New Tricks

[Anpher Inirial]

A galaxy at war! Since the BATTLE OF GEONOSIS, a conflict that the media has begun to call the CLONE WARS has raged across the galaxy, laying entire worlds to waste in it's wake. Despite billions of credits being poured into the GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC, a resolution to the conflict seems a long way off.

Hope is not lost however. Fresh from a decisive victory at the BATTLE OF ANAXES, Captain ANPHER INIRIAL and the crew of the VALKYRIE have recieved new orders, and await the arrival of a representative from the Jedi Order...


She was late. The Captain didn't have a perfect sense of time; nor was he wearing a wrist chrono, or sitting in front of a computer terminal with a convenient time display on the screen. He had no idea how many minutes he had been standing on the bridge waiting. That didn't matter; he didn't need any of that. He simply knew for a fact that she was late.

How? Vansen was seething.

Everything that Anpher was - calm, reserved, laid-back, patient - his Executive Officer most definately was not. Vansen Tyree took every stereotype of a fighter pilot, and shattered them into dust. Instead of the usual flyboy attitude and allergy to rules and responsibility, the man that his crew called The Tyrant was a ruthless and unforgiving taskmaster who no one in their right mind would dare cross. The handful of pureborn officers serving aboard hated it, but the clones seemed to relish the almost Mandalorian attitude of their XO.

For an idle moment, Anpher wondered if Vansen had always been this way; part of him suspected he was merely bitter at having had his cockpit stolen from him hoardes of clone pilots that the Senate deemed more "disposable" than veterans like Tyree.

Finally, a familiar chirp rose up from one of the consoles in the sunken pit beside the catwalk on which Anpher stood. He didn't need the operator to explain to him that it was a proximity warning from a craft dropping out of hyperspace, but the clone did so anyway.

"We're being hailed, Captain," another clone from another station chimed in.

One of the arms that had been casually folded across his chest broke free, the attached hand climbing to rake thoughtfully across his beard. "Transmit our landing protocols," he instructed. "The XO and I will meet them in the main hangar."

He turned; while his right hand man flanked him on the expected side, a Clone Commander was also present, waiting patiently to his left. "The bridge is yours, Commander Gage," Anpher announced.

"I have the conn," Gage replied, in proper naval parlance that no doubt made Vansen extremely proud.

[Vansen]

About bloody time.

Vansen didn't need to express his frustration aloud. Aside from the fact that Anpher could read him like a book - an irritating talent, made all the more infuriating by the fact that it so frequently came with a reminder that Your so like your father, or, That's exactly what your father would have said. His Captain and mentor could no doubt see how much such comparisons made him cringe; Vansen didn't doubt that Anpher said it all on purpose.

They rode the elevator down from the command tower in silence. Anpher clearly considered saying something once or twice, but Vansen had been perfecting his glower - it took something pretty formidable to rattle the bred-for-war Clone Troopers, and he was determined to perfect it.

The use of clones had changed things. When he had been a junior officer - longer ago than his hairless visage suggested - there were two rules that every nugget pilot had burned into their minds from their first day. One: the CAG is a god. Two: the XO is a demon. Sure, there were a few members of the Judicial Forces who tried the softly-softly approach to being an XO; but as the member of the crew responsible for dicipline and motivation, it always seemed to work out better if the prospect of being yelled at by the XO made them fear for their lives.

The glower was shaping up pretty well; but while it had worked out nicely on the group of infant cadets who'd been aboard a few weeks ago to tour around one of the Republic's new Victory Cruisers, all it did with Captain Inirial was plaster that irritating smile across his face: that silent chuckle that buried the corners of his mouth in his beard.

"She's not even a proper Jedi, you know," Vansen muttered under his breath as the elevator doors parted, and he followed the Captain out into the corridor.

A sidelong glance at the Captain later and he sighed. "Yes, I know," he grumbled, as familiar with Anpher's eternally patient and accomodating attitude as the Captain was with his polar opposite personality. "It's a long way from Coruscant," he explained to himself, fighting the urge to copy the Captain's Alderaani accent. "Being a few minutes late isn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things."

He came to a halt, hand hovering an inch or so away from activating the door controls. "Why are we even playing runabout to some Padawan, anyway?" He shook his head. "First those baby clones, and now this? We helped defeat the Bulwark Fleet. What did we do to deserve babysitting duty?"

If Anpher had planned to weigh in, Vansen didn't give him the chance, leaping in with his own answer and self-rebuke. "Right," he muttered, jamming a fist into the door controls, and following the Captain into the main hangar. "I'll know as soon as you do."

[s'Ilancy]

Anything was a welcome break from spending her time aboard the Arbitrator, stuck under the watchful eye of Zem-El Vymes. Anything was better than his constant teasing, his trying to cajole her into the confines of a cockpit to see if she really did get as sick as she often claimed. Thankfully those times had been few, and their time spent in combat had been enough to break the spell of his incessant baiting. Oh, he was professional about it, and respectful, but it was still there. The teasing and the curiosity. And when he knew she was least expecting it? He called her the thing that she had become so used to hearing. The thing that she had been resigned to, annoyed by, and known for.

'Mace Windu's Padawan'.

Right now, anything was a welcome break from the Arbitrator.


Now, stepping carefully down the boarding ramp of the shuttle that'd brought her to the Valkyrie, Lok cast her blue eyes all about, glad to be out of the confines of the small spacecraft. She did not carry much, only a small duffel that was clutched in her left hand; she'd refused to allow the pilot to take it for her. Her hair, still trimmed somewhat short, had been allowed to grow out a little. Not being at the Temple, she had given herself a small amount of leeway, and rather than keep it cropped, she let it grow. In fact, she had rather come to like it being slightly longer. Perhaps some day in the future she would let it go past her shoulders, even.

She wore those typical robes that had come to identify the Jedi ranks, with her lightsaber clipped to her belt.

Why Master Windu had told her to report to the Valkyrie she did not know. He'd not specified, and as ever she did not pry. She only obeyed him. He'd smiled at her at the end of their conversation - something that she'd noticed he did for no one else - and spoke a few words of farewell in her own tongue.

And now, here she was. She had become used to life, more or less, aboard these monstrous ships, and in some strange way she had begun to prefer them over Coruscant.

Blue eyes tracked around, coming to rest on the two men approaching. Their strides were so vastly different; the bearded one was confident and calm, while the bald one walked like an angry, stalking demon.

As her boots hit the hangar's deck, Lok kept up her own pace so that she would meet the two in the middle.

[Anpher Inirial]

As the trio came to a halt, Anpher offered the visiting Jedi.

Vansen did not.

"You must be Loklorien s'Ilancy," he said, with a bow of his head. "On behalf of my crew, and myself, I'd like to welcome you aboard the Valkyrie."

Standing off to his right like some sort of Senate Commando bodyguard, Vansen remained silent and motionless, hands once again clasped behind his back. Given the expression on his face, he was clearly practicing another of his intimidation techniques; but to the Captain it seemed more like his operating system had stalled during an attempt to hold in an unwanted sneeze.

Anpher knew that Vansen wouldn't flinch; but that didn't discourage him from wanting to try.

It didn't make it any less fun, either.

"I am Captain Anpher Inirial," he introduced, speaking once again with barely a pause. "And this -" He slung an arm around his XO's shoulders, clapping him enthusiastically on the back. "- is my Executive Officer, Commander Vansen Tyree."

Anpher turned to face Vansen for a moment. His XO didn't move, but there was a slight narrowing of his eyes in reaction: Vansen knew something was coming, and was bracing himself.

The Captain turned back to the Padawan, a somber note creeping into his voice. "Unfortunately, the real Vansen Tyree died in a tragic accident a few months ago. The crew was devastated, and morale on the ship fell apart... we were forced to construct this human replica droid."

He rapped his knuckles on the side of Vansen's skull, as if it were made of durasteel. "Unfortunately, we haven't quite finished installing all of the emotional subroutines yet." He paused, frowning a little. "Or the hair."

[s'Ilancy]

"Captain Inirial," she greeted politely, nodding her head in respect.

Her eyes went to the Commander though, as the Captain introduced him along with the tongue-in-cheek explanation for his XO's dour expression and silence. When she spoke next, her tone was a cautious one.

"Commander Tyree."

He was a strange one, as the expression he wore made her more confused than intimidated in any way. It was strange to see, but she pushed any thoughts of what he might truly be thinking to the wayside as her gaze went back up to the Captain.

"My Master has asked that I convey his thanks and appreciation."

[Anpher Inirial]

Anpher gave her a gracious nod, and despite her cautious tone the smile on his face didn't falter in the slightest.

"The thanks is unnecessary," Anpher pointed out, as light-hearted as always. "If the Jedi tell us to jump, we ask: 'what system?'."

For some people, a reminder of the army and navy's subserviance to the Jedi was uncomfortable: many who had served with the Judicial Forces and other sector-specific militaries felt that the Jedi - diplomats and peacekeepers - were ill-suited to lead a war. Anpher merely accepted it as a fact of life: as he had explained to Vansen once, 'We're fighting a war that was started by politicians. I'd rather our strategy was guided by the Force than by red tape and bureaucracy.'

"However," he added, countering himself. "Chain of command aside, it is an honour to assist a member of the Jedi Order; particularly one so eminent as your Master."

[s'Ilancy]

The Captain she could already tell was a genial man, easy to talk to and - as he had displayed just moments ago - in possession of a sense of humor. Which made things easier she supposed, but the fact of the matter was that most humor fell flat on the Lupine, and what was often said in jest she took for truth. Or sometimes worse. She would need to be careful, and watchful of her reactions.

She bit her lip, a ghostly downturn pulling at the corners of her lips.

"He seems to have that effect, I've found."

Her shoulders rolled, and her eyes focused once more to the Captain.

"I apologize. It's been a long journey, and I am tired."

[Anpher Inirial]

"Of course."

There was a slight shift in the Captain's smile; not a removal of warmth, but a transition towards something more paternal. Anpher didn't know how old Padawan s'Ilancy was, but she was clearly a decade older than his own children at least; even so, he couldn't help feeling a slight protective tug as he watched her wrestle with her fatigue.

He considered showing her to her stateroom personally, but quickly thought better of it.

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me; I should really return to the bridge." He reinforced his smile. "Once again, welcome aboard."

There was a pause before he gestured towards his XO. "The Vandroid will show you to your quarters."

[s'Ilancy]

The jab was lost on her, and as Lok watched Captain Inirial turn about, her brow furrowed for only a moment. She let out a long, pent-up breath of air, blinked, and turned her eyes back up to lock with Commander Tyree's. His expression hadn't changed, and if she were to guess, he seemed to be trying to deepen his scowl even more.

And that was when her own features changed. It wasn't a dramatic shift, but rather a fluid one that set her features in the same downward set as his. She only had to understand his thoughts by looking at him. She'd not needed the Force to shed light on this man when his own stance gave him away; his face able to be read like an open book. Their eyes never wavering, she felt her body straighten up, drawing herself to her full - if not rather diminutive - height.

She was only as tall as the bottom hem of his stiff uniform neckline.

"You are trying to scare and intimidate me," she finally spoke up when she was sure that the Captain was out of earshot fully.

The tone of her voice had a surprising amount of steel running through it.

"It will not work, so stop."

[Vansen]

Frustration and annoyance swelled beneath Vansen's uniform as Captain Inirial escaped and left him stranded, turning the collar uncomfortably tight around his neck.

As s'Ilancy spoke however, Vansen's expression finally changed; albeit only slightly. His eyes climbed a little in response to the Jedi's tone, and it took all his collected willpower and practiced misery to fight down the delicate smile that threatened to tug at the corners of his mouth.

Somehow he managed, and even bowed his head a little: but while the body language suggested apology, his words carried veiled sarcasm.

"Of course, Miss s'Ilancy," he spoke, in his most subtly condescending tone. "It clearly isn't working at all."

He didn't give her an opportunity to respond; turning sharply and smartly on his heel, he began to stride off in long and comfortable paces that, based on his cursory sizing up of the young woman, would make it difficult for her to keep up.

"This way," he called over his shoulder, sounding in a more pleasant mood than he had done in months.

He didn't even stop to glare at the deck hands.

[s'Ilancy]

His body language was at odds with his tone of voice, and Lok was very much inclined to trust his tone more than anything. Of course, he'd given her no chance to reply, but that didn't stop her from staring at his turned back with a strange look. His strides were long - no doubt normal for him - but in no way was she going to be able to keep pace in a comfortable manner.

The young Lupine pursed her lips, her eyes on the back of his head. Each moment that passed made her wonder if trading Zem-El Vymes for Commander Vansen Tyree was really worth it. A small part of her mind had already decided it wasn't.

She started off after him, but rather than try to keep pace, the Padawan merely moved at her own speed. It wasn't slow, and it wasn't fast. It was simply an acceptable gait. Jedi would not be rushed when they did not need to be. Patience in all things, as Master Windu had always said.

[Vansen]

While the Jedi may have preeched patience, the Rendili Military Academy did not. While it had been quite some time ago now - long before Vansen had joined the Judicial Forces - he still lived by the same mentality that governed the crews of Rendili dreadnaughts and cruisers: time was a valuable and rare commodity, and every effort should be made to conserve as much as possible through the swift and efficient completion of one's duties.

Vansen reached the turbolift long before the dawdling Jedi; and was not happy about it at all.

He waited at the elevator controls, triggering the door to shut a mere instant after s'Ilancy had passed through it. In silence, he punched the keypad for the relevant deck, and stared at the wall intently for as long as he could bear.

Finally his resolve broke, and he jammed a finger into the hold control. As the elevator juddered to a halt he rounded on the young Jedi, arms folding across his body in reflex.

"I don't trust Jedi."

There was no apology in his tone: it was a statement of absolute, unwavering fact. The only consolation was the slight hint that he was holding himself back; his Rendili upbringing would not permit him to be too impolite to a young lady. That just wouldn't be proper.

"You are peacekeepers. Diplomats." He shook his head. "At best, you're half-decent Generals; but Generals have no place commanding fleets in battle. Especially not when there are veteran strategists like Yularen, Dodonna, Screed... or Captain Inirial, forced to follow the orders from those who, until a few years ago, were little more than a bunch of holier-than-thou mystics."

There was no venom in his voice per se; the bite in his words came merely from the wholehearted belief that they were completely accurate.

"I fought under Skywalker at Bothawui. His 'tactics' crippled my ship, and needlessly cost the lives of dozens of crew: both natural-born officers and clones. I've seen clone troopers treated like organic battle droids, ordered to throw their lives away while the Jedi fumble their way through this war. I've seen dozens throw their lives away to save just one precious Jedi."

He grunted out a laugh. "You may be pretty formidable with those laser swords of yours, but I'd much rather have a squad of clones watching my back than a single one of you."

He sighed, the sails of his rant finally deflating. "It's nothing against you personally, Padawan. Thing is - we just beat the Bulwark Fleet without one of you Jedi there to babysit us. Having you aboard is a damned backhanded reward."

[s'Ilancy]

Withstanding his verbal assault, despite the politeness in his voice, was something that the Lupine had not expected. She listened quietly, her expression one of emotionless and neutrality. There was not so much as a flicker of hurt in her features, and she maintained their eye contact with a healthy amount of resolve. It wasn't difficult, for though he did not know it, she too felt partially the same.

She was far closer to the clones than anyone knew; They were her Brothers, and she their Little Sister.

She waited after he'd finished as a silence fell between them. Finally she broke their shared gaze with a deliberate and slow blink. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, level, and without the hard edges that had laced his own.

"I am not Anakin Skywalker, I am not here to babysit you," she moved, reaching around him to push the button which would set the lift into motion once more.

"... and like yourself, I would much rather have clones watching my back over my fellow Jedi."

[Vansen]

Vansen had prepared himself for some kind of protest: some kind of argumentative defense of the Jedi Order; some lecture on how the Jedi had been winning wars for the Republic for thousands of years. Hell, part of him was actually looking forward to a decent argument: everyone on the ship bar one was either a clone or too intimidated by him to argue back; and his Rendili naval ethics prevented him from getting into a shouting match with the Captain.

What he hadn't prepared himself for was agreement. Her preference caught him completely off-guard, and knocked the wind out of his sails. His mind scrabbled for a response, but he could only muster a single word.

"Why?"

[s'Ilancy]

She didn't look at him, but rather kept her eyes ahead and on the closed lift doors. She did however allow herself a cryptic half-smile and an answer that wasn't really an answer.

"It's a long story."

Perhaps not what he wanted to hear, but it was the most that she was willing to say on the subject.

"Now."

Finally she turned to look up at him, a strange look on her face that was something between curiosity and exasperation.

"Are you finished trying to make me feel bad?"

[Vansen]

Despite himself, Vansen couldn't help the slight hint of a wry smile that crept onto his face.

"I thought you said it wouldn't work," he reminded.

Fortunately, he was rescued from any possible relapse into disagreement by the timely jolt that came as the elevator suddenly stopped; and the hiss as the door leapt aside.

He gestured with an arm out into the corridor, indicating that s'Ilancy should leave first. "After you, Master Jedi."

[s'Ilancy]

"It doesn't," she countered, stepping out from the lift, "... but that does not mean I cannot be annoyed at your attempts."

The utilitarian nature of the ship's interior was so vastly different than the opulence of the Temple, and though she would never admit it, it simply felt a bit off. Perhaps it was one of those things that one grew accustomed to. She rather hoped that she would not spend so long aboard a ship so as to become used to it.

Pausing in her step so that the Commander could once more take the lead, s'Il fingered idly at the clasp of her duffel, her blue eyes traveling along the walls.

So bare...

[Vansen]

"She's a fine piece of Rendilli engineering," Vansen complained, completely mistaking s'Ilancy's critical scrutiny of the ship as admiration. "Don't get me wrong: the Kuati build good ships. But they don't do it with quite the same style and ellegance as they do back home."

For a fleeting moment, there was almost a hint of a smile on the Commander's face; perhaps pride, mixed with a little dash of fighter pilot ego. It didn't last long, but was enough to break the scowl's relentless hold on his expression; when his features reset, it was into mild curiosity.

"Where are you from?" he asked, his voice matching his face.

"And don't say 'Coruscant'," he added as an afterthought, forstalling the obvious sarcastic answer.

[s'Ilancy]

s'Il made a face at that, her brow knitting as she kept her eyes forward.

"Yag'Dhul, but my father moved us to Coruscant when I was very young."

[Vansen]

"Yag'Dhul, huh?"

Vansen led them left at a crossroads in silence, trawling through the stockpiles of intelligence reports and tactical information for something that even passingly qualified as trivial knowledge about the planet. He knew all about the infamous mathematical Givin, and how they'd seceded from the Republic because a statistical analysis told them to. But that was where his knowledge ended: the cold hard facts of what was relevant to the war, and absolutely nothing else.

That was the smart thing, of course. That kind of expert familiarity was what made him such an effective tactician and command officer. What it didn't do was make him an effective human being; and for a fleeting moment, he wondered at which point in his life he'd simply stopped caring about anything else.

That thought was quickly brushed aside. "Did you stick around long enough for any of their math skills to rub off on you?" he quipped over his shoulder. "I could really use a hand with my taxes."