Early in his career, before being assigned to the Omman Diplomatic Corps under Admiral Derin, Tabraile piloted a transport for a covert operation in the Chommell Sector. It was a grueling, overnight basebust operation that swept across the surface of the planet Naboo destroying Rebel bases. From the smallest Forward Outpost to the larger Detachment Headquarters, 27 bases went down in ten hours. 

He remembered it distinctly because the mission was led by a Socorran woman, a girl really. The Sith swarmed about her like eager drones to a queen and worshipped her for the mayhem and chaos she brought them. For every city, every sleepy hamlet they encountered, death and destruction followed in their wake.

That's how it was with Sith. Tabraile knew them to be ill-tempered, volatile beings of chaos, barely in control of their emotions or their faculties, and now he, like the basebuster found himself in service to one.

He felt a tugging on his pants legs and awoke to blood trickling across his face and an alert beacon. Having fallen asleep at the helm, he sat upright in a panic, then remembered where he was. His head was pounding, his vision slow to return or resume focus. It was by instinct and feel that he located the hyperdrive alarm and silenced it as the shuttle emerged from the hyperspace and into the distant starlight and darkness of space above an Imperial Star Destroyer.

"Lambda-Class Shuttle, this is the Invictus. Your transponder beacon is not transmitting. Please identify yourself."

"Invictus, this is Captain Marric Tabraile. My transponder beacon is restricted. Sending the access code now." He flipped the switch to temporarily activate the transponder and then turned it off. The prolonged silence that followed came as no surprise.

"Captain Tabraile, we've been expecting you," the tech said, his voice underpinned with anxiety. "Follow the beacon to docking bay 9691."

"Copy that. Thank you, Invictus. Docking bay 9691." He wanted to engage the officer in a bit of humor, making a joke about keeping the lights on or having a plate of food ready, but it was difficult to summon any joy to accomplish that. Thirty hours on Dantooine and 16 bodies was more than enough to dampen even a Socorran's spirits.

He wiped the blood from his face with a towel and gingerly pressed on the rudimentary gauze bandage wrapped around his forehead. It was damp with blood. Without bacta treatment, the injury would leave a telling scar.

An incessant beeping came from below, and he glanced down at RK-O9, who was holding up his black cap in one of its mechanical arms.

"Thanks, partner." He got up from the pilot's chair as the shuttle settled on the berth. While space was his second home, he felt unsteady on his feet from the head injury and held onto the back of the chair while listening to the mouse droid's whistles of concern. "I'm good, buddy. Let's go. Sounds like the good lady is expected. Better not make her late."

As the droid made its way to the mechanized lift, Tabraile proceeded into the passenger cabin. Though most Lambda-class shuttles were outfitted as troop transports, this one was designed for passengers and featured luxurious seats, flight benches, even a bar.

Lady Vannre was lying on one of the benches, her black robe draped over her as she slept. She was remarkably beautiful ... and deadly, he reminded himself as he stooped to shake her.

"Father!" she cried.

Startled by the outburst, Tabraile took a step back. She reminded him of the child who had died in his arms on Dantooine. Wary of the assassin, he shook her again with a heavier hand and was ready when the back of her fist flew at him. Her fingers were clasped around the silver and red hilt of the lightsaber.

Before she ignited the blade, he caught her hand and isolated her thumb from the switch. "Lady Vannre!" Her eyelids were red and swollen as if she had cried herself to fitful sleep. "We've landed aboard the Invictus. On approach, I was informed that we were expected."

She snatched her hand from him and sat up. "Lord Jyaard does not like to be kept waiting."

"Yes, ma'am." He offered his hand to her as a courtesy, but she refused it. Disregarding his attempts of courtesy, she retreated to the central staircase leading to the lower cargo bay.

Tabraile followed down the narrow stairwell. RK-O9 rolled in circles at her feet, excitedly beeping. Vannre ignored the droid and proceeded to the aft of the ship as Tabraile triggered the control panel to lower the ramp to the docking bay floor. The beveled door shifted beneath his feet, or so it seemed, as a wave of vertigo came over him. He stumbled a step before catching himself on the shuttle's interior bulkhead.

Lady Vannre glanced over her shoulder at him. For a moment her face showed a hint of remorse before the intense ferocity in her eyes returned. She turned away and continued down the ramp with RK-O9 at her side.

"Welcome home, Lady Vannre," an Imperial officer greeted, leading a trio of stormtroopers. "Lord Jyaard has been anticipating your arrival."

"Lieutenant Samr," Vannre said. "I am eager to present him with my Dantooine report."

"I trust your mission was a success?"

Vannre turned to Tabraile, who lingered in the shuttle access hatch, still struggling to regain his bearing. "My pilot was injured on Dantooine. Take him to the medical bay and have him seen to immediately."

Tabraile waved his hand dismissively. "Lady Vannre, I'm fine."

"He appears quite able to find his own way," Samr said. "I am under strict orders from Lord Jyaard to escort you—"

"You will see my pilot to the sick bay," Lady Vannre said evenly.

Samr's body went stiff and then he relaxed. "I will see your pilot to the sick bay.

"And you will see to it that he is properly cared for."

"I will see to it that he is properly cared for."

"If he doesn't comply," Vannre said, glaring at Tabraile, "shoot him."

Cocking his head to the side, Samr placed a hand over his hold-out blaster. "If he doesn't comply, I will shoot him."

With the annoyed angst of an aristocrat, Vannre stared at the officer and then made her way out of the docking area through an access corridor behind the shuttle's berth.

Samr bowed to her. "You there!" He snapped his fingers at the stormtroopers. "Go ahead to the sick bay and alert the surgeon we have an incoming injury." The officer turned to Tabraile with an ingratiating grin. "Captain Tabraile, please follow me. This way."

                                                                                    ~ ~ ~

The 2-1B medical droid directed a beam of light into Tabraile's left eye. Gritting his teeth, Tabraile tried not to look away as instructed while the surgeon scanned the readout on the droid's torso.

"Analysis," the doctor asked.

"Captain Tabraile is in excellent physical condition, though it should be noted his reflexes are diminished. Clear indications of a moderate concussion sustained by blunt-force trauma to the frontal lobe. Further analysis is needed to ascertain if diminished function will adversely affect performance."

"Suggestions?"

"Immediate restriction of work duties to permit monitoring for residual swelling and administration bacta infusion to promote healing in the injured area."

"Translation?" Tabraile asked, wincing in the medbay's harsh lighting.

"You're grounded, flyboy," the portly physician said with a grin.

"Grounded?" Tabraile said. He reached for a new uniform tunic, discarding the old with blood on it. "You can't ground me. By what authority—"

"You may outrank me, Captain," Dr. Farse said, studying his datapad, "but not in medical affairs. Imperial Naval protocols dictate—"

"You might want to pass that report by Lord Jyaard before you file it," said a voice from the entrance of the medical bay. Yates peered through the door. He crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the frame. "I'm certain Lady Vannre will want to know why you're grounding her hand-picked pilot."

The surgeon glanced at Tabraile in a panic. "Captain Yates, m-my m-medical droid has been out of s-sorts for the last week."

"Negative. I am fully functional," the droid said. "My maintenance records are available—"

"Delete maintenance records and run a new diagnostic."

"Deleting maintenance records means deleting Captain Tabraile's recent medical review. Imperial Naval protocol dictates—"

"Damn the protocol. He doesn't need a review. He's healthy. For now." Dr. Farse stared at Tabraile, pity in his eyes. "He's all yours, Captain Yates." The surgeon retreated into a nearby lab, shoving the insistent medical droid ahead of him.

"Yates," Tabraile groaned, shrugging into his uniform. "You're a sight for sore eyes. Thanks for the interference."

"Oh, that wasn't my influence at work, old friend," Yates said. "That's the effect our new superiors have on the people around them. Jyaard and his Danerian sidekick get what they want when they want or people get dead. He's killed four ... four officers, including an admiral since I've been aboard the Invictus." He leaned against the examination and shook his head. "A Lieutenant Samr his the most recent fatality. At this rate, I'll outrank you in a week."

"Vannre's ke'dem."

"Condemned? Socorrans are so colorful with their language, but the term not far off the mark. She's a Sith." Yates glanced around to see if anyone was listening as they exited the medbay and stepped in the corridor. "So is Jyaard. That crass cane he waltzes around with is a lightsaber. Terrifying." He rocked back and forth on his heels. "I'm beginning to think our promotions were a death sentence—a curse, not a blessing. Oh, to be back at the helm of a cargo transport. Bored out of my mind. Unnoticed. Overlooked. Forgotten. Alive." Yates sighed, straightening the black cap on his head. "But it gets worse—"

"Worse?"

"Word is that Jyaard is not pleased with Lady Vannre's recent performances."

"When did murder become part of any Imperial performance review?"

Yates looked appalled. "Killing the terrorists who assassinated our Moffs is not murder, Tabraile. It's retribution."

"It's cold-blooded murder when the so-called terrorists are kids," Tabraile hissed at him. "One as young as Moff Calder's daughter, Pari. Vannre even cut down a baby."

"Children?" His former wingman paled. "She is an assassin, Tabraile and that's what assassins do." He swallowed convulsively. "Perhaps she's farther unhinged than Jyaard suspects."

"Unhinged?"

"These little missions are acts of loyalty to prove her worth, and so far, she's failed miserably. Thus, the dead officers who have to report her failures to Jyaard."

"What happens if she can't prove herself to him?" Tabraile asked, stopping in the middle of the corridor.

"There's plenty of space in the morgue. If you're wise, you'll keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut, or you'll be wearing a toe tag. They've become quite fashionable aboard this death ship."

"She's in trouble," Tabraile whispered.

"Have you lost your mind? Maybe you do have a concussion." Yates pulled him along as a squad of stormtroopers rounded the corner.

"He's making her do these terrible things. She's conflicted. I saw it."

"Is that before or after she rang your bell?" Yates pointed to the freshly treated wound at Tabraile's temple.

"I just have a feeling."

Yates snorted and rolled his eyes. "And so it begins ... with a feeling. The Socorran translation for 'let's go on an adventure'. You're asking for an early grave. No, thank you. I'll take my chances here. At least I can hide here behind a few more bodies. She doesn't need a hero, Tabraile. She needs someone to put her down. Might earn you points with Jyaard."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Yates. I wouldn't leave you hanging in pinch. I'm not going to leave her. Where is she?"

"Jyaard's quarters, a section of the ship I try to avoid."

"Take me to her."

Yates rolled his eyes and shrugged. "It's your funeral."