Chapter Text
Naporar’s skyport glimmered under the cold fluorescence of discipline. The hangar stretched vast and orderly, lined with sleek shuttles and the quiet hum of docking clamps. Ar’alani moved with purpose, boots clicking on the polished deck, her uniform immaculate despite the exhaustion written in the corners of her eyes.
Ba’kif fell into step beside her—broad-shouldered, calm, his pace steady with the quiet gravity of command. The man carried the weight of the entire Expansionary Defense Fleet the way others carried sidearms: always ready, always visible, and slightly inconvenient.
“I almost sent a courier to brief you,” he said conversationally. “Then I remembered what happened to the last one who tried to summarize a Syndicure directive in your presence.”
Ar’alani didn’t slow. “He fainted. I was perfectly civil.”
“You asked him to define the difference between logistical delegation and strategic exile.”
“He couldn’t. Which rather proved my point.”
Ba’kif gave a low chuckle. “Fair.”
They turned down the embarkation corridor, the shimmer of the shuttle bay ahead. Crew and officers stepped neatly aside, saluting as they passed.
“About Ivant,” Ba’kif began.
Ar’alani sighed. “Thrawn’s Ivant. Don’t remind me. I’m fond of him, but I don’t have time to acclimate Thrawn’s legacy project. I’ve got patrol sectors screaming for reinforcements and the Xodlak demanding audits.”
“That’s precisely why the Families decided to take initiative,” Ba’kif said, his tone bland but his eyes glinting with amusement.
“Ah. Decided. My favorite euphemism. Who did they saddle me with?”
“Not you. Him.”
She frowned. “Explain.”
“The Syndicure has appointed two officers to assist Ivant in his ‘cultural integration.’ One of them is Kres'ten'tarthi.”
Ar’alani stopped short. “Stent? Stars preserve us. What did he do this time?”
Ba’kif’s mouth curved faintly. “He corrected a council observer’s tactical analysis. In public. During a broadcast session.”
“Of course he did.” She resumed walking, rubbing at her temple. “And the other?”
“From your former family. Irizi’ser’ali.”
“Zisera,” Ar’alani muttered. “I should’ve guessed.”
“You know her.”
“She trained under one of my bridge officers before the Irizi recalled her. Sharp as a vibroblade, temperament of one too. What’s her offense?”
Ba’kif ticked them off on invisible fingers. “Disobeyed a direct retreat order to save a patrol—commendable, if one discounts insubordination. Then humiliated her superior in a logic duel before the Fleet Review Board. Individually forgivable; collectively… unwise.”
“And their solution is to pair her with Stent?”
Ba’kif shrugged. “They called it a mutually corrective assignment.”
Ar’alani’s laugh was dry. “Meaning if one explodes, the other absorbs the shrapnel.”
“Precisely.”
They reached the shuttle. The air smelled of ozone and coolant. Ar’alani stopped at the foot of the ramp, folding her arms.
“So. Stent, whose tongue could slice hull plating. Zisera, the Irizi’s latest prodigal. And Ivant—a human whose idea of subtlety is a straightforward compliment. Tell me, Ba’kif, what do you expect from this experiment?”
Ba’kif’s expression softened into something that might have been sympathy—or resignation. “Chaos, probably. Possibly enlightenment. If we’re lucky, both.”
Ar’alani’s mouth twitched. “When this goes catastrophically wrong, they’ll say it was your idea.”
“Naturally,” Ba’kif said. “That’s why I ensured the orders bear your signature.”
She stared at him for a long second, then exhaled and mounted the ramp. “You’re insufferable, General.”
“I try,” he said.
The shuttle doors sealed with a hiss. Ba’kif watched it lift through the containment field, blue light glancing off his uniform.
“Mutually corrective,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That’s one way to describe a slow-motion disaster.”
Then he turned back down the hangar, already drafting the after-action report for an incident that hadn’t even happened yet.