Chapter 3

When Slake reached the rank of 1st Lieutenant, not long after she joined Obsidian, Logistics summoned her to a strange, well-appointed room in the Star Destroyer's bridge tower. The room was wood-paneled, softly lit, and smelled like saffron. It was entirely different from the typical utilitarian design of a Venerator class Star Destroyer. Upon entering the room, a blandly attractive female officer approached Slake and told her that she was being fitted for dress grays.

"I already have dress grays," Slake protested, eager to get back to the sims. At the time, she was very close to having the Empire-wide record for kills and speed on all 130 modules.

"You don't have tailored dress grays, Lieutenant. You should be proud. The Empire only approves these for pilots with political futures."

Slake must have scowled. The woman didn't speak to her for the rest of the fitting.

Now, in her own private quarters, Slake checks her appearance in her full-size mirror. Her uniform is crisp with clean lines at her hips and shoulders. The hat has never set well on her coarse, thick curls, but her mocha skin contrasts pleasantly with the dull imperial gray. The uniform does an effective job of hiding her curves, and while she would much rather be in her flight suit, Slake does appreciate the Empire's sense of modesty. Especially since her dumb body fights that modesty at every opportunity.

She finds herself thinking of that moron in the brig again.

Eleven. Correction: since she submitted the paperwork for his reassignment to the Interceptors, he's now Obsidian Four.

When Roderick is released tomorrow morning, she will inform him of his promotion. She reminds herself that she's not actually looking forward to seeing him again. That her own stupid biology is interfering with her focus, her job.

Promoting him was a mistake, and Slake hates making mistakes. But she's already committed to her decision. Going back on it now would call into question all her future personnel decisions. And with Credenzo out there, frustrated at being passed over for Interceptors once more, playing politics, Slake can't afford to display vulnerability.

Slake hates this part of being a Captain. She just wants to kill X-wings.

A sudden knock at her door startles Slake. She composes herself. "Enter," she says casually.

Major Tav steps in, wearing his own dress grays. He looks far more at home in this ceremonial ensemble than in his flight suit. Similarly, while Tav is a good major in the field, he's best in these more formal situations, maneuvering the give and take of the Avenger's executive officer class. He is an expert at what he calls "managing up" to put Obsidian Squadron in the most plum, high-visibility assignments.

While Tav defers to Slake during the sorties, she relies on him to steer her through the wine and hors d'oeuvres soirees, like the one they're about to attend on the executive observation deck.

When the door to Slake's quarters closes shut behind him, Tav executes a flourishing bow, removing his hat. "Baroness," says Tav, smirking. "A vision of beauty as always."

She grins at her CO, rolling her eyes. "Sir." She knows for a fact that Tav simply is not interested in women. That's why she trusts him. In the back of her mind, she also knows that his preferences in carnal matters are likely what's keeping him from achieving his ambitions.

"Would you care to escort me to the reception?"

"Why, Major, do you not know how to get there yourself?" She flashes her teeth at him, tongue firmly planted in her cheek.

"Careful, Slake…" Tav winks at her. "Otherwise, I may have to come clean and tell everyone how I've carried you in battle all these years."

"And do you think everyone would believe you?"

Finished bantering, Tav narrows his gaze. "They would."

Slake stands to attention on reflex, their hierarchy of superior and subordinate restored.

Tav turns and opens the door and Slake falls into step next to him. They move through the tight hallways of the officers' dormitory and make their way to the turbolift.

"I was surprised that you chose Roderick for the interceptor group."

Slake's throat tightens. Here it is. Time to defend her own inexplicable actions. "His skills are strong. Particularly in his attack angles and power management. He knows when to deviate from formation and protect our bomber assets."

"Mm," says Tav after a beat. "Remind me. How many kills did he notch?"

Slake blushes and leans back from Tav a half step. "Zero, sir."

"I watched the footage. You're correct in your assessment. But go back and review what happened with that last Rebel X-wing. Did Roderick hesitate to pull the trigger?"

The subtext is palpable. Defections to the Rebellion have plagued the Empire since Alderaan. It's all-too-common practice for sympathizing recruits to receive their pilot training at Imperial Academies and then suddenly vanish, scurrying off to former Senator Mon Mothma's chaotic, hopeless cause. If a major of a squadron has a defection, that is their career ended. The Empire has delivered that message loud and clear through several public and humiliating demotions of formerly strong leaders throughout the fighter corps.

Did Roderick let that X-wing go?

When they reach the turbolift and the doors close behind them, Tav locks eyes with Slake. "Watch him closely. He's reckless."

"Certainly, sir. But Price is not. You and I are not. We could utilize some unpredictability in our flight group." Slake speaks firmly. She almost believes it.

Tav grins and checks his reflection in the chrome door. "Hm. Fair point, Slake."