Eye for an Eye

[Vansen Tyree]

Historian's note: this thread takes place before the Valiant was assigned to The Wheel, and is "several" weeks after the events of the Liberation of Bothawui.

* * *

Vansen rose stiffly from the bench in the aft of the shuttle, muttering internally in reassurance that it was the lengthy transit that was responsible, and not his age. Despite the fact that Admiral Reshmar's fleet had since departed to renew its campaign against the Empire, the local forces here at Bothawui had been bolstered by the Fifth: a collection of reserve ships that was currently being reinforced with ships seized and captured from the Imperials during the battle, to bring it up to fighting strength.

Someone had kindly volunteered that Captain Tyree and his forces remain in the sector for now, aiding in the defense against border skirmishes with Imperials looking to regain the territory they had lost, and opportunistic raids by pirates and other factions, who no doubt hoped to exploit the sector in what they percieved to be a weakened state. Bitterly, he suspected that blasted Bothan, Oruo'rel had somehow been involved in the decision; and it hardly seemed an appropriate use of Vansen's equipment or experience; but orders had come from on high, and Vansen was forced to - grudgingly - comply.

His one good eye squinting as the Bothan sun pierced the clouds to assault his face, he peered arround the plaza onto which his shuttle had landed; fortunately, he'd managed to secure priority clearence to land direct at his destination, saving him the trip in one of those deathtrap Gunships they'd used to ferry the flesh-droid Clone Troopers around in back in the war.

Ahead of him loomed yet another of the sickeningly garish and over-designed Bothan buildings; given how his path was channelled towards it by the placement of guards and half-dismantled barricades, he suspected this was the Intergalactic Trade Mission: an alleged diplomatic building that was in fact a front for the infamous Bothan Spynet. Vansen grunted, musing that it was a shame he hadn't been coordinating the ground element of the assault on the planet: he'd have nuked the building irregardless of its function, purely for the crime of being so damned ugly.

"Captain Tyree?"

The call for his attention dragged Vansen's mind away from his disgruntled reverie. He turned, eyes settling on a young Bothan officer who he did not recognise, nor care to. He had nothing against Bothans: rather, his problem with young officers. He'd hated them when he was one, and so enbittered by the fact that he'd been forced to live through that ordeal, he had determined to make every other JO he encountered suffer for it, to give them the opportunity to sprout some common sense, like he had.

Not verbally aknowledging the Bothan at all, he merely offered a curt nod. That seemed enough for him; "If you'll follow me please, sir," he responded politely, turning smartly on his heel and disappearing up the path towards the Mission, his speed at a pace that was ever so slightly uncomfortable for the old man to match.

A brief smile cracked on Vansen's face, in recognition of what he took to be a subtle act of completely deniable revenge against him. Smart kid.

The Bothan led Vansen through a maze of corridors that he knew he'd never escape from without direction, depositing himself in the midsts of a series of offices before retreating back into the labyrinth. A hand scrubbed at Vansen's jaw, his eye in turn scrutinising the aurebesh lettering stensilled onto each door.

Subdirector of Fleet Intelligence.

That looked like a pretty viable candidate. Taking a moment to tug down the front of his jacket, he drew in a breath, and depressed the chime.

[Adonis Inirial]

If there was one thing his office was lacking, it was a window.

He paused in thought, musing that notion for a moment. It was certainly innacurate: there were a great deal of things that his workspace was lacking, and many of them would serve a more practical - not to mention more urgent - role than a window could. Light was provided artificially to satisfactory levels, and to a far more constant intensity than any natural source could achieve; not when one factored in local meteorological and orbital factors, at any rate. In addition, the space was sufficiently oxygenated, and the environmental controls maintained a constant, comfortable temperature.

All in all, the space that the Bothans had kindly provided for his use were most adequate for his needs. And yet, even so, he wanted a window.

Perhaps, he supposed, I have spent so much of the past few years figeratively 'underground' that I would prefer not to be reminded that it is literal in this case.

The sound of a visitor at the door caught his attention; and knowing full well who it was, he couldn't prevent a slight quirk of a smile from forming at the corner of his mouth. He fought it away, clearing his throat in the process.

"Come."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen didn't believe in ghosts; but hell if the universe wasn't having a damn good try at changing his mind. There, standing in front of him, was a man who should have currently been countless atoms, scattered across countless acres of space, along with countless other poor, unfortunate souls who'd been extinguished by the Empire when they'd snuffed Alderaan out like a candle.

Possibilities raced through his mind; he found himself wondering if there were more of those he knew and thought were lost that might somehow be lurking somewhere out there in the galaxy. It was a pointless flight of fancy of course; even if they were out there, there was no way he'd be able to track them down. It was nice to imagine for a moment, though.

Adonis was smirking; the kid hid it well, but when one of the first encounters you'd had with a person was catching them sprinting - naked - from the female pilots' bunk room aboard their father's ship at 0600, there was very little that person could successfully hide from you in the future.

Vansen flat-out refused to give Adonis the satisfaction of openly admitting what he'd been thinking, of course. Instead, he merely offered a curt nod as he came to a smart halt in front of Adonis' desk, hands clasped behind his back. "Subdirector."

[Adonis Inirial]

Adonis let his smile flourish a few slight extra degrees of intensity. The Subdirector was older now than Vansen had been when they'd first met; and yet, even then he'd been a grizzled old man. His callsign wasn't Tyrant just for the sake of wit, and every day Vansen seemed to make a concerted effort to reinforce that fact.

"It's good to see you again," he offered, but that was as far as he let the pleasantries extend. Both of them were soldiers - after a fashion, at least, in Adonis' case - and both were grown men; men of action at that. If they were to reminisce over old times, there would be a time and a place for that; and it was neither here, or now.

Face dropping into a neutral, professional mask, he turned his attention to the job at hand, passing a datapad of pertainant details to Tyree. "I have a mission for you, Captain. One of the utmost importance."

He watched as Vansen began to read, filling in cusory details in commentary. "There have been a number of attacks against our border forces. Nothing new there, I grant you; but the tactics employed concern me." He hesitated, brow puzzling into a frown. "The deployment of ships corresponds with known local pirate and mercenary groups, but their strategies seem to suggest that a coordinated plan is underway, masted by a leader with significant tactical experience." His pause was faintly dramatic. "They are testing us, Captain: probing not the disposition of our defense forces, but instead discerning our tactics and responses."

He turned, gathering a separate datapad; this time a report directly from the Bothan Spynet. "We have also intercepted reports that reference a former Separatist General who may be operating in the area; we believe the two may well be connected."

His eyes met with Vansen's, knowing full-well the significance of the General's name. "Rurrick Grov."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. It had been decades since he'd even heard that name uttered, and yet it filled him with the same dread as it had back then.

Rurrick Grov had been a General with the Confederacy of Independent Systems. He had been one of its more eccentric and problematic military commanders, and had concieved all manner of new strategems for how his droid forces could be deployed against the Grand Army of the Republic. He'd been a particular thorn in the side of one formation of Victory-class Star Destroyers; aboard one of which Vansen had served as Executive Officer.

Given the look in Adonis' eyes, the Subdirector clearly knew; no surprise, given that one Captain Inirial was listed as the officer commanding for those encounters. "You're sending me after him, because I've faced him before." It wasn't a question that required an answer; Adonis merely nodded. Vansen frowned, memories that he'd never thought he'd have to revisit rising to the surface again.

A thin laugh escaped him, but his voice was mirthless and grizzled. "Yet another reason for the both of us to wish your father was still around."

[Adonis Inirial]

Adonis' mouth drew into a thin line. The loss of his father and family had been tragic; not merely because of who they were, but because of what. They were good souls - good people - just like everyone else who had been killed in the destruction of Alderaan; but as Captain quite rightly pointed out, the benefits they could have brought to the Rebellion were formidable.

His father, Lord Anpher Inirial, was not merely a member of nobility, but also a shrewd and decorated military commander: a Captain in the Republic, and an Admiral for the Empire. Not merely in this situation, but as part of the Rebel Alliance as a whole, his contributions would have proved invaluable, and could have turned the tide; or at least provided the Rebels with another advantage - they were desperately short on those.

"Unfortunately," he said, managing to keep the emotions that his thoughts aroused in him from displaying outwardly, "The Rebel Alliance will have to merely make do with us."

A glint of something - a smile perhaps? - ghosted across Adonis' expression for an instant. "Assuming you are willing to make an exception to one of your cardinal rules, of course. I believe it was something along the lines of 'no frakking bureaucrats on my frakking bridge', or there abouts?"

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen couldn't help the silent chuckle at hearing his own harsh and crass words repeated with such calm, poise, and elloquence. The notion of having Adonis on his bridge was partly responsible as well; while he had never served with Adonis personally, he had served under Adonis' father for more years than he cared to recall, and in turn Anpher's eldest son - Pharos - had served under him.

He managed to twist his face into a neutral mask - though admittedly not to the same degree of success as Adonis managed - before he spoke again. "No bureaucrats," he agreed, fake gruffness in his voice. "But I wouldn't be adverse to having Commander Adonis Inirial on my bridge, to provide tactical advice."

[Adonis Inirial]

A smile - genuine this time, and not in the least bit restrained - tugged at Adonis' lips as he offered his response.

"Aye-aye, Captain."

A moment passed before he adjusted his gaze, glancing at the information on his desk. A somber tone crept into his voice and expression, but he prevented it from forcing his emotionless neutrality back all the way. "Time is of the essence," he stated, brows conflicting heavily as he contemplated the mission that was to come. "We must attend to this threat, before we suffer anymore losses: the ships we can replace, but the brave men and women serving aboard are a much rarer commodity, and are far more difficult for the Alliance to come by."

He let the sentiment hang in the air for a few moments longer, a sussinct reiteration everything they had spoken about.

He straightened, setting the datapad in his hands aside. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain: I have to go and requisition myself an appropriate uniform."

[Torrsk Oruo'rel]

Alliance Frigate Boash'ua

Hands clasped behind him, Torrsk stared out and watched the disinteresting starfield do absolutely nothing whatsoever. It just sat there. He mused that notion, puzzling at his apparent frustration at the stars' inactivity. They did of course have a perfectly valid excuse: even if they chose that exact moment to change in some way - for the benefit of his own personal entertainment - it would still take years for the vision of that change to reach him.

Perhaps he was more frustrated about his own activity. So long had he focussed on the concept of liberating his homeworld from the Empire that he had not prepared himself for what might ensue once he succeeded.

Liberty, it seemed, was far less eventful than liberation.

One of the Bothan officers under his command appeared, a datapad gripped in his paws. Torrsk speared him with a questioning look.

"We have completed our first sensor sweep," the officer - a Major - informed him.

Torrsk accepted the datapad without initial comment, scrolling down the display. With every paragraph however, his frown deepens, patience rapidly running out. "Fascinating," he muttered, an irritated edge in his voice. "Twenty particles of space dust per cubic metre, fifty-two ultraviolent radiation spikes, and a class two comet." A grunt escaped him, and the datapad was placed with more violent force than intended atop the console behind him. "This is certainly worthy of our attention."

The Major frowned, a querying look shot at his superior. "Sir?"

It took a few moments to restore his composure, a calming breath drawn into his lungs. "Appologies, Major. I have spent the last several years as a fugitive on the run from the Galactic Empire. It is proving more difficult to adapt to having a home once more than I had expected."

An understanding nod was offered in reply. "It must be strange for you to have spent so long without an active attempt being made to kill you."

Evidence of the universe's cosmic sense of humour, a warning siren chose that moment to begin to wail; having descended into a half-attent stupour amongst all of the inaction, the weapons officer snapped into awareness, eyes sweeping his console frantically. "Incoming vessel," he announced; "Non-Imperial; it appears to be Keldabe-class."

The Major quirked an eyebrow in Torrsk's direction; the General flashed a tooth-filled grin in reply. "Raise shields," he commanded, a few paces carrying him towards the centre of his bridge. "And ready the gun crews."

The bridge came alive with activity as Torrsk barked out his orders. "Communications: standard ident challenge proceedure."