The whirring of the lift was all Lieutenant Marric Tabraile could hear above the pounding of his heart. He stood at attention and tried to breathe against the fitted collar of his Imperial Navy uniform. His brown skin accentuated the gray tunic as he ran his hand across the breast of the fabric to smooth a wrinkle. 

"We're dead men!" Yates hissed, standing beside him. "You've undone us this time, Tabraile."

"The Grand Moff is dead. Moff Dhube is dead. Moff Bristel is submerged in enough bacta fluid to resurrect a dead sun." Tabraile adjusted the second lieutenant insignia plaque at his breast. "Of the four transports that left Dantooine, we're the only one that made it back to Omman. If we had answered that transmission, the Rebels would have found us, and we'd be dead, too. We saved Moff Calder's life. So you're welcomed."

Sweating profusely, as he always did in difficult situations, Yates wiped a hand across his pale forehead and tucked his thinning blond hair beneath the black officer's cap. "I'm so sick and tired of following you around on your reckless adventures. I knew being partnered with you in flight school would not end well for me."

"And I'm sick and tired of dragging your dead weight around. Listening to you take credit when things go right or tolerating your whining when they don't."

"You really are broken, Tabraile, aren't you?" Ten centimeters shorter than his partner, Yates jabbed his finger in the air in front of Tabraile's face. "It's like you have a death wish because of your bro—"

"If you want to live long enough to get through this review, you better not say another word!" Tabraile glared down into Yates' face. "Now do what you've always done. Keep your mouth shut, and let me do the talking."

Chided, Yates dropped his eyes to the deck and took his place beside his partner.

The lift slowed to a stop, and the door slid open into the executive hallway. Tensions were unusually high after the assassinations of two Imperial Moffs and so was the need for security. In squads of four and six, stormtroopers patrolled the annex hallway with weapons drawn. Others were positioned around an E-WEB emplacement turret.

"Lieutenant Tabraile? Lieutenant Yates? I'm Ensign Hammond. I've been waiting for you." Dressed in a black uniform and wearing round, wire spectacles, the junior officer addressed them without looking up from her datapad. "This way please."

Eyeing the heavy artillery, Tabraile glanced at a slack-jawed Yates, who swallowed convulsively. Hammond punched the keypad code, and another door slid open. She moved aside and gestured for them to go in.

Tabraile took a deep breath and proceeded into the tribunal chamber. He had been there on numerous occasions to answer for disciplinary infractions. His assignment to Imperial Headquarters on Omman had been fraught with charges of insubordination and dereliction of duty. Admiral Derin had made it clear he was not fond of him or his Socorran heritage.

The admiral sat at the center console on a raised platform. An unfamiliar man in a black uniform and a hooded woman dressed in black robes sat to his right. There was a frigid air about them, as if the temperature at that end of the table was ten degrees cooler than elsewhere in the room. At the other end of the table, Moff Forrest Calder sat with his wife and 6-year old daughter. Wearing a pink flight suit, the child jumped down from the Moff's lap and sprinted across the chamber floor.

"Tabraile!" she shouted and leaped into his arms.

"There's my wingman! Tactical Officer Pari," he said with a grin after saluting her. He brushed cinnamon crumbs from the corners of her mouth. "Rishi honeystix for breakfast? Again? Keep this up, you're never going to fit inside a TIE Fighter."

"If Yates can fit, so can I." She pointed to the nervous co-pilot squirming from side to side beside them.

"Pari, Lieutenant Tabraile is here for business," Moff Calder said, prying her from Tabraile's neck. His green eyes were calm, but there was an anxiousness in his voice. "I'm sorry about this, Lieutenant. Lord Jyaard insisted. There are questions about our escape." The Moff was young, overwhelmed by the burden of power and the perils his responsibilities brought for himself and his family. "My family is indebted to you. I'm indebted to you."

"It was my duty, Moff Calder, and my privilege," Tabraile said quietly.

"Our duty," Yates interjected. "Our privilege."

"You have my thanks, gentlemen." Calder nodded respectfully. Taking his daughter by the hand, he led her back to the table to her mother.

"Lieutenants," Admiral Derin said, calling the room to order. "Thank you for coming."

"As if we had any choice in the matter," Yates muttered under his breath.

"Yesterday evening you were tasked with transporting Moff Calder and his family from the planet Dantooine to Omman. Of the four transports to recover Imperial personnel, yours is the only one to return unharmed. Do you care to explain?"

Tabraile resented the unspoken accusation in the admiral's voice. "My explanation is a job well done, sir."

Yates passed gas, a curious habit he had developed during flight school when under stress. "Admiral, the Rebels were triangulating our communications. We thought it best to maintain radio silence until—"

"Was it your idea, Lieutenant Yates?"

A second bout of wind quietly fluttered from Yates' butt cheeks.

"It was my idea," Tabraile replied, "and so was the idea of going off course."

"So you admit leaving the itinerary and proceeding into an area of space known for illegal trafficking." Derin stared down his hawkish nose. "Are you smugglers?"

"No!" Yates pleaded. "Admiral—"

"I'm the son of a smuggler," Tabraile said. "You already know that. Being Socorran, I spent my childhood in those space lanes."

"You say that with such an air of pride, Lieutenant," Derin sneered.

"I am proud of it, Admiral Derin. And no matter how much the Imperial Navy tries to shame me for my heritage, I will not be made to disparage who I am or where I came from."

"This is why you are nothing more than a third-tier transport pilot," Derin said between clenched teeth.

"A flaw of your leadership, Admiral Derin" said the man in the black uniform. Though he wore no insignia, his voice resonated through the room with authority. "This third-tier transport pilot saved the life of an Imperial Moff, while three others are dead."

"Lord Jyaard," Derin protested, "Moff Slater—"

"Has died," Jyaard interrupted, "only moments ago." Rising from his chair, the Imperial intelligence officer straightened the cloak that fell over his shoulders. "I am satisfied. Congratulations on your promotion, Grand Moff Calder. You have your orders. Now please comply." Jyaard tapped the polished floor with the butt of a silver cane. "Lady Vannre, attend me."

Without further commentary, he left the chamber through a rear exit. The hooded woman followed, but not before casting a final, fleeting glance at Tabraile before the door closed behind them.

Holding his wife's hand, the newly appointed Grand Moff rose from his chair. "It is my honor to bestow the rank of captain on each of you." He bent down and handed a packet to Pari. The girl raced around the table to present the insignia plaques to the stunned officers. "Forgive the informality, gentlemen, but your orders are being written as we speak."

Tabraile sank down to a knee as Pari ran to him with the plaques clasped in her small hands. "Informality? This is the best promotion ceremony ever."

"Come, Pari," Calder said, extending his hand out for her. "These officers are expected elsewhere, and so are we."

Pari frowned. "Good bye, Tab—" She hesitated when he drew in a sharp breath.

"Remember what I taught you," Tabraile whispered. "Socorrans never say goodbye. They say ..."

"Doaba ol'val tru," she recited.

"That's right. Peace and hope, little one." He patted her on the back as she skipped away to rejoin her parents at the rear exit. Standing between them and Admiral Derin, Pari waved and blew a kiss, which he pretended to catch as the lift doors slid closed.

"Did that just happen?" Yates stared at the plaque in disbelief.

"Uldyr!" Tabraile swore. He jumped when his co-pilot pinched his leg. "Why'd you pinch me?"

"I tried pinching myself to see if I'd wake up, but I didn't; so I pinched you." Yates looked up at him. "This is really happening."

The door to the corridor hissed open behind them. Hammond peered in with a smile. "Captain Tabraile, I've been assigned to take you to your new assignment. Captain Yates, your orders are still being processed. Please follow me."

"They're splitting us up?" Yates whispered nervously.

"Certainly sounds like it." Tabraile pulled him along by the sleeve. He hurried to catch up to the Ensign, who led them through the restricted corridor to a different elevator that was connected directly to the docking station.

"Captain Tabraile, I'll need you to sign here and here," Hammond said, walking off the lift and into the frenzy of activity in the bay. She handed the tablet to Tabraile, indicated where he was to sign, and then exchanged the tablet for a communications fob.

Tabraile stared at it. "A ships' comlink?"

"Direct uplink to your new ship, Captain." She pointed to the craft sitting on the berth.

The Lambda-class Imperial shuttle still had yellow shipping tape wrapped around its landing struts. The tri-fold wings were retracted to lessen the craft's docking footprint and were covered in protective packing.

"I-is that a T-5?" Yates stammered.

"A T-5a, modified," Hammond corrected.

"Siener Fleet Systems—Abecederian line?"

"Top of the line. With Cygnus deflector shields, four double-laser cannons. Two front-mounted and two wing-mounted." Hammond pointed to the impressive armaments. "The rear-mounted double-lasers are droid-assisted or gunner accessible."

Yates wiped a bit of drool from his mouth. "If this beauty is your new assignment, I wonder what my—"

Hammond tapped the tablet screen with her fingernail. "Captain Yates, welcome to the bridge crew of the Imperial Star Destroyer Invictus, Lord Jyaard's personal command carrier. Give me a moment. I'll need to arrange your transport." She stepped away to consult with another dock officer.

Tabraile reluctantly pulled his eyes from the shuttle. "Assignment to the Invictus? Talk about making the big leagues." He snorted and glanced down at his co-pilot. "Yates, are you crying?"

"This is really happening, Tabraile." Yates wiped at his tears and grabbed his partner's shoulder. "I'm so sorry about what I said in the elevator. It was totally out of bounds. I didn't mean—"

"Captain Yates!" Ensign Hammond said breathlessly. She jumped down from a small skiff. "Lord Jyaard is asking for you."

"Me?" Yates squealed, passing gas in terror.

"He wants to return to the Invictus immediately with Grand Moff Calder. He's requesting you to fly his private shuttle." Hammond seemed flustered, her face flushed. "We have to go, sir. Right now."

Yates face darkened. "Tabraile?"

"Chance of a lifetime, Yates. Don't blow it." Tabraile saluted him. "Clear skies, Captain Yates."

"Clear skies, Captain Tabraile." Yates saluted him back halfheartedly, too emotional to say more. He hopped onto the skiff and waved goodbye as Ensign Hammond directed the driver to take them into another section of the docking bay.

Yates was a pessimist, a complainer, and he snored. At times, he was a coward, but four years at the academy and another two serving together had made him Tabraile's only friend.

The joy of their unexpected promotion was overshadowed by a sense of loneliness. Distracted by their sudden separation, he didn't notice the mouse droid beeping at him until the tenacious unit deliberately bumped into his foot.

Tabraile sank down to a knee. "Yeah, that's me. Captain Tabraile." He could hardly believe his own voice. "You're called RK-O9, and you're assigned to this shuttle? Well who's calling the shots?" A familiar black robe came into view. He followed the flowing fabric up to the face beneath the hood. "Lady Vannre?" He stood at attention and saluted. "Captain Marric Tabraile, at your service, ma'am."

She was Danerian, her complexion darker than his, flawless beneath the cowl. A tribal identification, a horizontal, white scar cut across her face, just beneath her eyes and bridged her wide nose. Framing an angular face, thick, reddish hair was twisted into dreadlocks that hung heavy across her shoulders.

"Do you carry a blaster?" Lady Vannre asked.

"No, ma'am, but I can requisition one."

"The nature of my work is dangerous, Captain. You should be armed at all times, and with something more substantial than the standard hold-out blaster issued to officers. Do you possess such a weapon?"

Sensing that his manhood was in question, Tabraile bowed his head at the potential slight. "Yes, Lady Vannre, I do."

"Then fetch it. We must be underway within the hour." She walked to the back of the shuttle and boarded. The mouse droid trailed behind her.

Tabraile dropped the salute with an unsettled sense of foreboding in his gut. "Yes, ma'am."