding Devaron; sounds like you've done all you can there. Do you know what ship you'll be returning in?"

"No. Could be the Pride, could be one of yours, could be an unmarked freighter. I'm winging it at this point. I can't wait to see the girls again! They'll be a little mad at me for the sheer number of close shaves on this mission, but I think–"

By Pride he means the Pride of Alderaan, his personal yacht. And by "the girls," of course, he means Breha and Leia, the former of whom will indeed be less than happy with her husband's apparent recklessness. But the transmission has suddenly gone dead in a very loud burst of sparks and static, which leads me to believe that Bail has just racked up another very close call. Maybe he shot the holocomm unit he was using himself, to obliterate all latent data. Stars, I hope he's alright. Leia might literally kill me if he's not.

That is none of my concern, however, at least until Bail gets back in a couple days. Right now, my concern is caf. Caf, immediately. My finger once again hovers mere millimeters from the button that will fill my cup...

...When a stun blast goes flying so close to my head that the charge makes my hair stand on end!

I whirl around, clutching the hand blaster I carry inside my dress, senses instantly on the alert for further danger– only to find that no further danger exists. The mess hall is, if anything, even emptier than it was when I came in! The only sign that anything at all is going on is an abnormal amount of yelling and footsteps in the hallway. Then more blaster shots ring out, stunners by the sound of them, and all nine Corellian hells break loose. The air is suddenly rife with noises of battle as a squadron of pilots comes barging through the door, stun bolts firing at random, storming into the kitchen with cries of..."COOKIES"?!

What in the name of the Force is going on?!

I spin slowly on the spot, wondering how an unusually quiet mess hall can become a confectionary war zone in approximately fifteen seconds. And how it can happen at exactly the right moment to deny me my caf yet again. The mess is now filled with shooting pilots, accidentally stunned pilots, pilots howling victoriously with trays of chocolate chip cookies held high above their heads. The serving droids lie twitching on the floor, circuits fried for the time being by too many stun blasts at once. With an inward growl at the sadistic vagaries of fate, I pull out my blaster and fire twice at the ceiling, real bolts rather than stunners so the sound cuts through the cacophony like a vibroblade through...well, like a vibroblade through cookie dough.

The noise redoubles for a moment as many of the perpetrators attempt to flee with their booty, then dies down as those still here freeze in their tracks. Looking closer, I recognize the insignia of Gold Squadron on several uniforms and helmets. So this is where those absent from the hangar bay debacle got to! I lower my blaster slowly, menacingly, returning it to its secret holster as I give the kitchen raiders what the Princess has termed my "Glare of Icy Death." She herself is headstrong enough that she has been on the receiving end of it a few times. The ne'er-do-wells stand there as if paralyzed, staring at me with a slack-jawed mix of awe and terror. All it takes is a motion of dismissal from me to send them running out on their comrades' heels.

I deem another mental note necessary: comm a technician to get the service droids back up and running. And comm medbay, because those three unconscious pilots won't be getting themselves off the floor anytime soon. The hall has returned to its previous state of near inactivity. Which, quite frankly, is the way I like it. The "Glare of Icy Death" seems to have done the trick. I must commend Leia for the name. It fits.

Speaking of said Alderaanian princess, she is the first to enter the mess after the Gold Squadron Cookie Pirates leave. As can be guessed by the way my luck has been going this morning, Leia strides up to me just as I am attempting, for the fourth time, to pour myself a cup of caf. I nearly snap at her, but manage to regain my politician's composure just as she begins to speak...or rather, to rant. Princess Leia is Not Happy, and she wants to make sure I know it. "Senator, did you receive a transmission from my father the Viceroy a few minutes ago? Because I did, and he said he was being chased and didn't even have time to talk to his daughter, and I was told I could find you in here, and do you have any idea where he is or what's happened to him?"

"Patience, Leia. Yes, your father commed me as well. He says he's on Devaron, in a disguise that won't hold much longer, and I doubt–"

"Devaron?! He told me he was going to be on Ryloth with the Twi'lek Resistance!"

"He told me that as well, but apparently someone referred him to Devaron, more specifically a ship maintenance company based there. As I was saying, I doubt his abilities are insufficient to get him out of whatever situation he has landed himself in. Your father has been working surreptitiously against the Empire since its inception; he has plenty of experience, not to mention blaster skills, to remove himself from trouble just as quickly as he finds it."

"That doesn't mean there isn't a chance of...well, the situation being too difficult for him."

There is a surprising amount of acid in Leia's voice. Sure enough, it's that exact possibility that has me worried. "I'm not saying the chance doesn't exist. I'm saying that it's quite remote, and your father is good at keeping it that way."

"Hmph." Leia is not convinced, but she lets the matter rest. "Well, tell me if you get any other word from him. And tell me immediately if he comes back. I don't care if I'm halfway across the galaxy. Just tell me, okay?"

I might say I thought she was scared for him, if it wasn't for the fact that nothing scares Princess Leia. "All right, Princess. If he returns here, you will be the first to know. And if he returns to Alderaan first, you will also be the first to know, since your mother will undoubtedly contact you with the news."

"Good." She scowls just to make sure I get the message, grabs a bland synthetic-egg-and-cheese sandwich from the kitchen countertop, pours herself a mug of Alderaanian blue tea (her favorite) from the other dispenser, and takes her leave.

And while we are talking about dispensers, I have an urgent appointment with the one I have been standing in front of for the past three minutes or so. Caf is first on the agenda. Strong, black caf, because my temper is approaching the boiling point and anything less will not suffice. Finally, I press the button, waiting with almost childish anticipation for the liquid energy to come pouring out into my cup...

I am one of the few beings fortunate enough to have known Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi for a number of years. One of his favorite phrases, besides "I have a bad feeling about this," was "I don't believe in luck," reflecting a Jedi belief that Master Kenobi adopted with gusto. Right at the moment, though, however wise he may be, I am inclined to think that Obi-Wan is wrong on that point. Only luck of the darkest, scummiest, most horrible sort would cause the caf machine to explode in my face at the very moment I go to to use it.

I am spluttering with rage, and pain, and the fact that extremely hot caf has gone splashing straight into my eyes. The mess hall is dead silent, save for the sizzle of the machine's remains. Nobody moves or talks. I find it hard to believe that anyone is breathing. My dress is soiled beyond repair. I am fairly sure I will have burns requiring a medbay visit from the scalding caf all over my face and chest. I am so angry I cannot even choke out an order to have a new caf machine brought from the supply stores, if there even is a new caf machine to be had. As soon as I have wiped enough of the beverage out of my eyes that they won't sting terribly, I open them to reveal a dozen or so faces all staring at me, looking positively petrified. As well they should be! For stars' sake, the one morning I need my caf the most, the machine blows up! All over me! The universe seems hells-bent on keeping me from my caf, even if it has to destroy the machine to do it!

"Who is responsible for this?!" I roar at nobody in particular. "Who, in the nine hells of Corellia, caused this to happen? I don't care if it was a prank, I don't care if it was negligence on the part of the droids, I just want this cleaned up RIGHT NOW!" The silence holds for another unbearably tense moment, then the storm breaks. Everyone is moving and talking and apologizing at once. I simply stand there, breath heaving furiously, fragments of plastoid-foam cup in hand, hot caf still trickling down the front of my dress. So much for Fulcrum's help; this dress will be stained for life, or at least until it gets tossed in the incinerator.

"Senator, I think I have something that could help…" The wet-sounding voice from behind me is unmistakably Ackbar's. I turn around to face him, intending to apologize profusely for taking such a long time and also for my disheveled appearance. But instead of a disapproving Admiral, I see a smiling Mon Cal savior taking pity on his supremely frazzled friend, because what he is holding out for me to take is the very thing I need most right now.

Ackbar is handing me a whole, undamaged, steaming cup of caf.

A/N: Sorry about the long wait! I *might* be able to get up one chapter a weekend, on any story, for the time being. School is impending, so my time to write will be significantly reduced starting next week. I don't intend to become one of those authors who hasn't updated in two or three years, but don't expect frequent updates either. Again, I'm sorry, but real life calls!

Oh, and by the way, "plastoid-foam" = Styrofoam. And flamm retardant = the stuff you find inside a fire extinguisher.