Archive: SWAL
Archive Date: March 9, 2000
Category: AU, Drama
Feedback: PLEASE! Love the stuff. ^_^
Pairing: Q/O
Rating: PG
Summary: A transfered officer comes to the Outer Rim
Outer Rim Fleet, Star Destroyer Nakis'sgha
In the end, the advent of his desire came not with a bang, but with the softest of whispers. The man sighed, regarding the pale shadow of his reflection in the shuttle viewport. By habit he reached up, smoothing back stray strands of dark hair that had escaped the plait that hung heavy at his neck, letting tendrils wind around his finger. The reflected wraith pantomimed the gesture, its dark eyes blurred by the stars as they swung past. In the distance, fast approaching, the glittering bulk of a ship caught the starlight against its sharp angles, sending it back in pale glimmers.
Nakis'sgha, the Shadow Hunter, flagship of the fleet. The undefeated prize jewel of the sector and the shining path of his future.
His crewmates had laughed, when the orders had first come through. Seated in the cramped dining hall of the Sefu, he had been unable to keep his fingertips from stroking across the comp pad that held his secret glory. The message had come through quietly, downloaded with all of his other missives, a full half of them marked with the same urgency but dismissed and discarded all the same. Until that one. After that, the rest had been meaningless.
The shift end had come, crewmen surging through the mess doors, voices raised, the room come alive with the sound of laughter and arguments and clattering trays. He had done his best to ignore it, eating his own meal with neat haste, until the table he sat at had been pre-empted by a group of junior command deck officers.
"Hey, Crionde, what's that? Transfer orders?" There had been laughter from the others clustered around the dining table at the woman's jibe, a long standing joke that he had been the butt of for rotations. He had shot her a sour glance, unconsciously cradling the comp pad closer.
"Yeah, Crionde," the man who had elbowed into place beside him prompted, grinning. "Get transferred off this garbage scow yet?"
The temptation had been too great. The smile he had given them had been cold, a movement of the lips that never touched his eyes or any emotion behind them. Flipping the pad around, he had held it out to the woman. "Actually, yes."
It had been worth it to see the smile slip from her face; to see, for an instant, the unguarded look of pure, unadulterated jealousy that had burned through her eyes. It had been masked quickly, he had granted her that; reaching out automatically to take the comp pad, her lips had twisted in a mocking line. "You're jesting."
"See for yourself, Barre," he had invited, knowing that his smile was showing far too many teeth and unable to contain the small, spiteful feeling of glee.
The laughter had trailed away, most eyes in their section of the dining hall fixed on the exchange. Barre had frowned, the corners of her expressive mouth turning down. "Very funny, Crionde. You've been trying for a transfer for over a year - even if some ship was fool enough to take you, you think the Captain's going to let you go?" None the less, her haughty tone wavered slightly as she glanced down at the comp pad, scrolling quickly through the message on the screen.
The color had leeched from her face, then, casting the scars across her cheeks into stark relief. His smile had deepened, satisfaction providing a warm glow. "You were saying, my dear?"
"Force!" Barre had gasped. Around her others had clamored for a chance to see but she had held the pad tight, her aghast gaze locked to his. "Force, Crionde! What are you, insane?"
"No," he had snapped, stung. Reaching across the table to pry the pad from her grasp, he had cradled it protectively, as though the tiny bits of information copied within its data streams might disappear. "No, not insane. Just more ambitious than any of you."
"Insane," Barre had insisted, stabbing a finger towards the comp pad. "The Outer Sector Rim Fleet? Force, that's a death wish! Do you know the casualty rate out there?"
"Outer Sector?" the man seated beside her had exclaimed. "Light! She's right, Crionde. The general for that sector..."
"Is a genius," he had shot back, irritated. "He's never lost a ship, which is more then our dear General Windu can claim."
"He's a monster," Barre had huffed, and around her heads had nodded in agreement. "Don't you listen, you fool? The disciplinary casualty rate on his ships is astronomical. He goes through people like water."
"Maybe," he had snapped. "But if you survive a tour in the Outer Rim, your career is guaranteed. The officers from his ships can write their own ticket, wherever they want." Glancing around at the faces seated about the table, he had snarled, seeing in their blank, disbelieving expressions all of the reasons he had tried, so very hard, to achieve the very thing that they feared. "Cowards!"
No one had stopped him as he slammed away from the table, no one had said a word as he left the dining hall, but he had felt their eyes on him every step of the way. Crazy, they were whispering, just out of his earshot. Stupid.
Dead.
It had sapped the first, wondrous, newborn exultation from his receipt of the orders. Angry and sullen, he had locked the door of his quarters and, digging out a pack from the back of his clothing locker, had thrown it across his sleeping couch and followed it with the contents of the locker itself. Uniform shirts and trousers, old, serviceable, new, one set of formal dress, clearing the drawers of his stores in record time, the clothing strewn about and haphazardly folded as he took his temper out in the harmless occupation of throwing things.
In the end he had slowed, going back and neatly folding each item, packing it away securely. The essentials of life among the Fleet, issued identical to every being, followed by a bare handful of personal effects. There had been a bitter taste as he packed those away - such small, insignificant things, and all he could claim after over a decade of service in the Fleet and years aboard the Sefu. Finally, unwilling to look closely at any of them, he had stowed them away secure and left the pack, full and bulging, at the foot of his sleeping couch to await his departure. The quarters, bare of his belongings, had seemed no less empty then it had when they had been there.
Had there been fear, then? He snorted at the very idea, dismissing it. No, there was no fear. He knew the risks, had looked into them and weighed them carefully. The Outer Rim's reputation was earned, and earned well - but the rewards, if one survived, were worth the risk. Looking at his reflection against the stars, he could track the traces of silver in his dark hair, the network of fine lines that was beginning to frame the corners of his eyes and mouth. Marks of years, of rank, of climbing that ladder with effortless ease until he had found a place, a position, that he could not seem to rise beyond. And then... years piled upon years, watching opportunity slip by, watching as he petrified and grew old without hope of change.
His lips twisted, drawing down. No, that would not be for him. Not any longer. He would find his future in the Outer Rim, or die. And if die - well, and why not? A quick exit, rather than lingering stagnation. It was a price he was willing to chance.
Out beyond the viewport the Nakis'sgha grew larger each moment, until it towered above them in sleek lines, stark and deadly. It was nearly time. He reached up, smoothed back his hair once more, straightened the line of his collar, his tunic, fingertips returning by habit to brush the service scar on his cheek. The hard lump of his initiate disk, buried there deep in the cheekbone, ached. He rubbed at it fitfully.
Not with a bang, but with a whisper. The whisper of the shuttle, as it eased into the hanger, the whisper as the docking gear descended, the hiss of the pneumatics and the thump as the craft settled to the floor.
There would be no turning back. He had known it, but never yet in quite the same way, as he shouldered his pack and walked down the length of the entrance ramp to set foot for the first time upon the deckplates of the Nakis'sgha. No turning around. It was now or never.
A senior officer, more crisply turned out than any of the Sefu's staff had ever been, hair and uniform starkly neat, met him at the foot of the ramp. The woman glanced at him, her gaze dismissing his importance as easily as if he had been a pallet of goods. Stung, all too aware of the imperfect neatness of his own appearance compared to hers, he snapped to attention. "Commander Crionde, transfer from Inner Fleet ship Sefu, reporting for duty."
Dark eyes had raked over him, judging and openly finding wanting. Reality, he found, was much more disconcerting then dreams. Beneath that blade sharp gaze he didn't dare so much as swallow. None the less, she extended a comp pad to him, one which he took eagerly. "You'll find your quarter and shift assignments there, Commander," she said crisply. "We run tight ships in this fleet - especially this one. The Captain and the General expect perfection. See that you keep that in mind." Her gaze dragged across him once more, from head to foot and back again. The disdain in her voice was evident, though her expression betrayed nothing. "See the quartermaster about new uniforms. And that hair, Commander. Before your first shift."
"Yes, sir," he replied automatically. No wince betrayed what he felt, neither the flush of shame nor the stab of irritation. He did not, even when she turned on her heel to leave, reach up to pat the thick plait of hair coiled at his nape. Sacrifice to the ambition, he told himself firmly. All the same, it left a bitter taste, to think of letting them cut the plait away.
Shaking his head, he re-shouldered his pack. If done, better done soon. A glance at the comp pad showed his quarter assignment. There first, and then to find the quartermaster. His shifts would not start till the 'morrow, and the time between was best spent learning his way around.
He was halfway across the hangar when he heard the footsteps clattering across the floor, long and hurried. They came from behind him and, automatically, he stepped aside to allow the being to pass. Instead the man dropped into step beside him, voice brisk and not at all out of breath despite his hurry. "Xanatos Crionde?"
He stopped at that, turning. "Yes?"
A first glance took in the youthful line of cheek and jaw, the face of a man probably - if one were uncharitable - nearly less than two thirds his own age. But the second glance, coming hard after the first, noticed the black folds of a tunic cut differently then fleet issue, the material soft, clinging across the strong lines of shoulder and chest. Traveled up, tracking the stark black and crimson of the sharp angled lines that traced across cheek and forehead. Mark of a Sith Lord, and only one in the Fleet fit that youthful description.
Breath caught in his throat, he snapped to attention so quickly he felt the jarring in his bones. "My Lord General, sir!"
Full lips curved into a smile, something of real amusement touching the blue eyes nestled in their network of tattoos. "At ease, Commander. I came to welcome you aboard."
Smooth, cultured tones, and beneath it he could feel, dimly, the dark thrum of the Sith's power, the undercurrent of the Force that he could still hear like the echoing ache of a limb removed. It raised the hairs across his arms. "Yes, sir," he managed, breathless. This was the man who ruled the Outer Rim fleet. The one the Inner Fleet called blood thirsty. Offered the rank of Master, he had turned it down - it was said he liked the Outer Rim battles too well to return to Coruscant. "Second Commander Xanatos Crionde, weapons officer, reporting from the Sefu, my lord."
"Good. And you have your assignments? Excellent." The General looked at him, nodding slightly. "Your request was well timed, Commander. The Nakis'sgha lost its weapons officer ten days ago."
Fleet news had spoken of no battles. He goes through people like water. Squaring his shoulders, Xanatos lifted his chin. The disciplinary casualty rate... But that was fear talking, and he would not listen.
The General was regarding him, eyes narrowed slightly beneath the brushing waves of his honey toned hair. A smile touched his lips, seemingly pleased. "Yes, Commander. I think you'll do well."
"My Lord General." Not only was that gaze hair raising, but this, directly off the shuttle, was far from the introduction he would have liked with the man. Freshly laundered and barbered, perhaps, but not right then, with the disdain in the receiving officer's tone still loud in his ears.
Crystal blue eyes narrowed a margin further, studying. "Sidra tore into you, didn't she? Tight ship, new uniform, all of that?"
His mouth was too dry to swallow. "The First Commander suggested uniform and a hair cut, my lord."
The General shook his head, an indulgent sort of gesture. "Then by all means, see the quartermaster for new uniforms. As to hair..." The General's gaze sharpened. Stepping around Xanatos, who dared not move, the Sith Lord reached up, plucking the pins from the older man's hair. Freed from confinement, the heavy braid of dark hair unwound, snaking down his back to brush, silken, just below his belt.
Xanatos clenched his jaw, refusing to flinch as the Sith Lord's hand took up the weight of the braid, wrapping it once about the man's wrist before letting it slide free. The tie at the end of the tail was tugged out, fingers combing through the strands, making him shiver. Just above the small of his back the General gathered the plaits again, fastening the tie neatly back into place. "There," the man pronounced, sounding satisfied. "Wear it like that, Commander."
It took him twice to find his voice and he could see the amusement in the General's eyes as the Sith stepped back around to face him. "It's not Fleet regulation, my lord."
"No." Blue eyes flashed slightly, the wry touch of a humorless grin sending cold shivers down his spine. "It's my regulation. Wear it like that."
His voice was starting to crack. "Yes, Lord General."
"And that's enough of that," the Sith snapped, his tone brisk rather then irritated. "Here, on my ship, it's General Kenobi. Understood, Xanatos?"
"Yes, sir." He didn't, couldn't, dare to say more.
The General smiled slightly. "Good. Welcome aboard, Commander. Dismissed."