Marriages of Convenience

[Taataani Meorrrei]

"jYou jincompetent buffoon, jyou've brrought me to the brrjink of rrujin!"

"Madame Baroness be reasonable, our hands here are tied. The treaty..."

Taataani's rage-filled hands found purchase on a nearby crystal ash tray, which she hurled at her subordinate. Her subordinate, being represented by a hologram floating before her, was fortunately unharmed. The ash tray sailed through his 'chest', smashing to pieces against a vase behind him. One of her manservants quickly moved to clean the mess, and was instantly rebuked by snapping fingers.

"Leave jit, jI brroke jit on purrposse!" she lied, causing her man to slink away from danger distance.

"we...still have options..."

"Optjionssss..." her teeth bared in the full slur of her accent. "...jyourrr hand wrrrjingjing hasss cossst me bjilljionsss...wjith a B...bjilljionsss of crrredjitsss!!!"

She took steps toward the hologram with the intent of slapping the taste from the balding man's mouth, realizing once again that the idiot was not personally available to receive her indignation. Claws sheathed only with deep effort as her hands balled into fists at her sides.

"Ke'ja sseerra'tu'nai...jI could bujy an entjirrre moon populated bjy dunderrr-headsss ljike jyou wjith that monejy...not to mentjion the sssmall forrrtune ssspent to jinfluence the trrreatjy commjittee. A few ljinesss on a map. A few nai'naushe' ljinesss to keep Koensssajyrrr...."

Ears perpetually locked back, she stood panting in her fury at the hologram in front of her. Her employee attempted to take advantage of the pause.

"The Empire, by treaty terms cannot simply annex Koensayr. They have to front fair market value for the planet."

"To the Alljiance!Not to the companjy! We'll be luckjy to sssee a frrractjion of that compensssatjion asss a pjittance! No doubt therrre arrre no ssshorrrtagesss of burrreaucrrratsss on Bothawuji and Sssullussst all too eagerrr to sssuckle at the tjitsss of mjy harrrd worrrk!!! We'll bankrrroll a feassst forrr everrrjy outssstrrretched hand jin the Alljiance, and oh, jI'll hearrr no end of what a fool jI am frrrom everrrjy Barrronessss frrrom Carshoulis to Cana'daarri. Outrrrage!"

Taataani suddenly felt rather tired. Her ears lowered somewhat as she sighed.

"jI haven't the enerrgjy to contjine thjiss farrce, Leopold. jYou'rre fjirred, jyourr sstaff jiss fjirred, thejirr sstaffss arre fjirred, and jyou can expect notjice frrom mjy ssoljicjitorr to ssqueeze everrjy jill-gotten crredjit off jyou forr jyourr malfeassance. Have the decencjy to sshow jyourrsself out of jyourr bujildjing whjile jI sstjill own jit. Hologrram off."

Leopold's face blinked out of existence in the midst of trying to form a desperate rebuttal, and Taataani was left alone in her villa's reception room. Only now did she notice that the vase she'd destroyed was one of her favorites. Pity that.

"Kirro?"

He'd remained at the ready at the threshold of the room, and her manservant again returned.

"jYess Mjisstrresss?"

Draw a bath. Hot water. Su'a oil. Extra rose petals.

The bearded Cizerack nodded to her request.

"Accompanjiment?"

Taataani shook her head.

"Not tonjight. jI'll bathe mjysself."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen's fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, his good eye squeezing closed in an attempt to banish the blurred curtain of haze that tiredness had draped over his vision. Though the sky outside was dim with the fading light of dusk, it was actually a fairly civilized our here on Bothuwai. Alas, Admiral Tyree was not natively from this world, and his body was struggling to adapt from the twenty-four hours of the Coruscanti day that most starships honoured to the twenty-seven here on the Alliance's new capital world. A proposal had begun to rattle through the Senate suggesting that the Alliance Navy should lengthen it's standard days as well, to stand apart from the Empire: knowing their luck, the Imperials would strike while the entire military was compromised by fatigue, and their Alliance of Free Planets would fracture into nothing more than a laughable historical footnote.

He sighed and set down the datapad, hoping to spare his eyes from the glare of the screen for a few moments. In theory, he shouldn't even be here: to spare the Both system from an overwhelming amount of orbital traffic, the headquarters for the Fourth Fleet had been established several systems away on Moonus Mandel, and as it's Commander he should have been there, as far from this nest of politics and bureaucracy as his position would allow. He certainly should not be here in the admittedly comfortable office that the Senate had provided, trying to help juggle military and economic crises. With Admiral Reshmar wisely half a galaxy away however, the Senate looked to Vansen in his place.

"Curse this damned promotion," he muttered, pouring a double of Bothan whiskey with as many thuds and clunks as he could muster without breaking anyone. A half grimace flashed across his features as the first sip was tossed down his throat, assaulting his taste buds like an orbital bombardment. There were three kinds of whiskey in the galaxy, broadly speaking: good whiskey, bad whiskey, and Bothan whiskey. It was a taste that only a mother could love, but it was one he'd have to try and acquire through sheer brute force and force of will: with the way the Empire was clamping down on the trade routes, he wouldn't be drinking anything out of Corellia any time soon.

With a grunt, he shuffled the datapad back towards him, skimming the overview once again. Many of the words were business jargon that he didn't quite comprehend; but there were a few words that were familiar. A while back, a Cizerack corporation had bought out one of the old Republic engineering firms, merging them together into Koensayr-Meorrei. Among other things, the combined behemoth had begun to churn out replacements and upgrades for the Alliance's underrated and Vansen-beloved Y-Wings; a minority part of the Alliance's starfighter array to be sure, but a critical one if they planned to expand their military quickly and inexpensively to defend their new territory, particularly in light of the damage the Empire had done before the Treaty to Sullust and the SoroSuub Corporation. Alas, Koensayr's status as a corporate-owned world had allowed the Empire to exploit a loophole, and a major component of the Alliance's industrial war machine had taken a major hit.

To Vansen, the solution seemed simple: if the Alliance wanted to keep buying Koensayr-Meorrei ships, they'd need to front the capital to help them rebuild their infrastructure elsewhere. Unfortunately, Koensayr-Meorrei was a private corporation, not state-owned like it's Mon Calamari and Sluissi counterparts. The same obstacles that prevented the Alliance from directly helping SoroSuub rebuild had now stricken Koensayr-Meorrei; and the Senate wanted the problem resolved without doing a damn thing about it themselves.

The datapad was tossed aside again with a faint clatter, and Vansen slumped back in his chair; it could have written in Huttese and he wouldn't have understood it any less. A frustrated finger jammed into the intercom on his desk; the voice that responded was not the helpful Bothan Ensign he was used to from Moonus Mandel, but rather a bored and disinterested civil servant shared by everyone in this wing of offices, who barely seemed old enough to drink.

"Contact the staff of Senator Taataani Meorrei," he growled. "See if she's available this evening to meet in person."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

The notion of bathing alone proved too daunting for Taataani, and she backslid on her self-imposed exile, requesting a bottle of Chandrilan wine and a platter of keeva fish to be substitute for real company. Her appetite proved fickle, and she settled for plucking and eating the eyes of the fish and leaving the rest untouched while sipping the dry white libation. Kirro had tended to her clothes and wig, leaving her to watch the rose petals float around her body in silence. Another sip of wine, and she closed her eyes, holding up her glass slightly as she allowed her head to briefly dip beneath the surface of the fragrant water. Her thin crop of grey hair slicked back against her scalp as she surfaced to the sound approaching footsteps behind her.

"Kirro, neverrmjind the fjissh, jI'm not jin the mood."

"Mjisstrresss, Admjirral Tjyrree jiss rrequesstjing to meet wjith jyou jin perrsson tonjight."

A strange turnabout. The Senator turned about in her bathwater, pressing against the basin's wall nearest Kirro as some displaced water lapped up at his feet.

"Whateverr forr?"

Forrda rules of order for business were outright barbaric at times. It was nearly dinner hour. Nevermind that she wasn't hungry, it just wasn't done unless it was bloody-well important. Of course, for a representative of the military to seek the company of a starship maven certainly had the possibility of holding portent.

"The Admjirral'ss man doess not ssajy."

Kirro didn't need to be an expert in behavior to sense his mistress's mood.

"What rreasson sshall jI gjive forr jyourr rrefussal?"

The matron raised herself a bit out of the bath water, setting her stemware aside as she plucked a rose petal off her bosom. She rolled the petal between her fingers, the act of which brought more of the aroma to her nose as her mind started to hone in on where she'd heard that name before. At last, she tossed the petal aside, looking up again at her expectant husband.

"Tell hjim jI have commjittmentss that preclude trravel thjiss evenjing, but that jI am able to rrecjieve hjim jinsstead."

"Herre, mjisstrresss?"

Not keen on being questioned on trivium, Taataani gave him a snarky look as her ears flicked, sending a few drops of water here and there. She didn't have to confirm what she already said.

"An hourr. No, two."

Suddenly roused from her sulk, Senator Meorrrei rose from her bath, sending drips and flower petals in her wake.

"Have mjy warrdrrobe drrawn and make arrangementss forr the Admjirral jif he wjisshess to djine herre. Alsso, brrjing me hjiss dosssjierr."

Taataani preoccupied herself with wringing the water from the tuft of her tail, her mind distracted by this most unusual call.

[Vansen Tyree]

Two hours.

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised: after all, Senators and their ilk were renowned for their strange and frustratingly time-consuming procedures and rituals; and from his vague understanding of the Cizerack, as well as what anecdotes he'd heard and brief encounters he half-remembered having with Senator Meorrei herself, odds were that she'd spend most of that time preening and grooming. An idle thought floated through his head, wondering if the Cizerack had the same approach to hygiene and requisite flexibility that he'd seen smaller feline species demonstrate. The visual that accompanied it took an unsettling turn, and he ejected it swiftly from his mind.

The delay had given Vansen the opportunity to contemplate his outfit. That the Senator had invited him to her residence, and had even gone so far as to offer dinner while he was there suggested that this wasn't the sort of swift in-and-out operation he was hoping for: not the kind of scenario where you could duck your head through the door, straighten things out inside five minutes, and then be on your merry way again. This sounded more like one of those situations where you made small talk for absolutely no good reason save to inflate their ego, and wasted more time than it would actually take to deal with the business in hand. Those kinds of situations, loathsome as they were, had certain expectations, protocols, and dress codes.

Luckily, Vansen supposed, he found himself in such situations with alarming frequency when he was on Bothawui, and a convenient wardrobe in his office held a set of Dress Greys: not the fanciest of fancy uniforms reserved for parades and ostentatious ceremonies, all white with trim and tassels and medals; but rather the grey with the sash and the pressed pleats that you wore for presentations and holo broadcasts to make it seem like you'd made a bit of an effort rather than simply stepping in off the street in whatever you had on at the time.

He'd also contemplated the notion of disturbing someone in their home, and showing up empty-handed, and so had grabbed his third most expensive bottle of brandy before letting one of the drivers from the Bothan militia chauffeur him to Taataani's door. The driver asked if Vansen needed him to wait, and honestly he considered it for a while; the idea of a vehicle standing by to aid in a swift get-away was certainly enticing. In the end, he'd decided that it was bad enough for a soldier to be driving him around; worse to expect them to wait around for however long this damned audience would take.

Brandy in one hand, and datapad tucked under the same arm, Vansen waited for the speeder to depart and then triggered the door chime.

[Taataani Meorrrei]

"Mjisstrresss, the Admjirral jiss herre."

Kirro stated the obvious to Taataani as she sat at the loveseat in her receiving room. She'd selected a wig that was adorned with none of the bangles and trusses she might be inclined to employ in a public venue. Instead, brunette ringlets hung to her shoulders, meeting the recessed neckline of a casual burgundy evening gown with tawny accents. It was a careful decision to reinforce the casual nature of their meeting. After all, he had asked with such short notice, and she had simply made-do the best she could manage with no decent lead time, as a gesture of friendship. At least, that was the complicated message she intended to provide without actually conveying such in words.

"Sshow hjim jin."

Kirro did as requested, entering the vestibule to open the door for Taataani's guest. To contrast his lady's attire, the Cizerack male wore a smartly tailored blazer and slacks, with a collarless shirt beneath.

"Admjirral Tjyrree? Mjy ladjy expectss jyou."

Seeing that the Admiral did his mistress the kindness of bringing a gift, Kirro received it for her, relieving Vansen of the burden as he escorted the Alliance officer to the reception room.

[Vansen Tyree]

Of course she bloody expects me, Vansen grumbled internally, offering little more than a nod of acknowledgement as what presumed was the Senator's butler liberated the brandy from his hands. She's known I was coming for the last two bloody hours.

Force of will was what managed to keep those thoughts firmly inside his streamlined skull; something he'd had a great deal of practice doing of late. Of course, the clutter of negativity wore heavily on him, as did the fact that he found himself so frequently without the handful of people he trusted enough to gripe towards. His only hope amid the stress and frustration that his higher rank provided was that the salary difference would cover his increased alcohol bill.

He offered a bow to the Senator as he was led into the room where she reclined. As with most of the homes belonging to wealthy people, Vansen had passed through several rooms already whose purpose he could not discern; it seemed that room count rather than bank balance was the true measure of wealth in such circles. He wondered if perhaps it was all a scheme, a ploy to ensure that any visitors would be exhausted by the time they had marathoned their way through the first dozen or so rooms, allowing the wealthy to bask in their comparative comfortable restedness.

As expected, the Senator had clearly dressed for the occasion; or at least, Vansen presumed as much, given the dress and the hair she'd clearly done something to, though it was well outside his area of expertise. Admittedly, it was possible that this was as casual and comfortable as someone in her class and situation ever got; somehow, he struggled to imagine her lounging around her mansion in a sweatshirt and slacks.

"Thank you for seeing me, Senator," Vansen offered, in the most polite and measured tone that his gravelled voice could muster. "I apologise for disturbing you so late, but we have important business and I find it best to deal with such things quickly so they disturb as few nights' sleep as possible."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

She'd barely had enough time to rise in his presence before he'd managed to plunge to brass tacks, as it were. Taataani's left ear flicked in controlled surprise, as she was more used to kneading her guests with social graces until they were in a sufficiently pliable state of mind. A mere glance to Kirro informed him that this was, in all likelihoods, not a dinner engagement.

"But of courrsse. Pleasse..."

She gestured to the seat opposite her own, as Kirro prepared to dispense the Admiral's gift to both parties in a pair of crystal snifters. By now, Taataani had enough time to place Vansen Tyree exactly. He'd been a frequent signer on significant purchases of her product lines on behalf of the Alliance Navy. While Koensayr-Meorrrei served primarily a civilian market, the military mainstays of years past had been brought into renaissance under her term as Executor. Tyree represented the fastest growing sector of her business - a sector she was intent on keeping.

That said, the timing of his arrival was near certainly not a coincidence. Already the fires were at her feet that needed stamping out.

"How majy jI be of asssjisstance, Admjirral?"

[Vansen Tyree]

"Actually, Senator -"

He took the offered glass with a nod of gratitude to the butler, and contemplated waiting respectfully for the Senator to drink first before deciding that it might be prudent to have the first sip and prove it wasn't poisoned: who knew how paranoid these politician types might be about that sort of thing. In his line of work he'd thankfully managed to avoid such people, even back in the old days with the Republic and the Empire. Fighter pilots and Senators seldom mixed, and even when he'd stumbled into command, his old Victor-class Star Destroyer wasn't nearly glamorous enough for their like.

Vansen hadn't so much as met a Senator until the end: his last few years with the Imperial military, before Alderaan, and his decision to retire. That had been the autumn years of democracy, the Senate little more than a puppet theatre for the will of the Emperor and his regional governors. It had been sad, seeing what had passed at the time for a member of what had once been such a noble institution. He wondered if the Alliance Senate would ever climb back to those heights again, or if the pettiness and self-interest would strangle it before it got the chance.

The early symptoms were already showing. The Alliance to Restore the Republic had become instead the Alliance of Free Worlds. They treated it like a badge of victory, as if liberty itself was the objective they'd striven towards; but Vansen couldn't help wondering if this was merely the Alliance giving up before it had made it all the way.

He let the glass rest on his fingertips, and considered the Senator. She was a businesswoman, and in general he thought even less of them than autumn Senators; and yet he couldn't forget the aid she'd provided to the Wheel on occasion, and to the Alliance as a whole. Those weren't actions that cultivated obvious profit, or opened obvious doors: either she was risking big in the hopes of future profits that were far from guaranteed, or she was risking big merely for the benefit of her ideals.

For now, Vansen decided, he would afford her the benefit of the doubt.

"- I'm here to help you, with a problem that affects us both. Koensayr." It didn't warrant any further explanation than that. "The Military Supply Subcommittee is anxious that we find a way to support and reinforce one of our important suppliers, but they're not ready to throw any money at it. You're a private corporation, not nationalised, and every credit they can muster is still being poured into helping Sullust and SoroSuub rebuild their economy."

Something half-sigh, half-growl, and all frustration escaped him. His eye settled on Taataani's gaze.

"What we need is a way to make helping you more enticing for the Senate. It doesn't matter how important your Y-Wings are to the Starfighter Corps: they're not glamorous enough for the casual observer to take note."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Accepting the snifter of brandy offered by Kirro, the Rrou'fai swirled the liquor around within gently, allowing the warmth of her hand and the motion of the glass to bring out the bouquet. Stone fruits, leather, pepper, and namana zest. No hot alcohol aromas. Her ears rose slightly as she sipped the gift. It was good - even by her standards. A salaryman like the Admiral must have made an effort to go through the trouble.

As she appreciated the brandy, Taataani likewise went to work picking apart the flavors of Admiral Tyree and his words. 'I'm here to help you' was a turn of phrase that usually held ominous portent among her peers, and she was well-learned to pay it caution. What he wanted was a material show of fidelity to the Alliance. It was not an altogether unreasonable request - if that was the sum of his intention.

"A...venerrable dessjign to be ssurre, but jI underrsstand jyourr concerrn."

There was something unsaid here. Her time studying up on her unexpected guest had gleaned some matter of interest.

"Warrss arre not won on nosstalgjia. The Alljiance would be well-sserrved wjith ssomethjing...morre jin fasshjion, ne?"

She had a feeling that the Admiral wasn't quite so eager to let go as he might appear.

"Not ssome rromantjic thrrowback of tjimess gone by?"

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen grunted out a chuckle, muted slightly by the glass as he permitted himself another sip. Nostalgia was an interesting word for it, considering what they were drinking: a bottle of fine vintage Alderaanian brandy, one of the many that Anpher Inirial had gifted to him over the years. They were casually sipping away at an irreplaceable piece of history, something that could - and no doubt would - be replicated, but never truly replaced.

"As a throwback of times gone by myself," he countered, "I like to think that there's still space for us here and there."

Something wistful crept into his voice and his expression, an uncharacteristic moment of openness and memory. "I flew BTL's when they were new, back in the days of the Republic. They were sleeker back then, of course. More in fashion," he quipped. He shook his head, a ghost of a frown forming. "I've flown V-19s, Z-95s, the ARC-170; a few different species of TIE Fighter; even a few of the Alliance's wing fighters, and the competing SoroSuub designs. But there's something different; something that SoroSuub or Incom or KDY can't capture."

He shrugged. "Koensayr designs endure. From what I hear, Cizerack designs are much the same. Politicians -" He hesitated, bowing his head in brief apology to the present company. "- don't think we need that. They like shiny and new. They want to invest money into ships that will look expensive and do fabulous things; and when those designs burn out in a few years time, they'll invest money all over again for the next new toy."

His mouth tugged into a smile. "What we need to do is trick the Alliance into spending their money on reliable and enduring, by making them think they're getting flashy and new."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani fancied herself a good judge of character. Within a few minutes she could tell whether someone was exceptional, useful, or not worth her time. There wasn't a method to this appraisal, it was instinct and intangibles. And whatever it was that Vansen said or did, he was doing the right thing.

"jIt'ss a good jimage. Ssomethjing to lasst. To endurre. Therre jiss ssjymboljissm that an Alljiance dessjigned to rresstorre a thoussand-generratjion old Rrepubljic could apprrecjiate."

The Senator took another sip, intrigued by the synergy they had uncovered. She paused a moment, looking away to find Kirro still shadowing them.

"Brrjing me a datapad."

Her attention restored to Vansen, she traced a claw over the rim of her snifter as she talked.

"Mjy rrecent jisssuess rregarrdjing drrawjing mapss have been, asss jyou know, frrusstrratjing. Accorrdjing to trreatjy, the Empjirre takess ssoverrejign contrrol of Koenssajyrr wjithjin the month. Whjile nothjing morre on that can be helped, jI've been prreparrjing forr the worrsst casse ssjince the peace talkss began."

Kirro returned with the datapad, which she received with a nod. Continuing to speak to the Admiral, she thumbed through it casually to find the information she wanted to deliver to him.

"Whjile jI am ssoon to losse mjy sstatuss asss Goverrness of the planet, jI contjinue to own the brrand outrrjight. Therre jiss a factjion on mjy boarrd of trrussteess sseekjing to djissolve the charrterr jimmedjiateljy, and keep Koenssajyrr wherre jit jiss. Thejy don't have the votess forr jit."

There was a hardened look of defiance on Taataani's face at the mentioning of squabbles within her company.

"Furrtherr, jI have alrreadjy conssoljidated rressearrch and development jinterresstss onto Keppaa Brens and trranssferred asss manjy of ourr besst people asss jI can. Prroperrtjy, plant and equjipment jinterresstss arre of courrsse morre djiffjicult to move. We'll rretajin ssome, but jI jimagjine the majorrjitjy wjill rremajin."

Taataani paused, looking up from her browsing on the pad.

"K-M wjill rremajin fajithful to the Alljiance. jI casst mjy lot a long tjime ago."

At last ready to show the Admiral her work, she pressed the datapad into his hands.

"jYou want a vjissjion that wjill endurre? Herre'ss mjy vjissjion."

[Vansen Tyree]

A datapad, prepared plans, a presentation waiting in the wings; clearly, Senator Meorrrei was not as unprepared and adrift as Vansen had feared. His eye skimmed the text as it scrolled past on the screen, paused so his fingers could zoom in on diagrams and computer renderings. It was heavy with terms and phrases that he wasn't entirely versed in; references to Cizerack technologies and scientific breakthroughs he'd never even heard of; all the things that a presentation needed to bamboozle an uninitiated audience into compliance purely in the interests of hiding their ignorance.

He twisted the display, his eye squinting a little as he tried to decode what he was seeing. Vansen couldn't even pronounce the Cizerack designation for what the presentation called the BTL-S8; and quite honestly he was having a little trouble fathoming where the Basic moniker, K-Wing, could have come from. He wondered if it was merely shorthand for Koensayr, but a few degrees of rotation later and he supposed that the main wings and the weapon struts could be likened to that grapheme from the High Galactic Alphabet; certainly, the craft's profile resembled a K far more than the B-Wing resembled any kind of B that Vansen had ever seen.

The craft was bigger than anything the Admiral had ever seen the Alliance yield; more on the scale of an ARC-170 or a GAT-12. It attested to be the intersect between Cizerack ingenuity and Koensayr endurance; built to survive, built to last, armed to the teeth, and crafted for a niche a long way from anything that the Alliance was actively filling with it's current inventory. The Y-Wing might be a relic of the Clone Wars; as proposed replacements went for a craft that the Alliance still almost exclusively relied upon for it's ground attack missions, this was certainly going all in.

"It's no Y-Wing," Vansen griped, but not with any of the edge of someone who genuinely disapproved. He conjured a wry smile, a twinkle manifesting in his good eye. "But it would appear your vision has claws."

A little of the tension that Vansen hadn't realised he was carrying slipped away from his shoulders. Admittedly, there was still a fair amount of it there; but he'd arrived this evening expecting a tough battle, a difficult mission that would take all his wits and focus to overcome. Instead he'd arrived to find the situation well in hand, the enemy already in retreat, and all that was really required of him was to reinforce the defenses and cover for the tired and wounded so they could be rotated away from the front line.

But where was the fun in that? He activated his own datapad, and pulled up the directory. Why just let the situation retreat, when you could chase it down and take care of it once and for all?

"If I may, Senator," he countered, offering his own tablet in exchange, "What you propose will remind the Senate of just how valuable Koensayr-Meorrrei is to the Alliance, but the Senate will not lift a finger to invest in something they see as a valued friend. They'll leave you to rebuild on your own initiative, and on your own funds, and will wait to reap the benefits of your labours." He paused, added emphasis placed on the words that followed. "If we can make you invaluable, then the Senate will trip over itself trying to buy partial credit for what Koensayr-Meorrrei will become."

With a gesture, he indicated the device he had just handed over, a personnel dossier on an elderly-looking human who seemed as if he'd just had his head pulled out of an engine housing, only to be assaulted and startled by an unexpected holo-still.

"This is Merrin Altink. Back before the Battle of Yavin, he and a group of other researchers and developers at Incom defected to the Rebel Alliance with plans for what we know as the X-Wing starfighter. While we were still a motley guerilla force they oversaw scattered production of T-65s as well as overhauls Headhunters, airspeeders, and anything else with an Incom badge that we could get our hands on; since the Alliance started becoming a more legitimate power however, production became more industrialised. A few years ago, they went head to head with SoroSuub to standardise the design of the A-Wing for mass production, and effectively they won, though Starfighter Command was pragmatic enough roll the Sullustan design into service too."

He trailed off, fighting the urge to disappear on a rambling explanation that was too heavy on detail and too light on expediency.

"Now though, there are problems. Now that the Alliance is an official government, there is a desire to do things properly; and from a legal standpoint, the Alliance's factories and fabrication plants aren't licensed to build A-Wings and X-Wings to these engineers' specifications. There isn't even a company to secure a license from, just a handful of tired old mechanics who just want to make fighters for the good guys, without politics and bureaucracy getting in the way. The Alliance is pushing for them to form something; there's only so long before the Minister of Supply and the Minister of Justice cook up a workaround, and the opportunity is gone."

He leaned forward in his chair, the brandy clasped in his hand almost forgotten. There was something not quite exciting, but certainly exhilarating about this delve into business and politics: the kind of thrill you received from shark diving, despite the voice in the back of your head demanding that you come to your senses and flee. He picked one of Taataani's unexpectedly blue eyes and stared into it directly, willing his insistence and certainty to shine through his gaze.

"Buy them out. Purchase the rights. Employ them. Whatever corporate tactic you need to employ: make yourself the person who builds those planes. Senate committees might not care about the manufacturer of the Y-Wing, but as soon as your company's financial stability starts having a stake in the fashionable fighters that everyone has heard of -"

He abandoned the sentence, point made; reclined back in his seat to enjoy another sip of brandy.

"Incom-Koensayr-Meorrrei," he added, a little seasoning sprinkled over his case. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Shrewd.

Taataani's expression was stony as she read the Admiral's datapad, her interest only betrayed in the metered rising and falling of her tail across her lap. She of course knew who Altink was, and had a stake of her business in producing aftermarket components for many of the fighters that the insurgent group of Incom engineers had developed. Vansen's appraisal of the cadre was correct - they weren't businessmen at all, and they had more or less tinkered with production on a hand-to-mouth basis, in whatever foundry was safe for them to operate in any given time. Effective for a rag-tag rebellion, but woefully inept for a galactic Alliance. How Sorosuub hadn't swallowed them whole was a small miracle, no-doubt tied to their setbacks due to the massive Imperial attack on Sullust.

Taataani had never seen them as a threat. She was able to make money off them, producing spare parts under their design at a modest volume. They weren't a litigious lot, so she continued to pick up the spare credits between the cushions. However, the opportunity to buy and protect the brand and marry it to her own large production base would nearly corner the Alliance's starfighter market in one fell stroke. It would tie the Alliance's well-being into her company's sustainability. There would no-doubt be antitrust whinging from Naboo and Sullustans, but Taataani knew where those platitudes fell in comparison to national security.

"jI'd ljike to meet thjiss Merrrjin Altjink. Can jyou arrrange ssomethjing djisscrreteljy?"

She was already on the next level in her head, planning out a rough amount of liquidated value she could extract from her holdings of property, plant, and equipment on Koensayr. At least those proceeds could be claimed directly without worrying about runaround through Bothawui. It would be a start for her aspirations of expanding her manufacturing base to cover not only any lost capacity to her civilian markets, but also the anticipated increase in military production. She'd been eyeing Metalorn as a suitable candidate to expand into, but securing the rights and building her facilities would be expensive. She would need assurances.

"jIf we can come to an accorrd wjith jIncom, jI can prressent the defensse commjittee wjith a contrract to deljiverr sstarrfjighterrss forr ten jyearss at fjixed cosst, jif a good fajith pajyment jiss jincluded."

Factoring in the value of the contract, Taataani figured the floor for her buy-in requirement would be fifteen billion credits. She'd still lose money in the short term, but securing rights such as these allowed unprecedented freedom later.

The math now balanced in her head, Taataani's ears perked and she raised her glass to his own.

"To jIncom-Koenssajyrr-Meorrrei."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen mustered a smile that came to his face much easier than he'd expected as he let his glass clink against the Senator's in salute, though more at her accent than her sentiment.

jIncom.

It would be a lie if he claimed that he hadn't developed a certain soft spot for the Cizerack's unique approach to the Basic language; the sounds they found themselves stuck on, and the ones they found themselves needing to stick an extra sound before as the verbal equivalent of a running start. It was due in no small part to Captain Raurrssatta, the young commander who'd proven all his doubters and sceptics wrong, had exceeded every realistic expectation anyone could have placed on him, and had proven both to the Alliance and to Vansen that there was more to the Cizerack than what the public perceived.

Without even a conscious thought, his mind shifted Senator Meorrrei into that same category of individuals who redeemed their race's reputation. Idly, he wondered if word of Cirrsseeto's ingenuity and heroism had made it back to the Pride, or if the classified nature of his mission had hidden his actions from awareness. Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered; Vansen imagined that such an achievement by a mere male might be difficult for the Pride to believe.

"I already took the liberty of inviting Mister Altink to Moonus Mandel," he explained as he drained the last of the contents from his glass, allowing the warm sensation of the alcohol rolling through his body take the place of any outward display of satisfaction at the potential resolution they were approaching. "Regardless of your thoughts on the matter, his contribution would have been vital to resolving our starfighter crisis; though luckily this is a much more palatable solution than the lesser alternatives I've been wrestling with for the last few days."

He paused, a frown of contemplation forming on his brow as he recalled how problematic it had been finding even this space in the Senator's busy schedule.

"Granted, time is not a commodity that your duties afford you much of; but it would draw considerably less attention if you were to accompany there, rather than me arranging transport to bring Mister Altink here."

Wryness tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"It's hard to find a paper trail for a flight plan that never even needed to exist."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Senator Meorrrei reclined in her seat slightly, another sip of brandy well-appreciated. Admiral Tyree had an understanding of how to play the game, alright. Hiding their hand would erase any notion of impropriety in this venture. This would simply work out to happy coincidence.

"Kirro, what do jI have sscheduled forr tomorrow morrnjing?"

Her husband approached once more.

"Mjisstrresss hass a conferrence wjith the boarrd of trrussteess and a meetjing wjith Ssenatorr Orruo'rrel."

She frowned. Both were matters she needed to attend to.

"Cancel the boarrd meetjing and rresschedule wjith the Ssenatorr."

Kirro nodded, making a note on his pad with a stylus.

"Sshould a rreasson be gjiven?"

Taataani tilted back the last remnants of her drink, her eyes fixed on Vansen.

"None."

Kirro's expression remained the same, but his tail jerked a bit at that.

"No rreasson gjiven. Underrsstood."

She'd schedule again with the board on her own terms - hopefully with fortuitous news. The Bothan? Let him spin himself to death on the intrigue.

"Admjirral, jI don't wjissh to dawdle."

[Merrin Altink]

* * *

"Would y' just shut y' mandibles an' listen for a wee second, y' bloody overgrown aphren?"

Merrin Altink's patience was wearing thin. Admittedly, given his advanced age it was already worn pretty badly to start with, same as the cartilage in his knees, and a few crisis zones of hairline that strategic brushing was thankfully keeping concealed for now. In this instance though, his ire felt justified: two bloody hours with the chittering Verpine from Slayn & Korpil who apparently didn't understand the premise of not interested, and had thus been following him around clicking and chirping out an assortment of apparently wonderful reasons why a merger between their creative teams would be the most incredible thing to occur in the galaxy since civilization had first discovered alcohol.

It wasn't the Verpine that bothered him per se. Honestly, Merrin was pretty fond of the industrious little buggers. Sure, their brains worked on a different number system which lead to the occasional headache, but they were fast, efficient, and apparently their eyesight was good enough to make out the pits and divots on the head of a pin. As a prospect, handing over his designs and sitting back to watch a swarm of Verpine magic it into existence didn't sound all that bad at all.

The problem was the protocol droid. Astromech droids were a necessary evil in his line of work; to get the kind of performance out of fighters that they were trying to, you needed more sophistication and automation than you could easily cram into an onboard computer; and an astro droid took up considerably less space and life support capacity than the average copilot. That meant carving a hole into your beautiful aerodynamic spaceframe to plug in one of those whistling, beeping, waddling little Industrial Automation abominations, which is what had turned the graceful elegance of the Z-95 Headhunter into the bulky and boxy yet iconic X-Wing. That was what set the T-65 apart from the RZ-1: A-Wings could get away with being smaller, faster, and more agile because they didn't have to make space for an astromech to keep tabs on all the bloody guns and jamming equipment.

Astromech droids though, they were a tolerable and necessary evil. Most other droids were none of those things. At least an astromech had the decency to look like a bloody robot, not walking around all jerky and awkward like a tin man with a shock probe up his backside. Protocol droids, medical droids, service droids, and their ilk all had the same flaw: they were programmed to be helpful. Not the genuinely beneficial kind of helpful that saved you time and made life easier, but the crooning, fawning kind of helpful that took three times as long and made everything about half as effective. The kind of helpful that responded to what it's programming determined you wanted, rather than doing what it was you'd actually asked. The kind of helpful that, Merrin could tell despite his lack of fluency in the language, was siphoning out all the coarseness from everything he said in order to shield the Verpine from insult.

"Slayn an' Korpil is the best inventor of weird and wonderful stuff tha' is nothing short of revolutionary. The switchblade tail fin on the V-19, and the astro-stabilised cockpit on the B-Wing? Genius!"

He paused, allowing the protocol droid to translate his words, probably with all the compliments removed.

"Problem is, I donnae have a bloody clue how that B-Wing stays in the air as soon as y' hit atmo. Your grasp a' the laws a' physics far exceeds mine, an' the design principles upon which Incom fighters are built. My team and I cannae contribute anything new; and I think y' already understand that before y' walked through the door. You donnae want us, y' want the rights t' build X-Wings, an' tha' is no' a situation tha' we can enter into. I will no' sell the services a' this team, unused, just so tha' Slayn an' Korpil can get their hands on our schematics."

His attention turned to the protocol droid, staring directly into it's cold, dead, glowing eyes. "We're done here," he said, voice calm and insistent. "Show Mister Slayn, or Korpil, or whatever is name was back t' his shuttle."

The protocol seemed startled; the Verpine seemed incensed; Merrin didn't care. He'd said his piece; done his part; done enough, he hoped, to keep the pestering Senate off his back for just a few more days. If there was any justice in the world, they'd let him amble slowly back to the office the Veknoids had loaned him for his stay, and would let him sleep in peace. Maybe a nap; seemed like the sort of time for that.

Autopilot engaged as he wound through the corridors of the military complex that the Alliance Fourth Fleet had appropriated. It had been so much easier a decade ago, when an idealistic group of young - well, younger - men had committed what amounted to corporate espionage in order to smuggle the X-Wing into the hands of the Alliance to Restore the Republic. They had built an icon, a craft that was as inseparably bound with the concept of galactic liberty as the TIE Fighter was with oppression. That was his legacy, that would live on for generations after he was gone: his name might not be remembered, but his brainchild would never be forgotten.

Now though, everything had changed. Alliance Underground Engineering wasn't good enough - wasn't appropriate - for civilized society. Such things, he was told, required rules and laws; proper procedures and proper practices. They weren't cobbling together makeshift fighters from makeshift parts in whatever forgotten corner of the galaxy they'd crawled into that week: this was factories, large scale industry, fighters mass produced to order rather than crafted in desperation. It was necessary for things to change; it always was.

That didn't make him like it.

He sighed as he settled down at his desk, staring at his little ships that he'd grown so accustomed to bringing with him every time the Alliance rushed them out of the latest secret base that he'd carried on even after the Alliance had stopped running and made a stand. They were old, the paint faded, little drips and bulges of poly-adhesive left behind and misplaced by unskilled youthful hands; the first starfighters he'd ever built. Nostalgia conjured a smile; weariness halted it from reaching it's full potential.

The sound of the door shattered it completely.

"If y' aren't a masseuse or a whiskey salesman," he shouted loud enough to convey his irritation through the durasteel door, "Y' can bugger off!"

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen turned to the Senator, with an expression that conveyed amusement more than anyone else.

"Shut up, you cantankerous bastard!" he shouted back, falling silent as his old ears strained to hear what was going on inside, hoping for the shuffling sounds of movement, or at least for a grunt of acknowledgement.

For a moment, he considered delegating the task to Senator Meorrrei, drawing the understandable conclusion that ears like that had to be good for something. Common sense prevailed however, his brain failing to find an appropriate way to phrase such an indelicate request.

"It's Vansen," he added, still hearing nothing from within. "I have a Senator here to see you."

A long pause followed.

"I brought booze."

[Merrin Altink]

If there had ever been a moment of greater reluctance in all the galaxy than Merrin Altink crossing that room and opening that door, the mechanic would have struggled to believe it. Every part of him ached worse than ever as he dragged himself from the chair; every footstep was an ordeal.

It was the betrayal, mostly: that someone as trusted as Vansen Tyree would consort with a Senator, and escort them to his door. He understood, he supposed, the position that Tyree found himself in. Long gone where the days of Tyrant, the young and impulsive fighter jock, who if he wasn't in the cockpit of his fighter was probably off in the cockpit of the latest female crewman to make his list of conquests. Long gone was the man whose scowl and growl was mostly for show and sport, who could send raw recruits fleeing across the flight deck only to run straight into the waiting jaws of Deck Chief Altink and his intentionally mind-numbing lectures on proper fighter care. They'd peeled off Tyrant's flight suit and bolted Captain stripes on, and the man had never been the same. It was a shame, it really was. A damned shame.

Mustering all the bitterness he could find in the folds and creases of his elderly soul, he fashioned a scowl to rival Vansen's, and opened the door.

And then he saw Senator Taataani Meorrrei.

Suddenly his features brightened. "Well now," he greeted warmly, a smile instantly forming on his features. "Why did y' no' say it was a lady Senator?"

One hand plucked Vansen Tyree's fourth best bottle of brandy from his insufficiently tight grip, the other gently taking hold of the Senator's hand, leading her into his borrowed workspace before landing a kiss upon Taataani's fingers that had Vansen's eye rolling at the archaic chivalry of it all.

"Merrin Altink," he introduced, his bow of greeting prolonged a second or two longer than intended thanks to a lack of cooperation from his spine. "Very pleased t' make your acquaintance."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani's ears rose at the genteel treatment from the old engineer, not resisting his good manners. When he kissed her fingers, the amused grin showed teeth in a display of delight. Altink's eyes were still fixed upon her soft, well-manicured hand, and she glanced back at the Admiral to share in her surprise at the white-glove treatment. Still, there was one curious layer to this oyster shell...

...as Altink rose from his embrace, the smile remained on the Senator's face, albeit with a more wry and curious nature to it. She canted her head a little, her fingers curling over his before he could withdraw his hand.

"Mjissterr Altjink...do jyou know who jI am?"

No, Merrin Altink was certainly no businessman. Not one bit.

[Vansen Tyree]

The casual wave of blankness that swept behind Merrin's eyes suggested that he indeed did not.

It didn't come as a surprise to Vansen: the only current affairs that the mechanic ever seemed to pay a particular amount of attention to were the latest sensor logs and systems diagnostics on the various starcraft under his supervision. This was a man who had, for the first few days of the Clone Wars, paid so little attention to the pilots at whom he was barking instructions that he hadn't realised the clone army the war was named after belonged to the Republic, rather than her enemies. Of course, the moment he'd realised that they were waging a war against an army of droids, Merrin's focus and dedication to keeping the clones airborne was unparalleled.

"This is Senator," he interjected, placing special emphasis on the Cizerack's title, "Taataani Meorrrei, from Keppaa Brens in the Carshoulis Cluster."

[Merrin Altink]

It took a few moments for Merrin's expression to shift to one of recognition, his neurons not necessarily making the connections that were expected.

"Meorrrei," he echoed quietly, muttering the word aloud in the hopes of ushering in assistance from a few other parts of his brain in identifying why that seemed so familiar. A puzzled frown threatened to knit his eyebrows together.

"As in Koensayr-Meorrrei?"

That parallel suddenly established, his smile reasserting itself in an instant. "Are y' the wee lass who saved the Y-Wing from extinction?" The expression quickly broadened into a grin. "I could kiss y' for tha', Miss Senator. O' course -"

He shot Vansen a wry look.

"- the Admiral here probably would as well, were he no' workin' so hard on bein' such a miserable arse. He'd probably marry a Y-Wing if y' could convince the Senate tae legalise it. Or you for tha' matter, I y' asked him nicely enough."

A soft chuckle escaped from him, a playful jab scathing it's way towards Vansen.

"Y' wanderin' around the place wi' a beautiful woman on y' arm. Would it kill y' tae smile a wee bit, y' grumpy bastard?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

It was mildly irksome that Admiral Tyree had taken the initiative to deliver introductions without being thorough about it. Of course, once Altink had heard her abridged name, he clearly was able to connect the dots, nearly tripping over himself in his adoration and fraternization. Smiling sweetly, Taataani retrieved the bottle of whisky that the engineer from Stewjon had retrieved from Vansen, and proceeded to uncork it. It appeared that Altink shared Tyree's passion for the drink as well, as his desk had tumblers within reach.

"Then jintrroductjionss arre not necessarrjy. We arre frrjiendss, ne?"

Pouring two-finger measures into each glass, she did the two men the rare honor of traipsing below her station to attend to drink service herself. After all, this was a special meeting. She handed off a glass to Vansen, but put more effort into the presentation for Altink, pressing the glass into his waiting hands, and cupping her hands over his. The Senator's fingers moved over the back of his hands as if she was noticing something. Looking down at his hands, she smiled.

"Majy jI call jyou Merrrjin? Merrrjin, do jyou know whjy jI am herre?"

[Merrin Altink]

That question made his smile falter, and though what by now felt like a century of life had instilled enough of a sense of manners to not let it fail completely, the flicker of disappointment in his eyes was impossible to disguise.

Of course he knew why she was here. Same bloody reason as everyone else.

"Y' after ma bloody X-Wings, aren't ye?"

It wasn't an accusation really; a statement of the obvious more than anything else. It was to be expected, and objectively he supposed that he'd brought this upon himself. His desire to keep courting suitors until the right one came along had seemed shrewd when he had begun; but it was swiftly becoming apparent that waiting on the fabled perfect match would leave him as old and lonely as the rest of his life had. Perhaps it was a mere myth, a falsehood perpetrated and propagated by those shrewd enough to settle for close enough and reap the benefits.

Still, if nothing else, Koensayr-Meorrrei's pitch already had two things that the others hadn't bothered to obtain: the endorsement of an old friend; and booze.

A small sigh escaped, his torso deflating from the lost volume and allowing his shoulders to slump a little; he liberated his hands from hers, folding his arms across his chest for support.

"Alright then, Miss Meorrrei. Lets hear all about how y' gonnae reshape the brand, streamline production, an' change everything y' need tae turn a grumpy old man's legacy into the starfighter manufacturer o' the future."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

He had the harried look of a hunted rabbit about him, and it was plain to see that she'd not been the first suitor to come calling.

"Oh, jyourrr T-65 model jiss qujite njice, and jI would love to be able to prroduce jit at the capacjitjy mjy factorrjiess arre capable of. But that'ss not whjy jI'm herre Mrr. Altjink. Not qujite."

Taataani walked to the desk where the bottle of whisky still waited, this time filling her own glass. She paused, a hand reaching out to the menagerie of model starfighters assembled close by.

"Djid jyou bujild thesse?"

[Merrin Altink]

To describe Merrin Altink a patient man was on a par with describing a Bothan as honest. His threshold of tolerance for small talk was even lower than it was for idiocy and incompetence. He was old; he was tired; and there was too much to do and not enough time left in his slowly ebbing life to waste it chit-chatting about desk ornaments, no matter how sentimental they were. Merrin let those sorts of thoughts gallivant through his head when he was resting because he had no choice but to allow it; and the more time it took to resolve this damnable situation the longer it would be before his hands could actually busy themselves building something again.

"Y' seem like a fine lassie, Miss Meorrrei -"

Another glance strayed to Vansen.

"- an' I'm sure y' must be, if ol' Admiral sourface here is willing tae keep y' company -"

Another sigh.

"- but here is no' a place I want tae linger any longer than I have tae. I'd much rather be back tryin' tae get the stabilisers on our prototype workin' than jumpin' all these bureaucratic hoops an' hurdles. If you're no' here about T-65s..."

He trailed off, his head shaking.

"Bluntly, Senator: speak plain. What are y' bloody here for?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

At last settling on a sufficiently handsome prize, Taataani reached for one of the model ships, holding it in her hands like a pet.

"jI'm herre forr jyou, Mrr. Altjink. Well, jyou and jyourr engjineerrjing sstaff."

She spoke in a patrician lilt, head up high as she regarded the engineer with a phobia of the usual social graces. She could certainly accommodate and be as curt as he desired.

"jI want the brrajinss of the people who made the T-65 a rrealjitjy, not merreljy the brrawn thejy can bujild jin a factorrjy."

Easing the model ship back down to the desk, Taataani took a moment to tend to pouring her own drink.

"The sstorrjy of jIncom jiss parrt of the sstorrjy of the Alljiance. jIt'ss the thrread that makess the fabrrjic. Djisssjident brrajintrrusstss turrnjing frrom a tjyrrant to gjive thejirr vjissjionss a foundatjion of morral forrtjitude."

[Merrin Altink]

Admittedly, that angle came as something of a surprise: and as with all surprises, Merrin regarded it with suspicion and hostility. Words were cheap, and this Cizerack lassie had made the mistake of identifying herself as a Senator: that meant her words were bought in bulk, and were good for about as much as arse hairs on a Rodian.

"Aye?" he challenged, unpicking her words with his mind. He picked a strand, and pulled.

"So, y' are nae interested in our designs, an' the production rights. Instead, y' want us for our reputation? Tae weave a wee bit a' Alliance history intae the tapestry of Koensayr-Meorrrei? Some corporate tactic tae shoulder everyone else out a' business, no doubt."

He shook his head, frowning heavily.

"We are nae some pawn tae be made use of in whatever shenanigans y' may have in mind. We're engineers: we make, no' break."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

"Prrecjisseljy. jYou'rre engjineerrss. jYourr rreputatjion prreceedss jyou."

A long eyebrow arched as Taataani placed a hand at her hip. So he was going to be a hard clawhopper to crack, then?

"jI have no jinterresst jin puttjing jyourr sshjinjing name on a pedesstal on jit'ss own account, Mrr. Altjink. Thjink what jyou majy about makjing monejy off the worrk, and we cerrtajinljy sshall, but jit'ss not done bjy appearrancess and rresstjing on laurrelss. jI'm afterr harrd worrk. Not harrd worrk done decadess ago, but harrd worrk now."

The soft expression she'd had a moment ago had gone. Taataani sipped her drink, and dispensed with her smile.

"Arre jyou telljing me that'ss all jyou have to offerr? A ssum of exjisstjing worrk and a name to go wjith jit?"

She turned to Vansen and frowned...and carried that frown back to Altink.

"jI wass underr the jimprresssjion that jyou werre sstjill jin jyourr prrjime. That jyou sstjill had what jit took to crreate not jusst ssome latesst gjimmjick, but ssomethjing to lasst."

Taataani walked away from Altink, her tail slinking around her middle as she did so.

"Fjind ssomeone elsse to bujy jyourr T-65 dessjignss jif jit makess jyou ssleep eassjierr. jI wass mjisstaken to thjink we werre jin agrreement on what the Alljiance jiss rrealljy afterr."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen unleashed a sigh that almost turned into a growl of frustration as it escaped.

"Senator, wait," he uttered, his voice more insisting than it was perhaps permissible for it to be, but the tension headache that was rapidly beginning to form at the bridge of his nose left him with little alternative.

He turned the full force of his cycloptic scowl onto Merrin. "Senator Meorrrei doesn't have any evil machinations for your reputation, you grizzled old idiot," he grumbled out, uttering the syllables of the insults in particular with considerable enthusiasm. "Before last night, she hadn't spared you and your designs so much as a second thought. This is my idea, and you know I don't give the slightest damn about all this political manoeuvring and legacy crap. All I care about is my pilots having the best birds they can possibly fly; so shut your gorram mouth before you make even more of an idiot of yourself in front of the one person who actually stands a chance of all this becoming painfully obsolete."

He drew a breath, just enough to soothe the fire of frustration in his chest. Merrin, thankfully, remained silent, but Vansen could see the smoke of his inner seething curling out of his ears.

"What's the one thing that your X-Wings and her Y-Wings have in common?" he began to ask, his gaze encompassing both Merrin and the Senator, but he continued before either of them had the opportunity to answer. "Astromech droids. Specifically, Industrial Automaton astromech droids. R-series droids. Most common, abundant breed of nav droid in the entire galaxy, right?"

His arms folded across his chest.

"Except that we just painted a giant do not cross line down the middle of the galaxy. Care to guess which side of that line Nubia and Industrial Automaton are on?"

Vansen fell silent, letting that hammer-blow revelation sink in for a moment. It seemed like such a simple problem, and yet the effects were potentially devastating. The R-series astro droids were so widespread, so abundantly available in the galaxy that the Rebel Alliance had never needed to spare them so much as a second thought. Maybe they had to raid a supply convoy here and there, but finding an Industrial Automaton droid to plug in behind the pilot of an X-Wing or a Y-Wing had never been any more difficult than any of the Alliance's other supply challenges. That didn't mean it was an issue that went ignored, of course: there was a reason that the A-Wing and B-Wing had deliberately been designed without such a dependency on an astromech droid; but that brought with it a slew of complications, range limitations, and versatility hurdles. When you thought of the Rebel Alliance, you thought of the venerable X-Wing: perhaps not the best, but certainly the optimal starfighter that Alliance money could buy.

But this wasn't the Rebel Alliance anymore: this was the Alliance of Free Planets, and that brought with it a new set of conundrums. Entire worlds, entire star systems, entire sectors were looking to the Alliance military for defense now. Planetary militias were looking to replace their shieldless TIE forces and budget civilian fighters with the Alliance's finest hardware, and the Alliance now had the industrial infrastructure to answer those demands. For the first time in it's history, the Alliance was able to churn out new fighters faster than it could train new pilots; and far faster than it could get it's hands on astromechs from Nubia. They could broker a trade agreement with the Galactic Empire, of course: negotiate some sort of accommodation to allow Industrial Automation to continue supplying the worlds and governments of the Alliance with what they needed, but that allowed the Imperials a boot on the neck of the Alliance's military capabilities; it would be a trade route that would be taxed into oblivion. At the same time, the Alliance's illicit and unlawful supply routes were evaporating rapidly: smugglers had become persona non grata in Alliance space, their actions no longer beneficial; and the military couldn't go out and steal from the Empire any more.

Granted, there were other droid manufacturers, but trying to develop a replacement that would fit into craft specifically designed for an Industrial Automaton R-series raised issues of copyright; it was not the simple problem that it at first appeared to be.

"Everything the Verpines and the Sullustans are building runs on an internal nav computer, and while you and your Incom boys may be supervising that standardised A-Wing of yours, it's not like the Mon Calamari can't manage to churn them out without you. It's only a matter of time before the Senate decides that the Alliance military can 'cope without' the X-Wing; when that happens, your legacy won't be worth a damn thing."

He cast a gesture in Taataani's direction. "The Senator isn't trying to get her hands on designs that are on their way to becoming obsolete. She wants to couple the innovation of the men who designed them with the innovation of Koensayr and the Cizerack. We want you to be part of making sure that, when the Empire has licked it's wounds enough to risk a new war, the Starfighter Corps has the assets it needs to give the Alliance a fighting chance, whether that ends up being a year from now, or fifty."

[Merrin Altink]

Merrin didn't enjoy being made to feel like a chastised child; but he listened, and he listened well. His jaw clenched at the deconstruction of his greatest work, but he couldn't argue against the assessment. The Incom Corporation was what it was: a relic of the Old Republic. Their designs were the epitome of concepts that had begun during the Clone Wars, the natural culmination of decades of design. But they were still, at their core, designs for the Republic. They were designs for an ideal, for a government that did not and could not exist anymore. Old as he was, he wasn't blind: it was an eventuality that he and his engineers were conscious of; they just weren't quite aware of how imminently their obsolescence was looming.

His features formed into a frown; his anger and frustration wasn't gone, but was subdued.

"This true?" he asked, addressing his question directly towards the Senator. "Or is the Admiral here transforming intae the kind of political stooge tha'll flap his jowls without meaning for whatever sort of agenda y' and y' Senate friends instruct him tae?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani let the fire in her eyes simmer a bit longer. She rather enjoyed playing bad cop at times, but the more obstinate that Altink became, the less of a charade her demeanor would be.

"The Admjirral wantss what jI want. He wantss to wjin. Not jusst the warr, but the peace. He'ss thjinkjing about tomorrow, the dajy afterr that, the jyearrss afterr that."

Casting a glance back to Tyree did nothing to quench the seriousness in Taataani's expression, and again she turned to look at the engineer.

"jYou don't carre about the poljitjicss jinvolved. Morre the betterr. Leave that fjight to me. jYou bujild the fjighterrss, and the Admjirral holdss the ljine. Patrrjiotjissm majy be out of fasshjion wjith cjynjicss, but ourr natjion needss each of uss and ourr talentss. All jI'm herre to do jiss to make ssurre jyou have what jyou need to do jyourr parrt."

[Merrin Altink]

Merrin regarded the Senator and the Admiral with alternating glances for a few silent moments. He wasn't a soldier, or a politician. He had very little grasp of the games and strategies and tactics such people employed. He did know however that words uttered in anger and outbursts had a certain kind of truth to them; a certain falsehood too. There were times such as this where his natural stubborn nature proved useful in forcing others to show their hand, and while a grain of salt would certainly be needed to temper the sweet taste of the tempting prospect they presented, he couldn't help but let it wet his appetite.

"What I need wouldnae stretch as far as a fresh pair a' eyes an' a younger pair a' hands, would it?"

He mustered a small smile, a gesture of surrender and concession to what it was the Admiral and Senator had in mind. He wasn't entirely sold, and he wasn't the type to shake hands and roll over on the basis of a few fancy words: there were details to be discussed, his fellow engineers to be consulted, and the all important business of money and legality and all those sorts of things; but despite all of that bureaucratic uncertainty, this notion had the distinction of being the only prospect that hadn't turned his stomach in discomfort and disgust.

His features adjusted into a frown, one most definitely born of contemplation than anything negative. "Y've been kind enough tae reveal what the two a' y' are planning," he conceded, carefully. "I suppose it's only fair tha' me an' mine extend the same courtesy."

Waving a hand for Vansen and Taataani to sit - they'd earned the extension of that particular hospitality - he eased his aching bones back into his chair, and began to prod at the controls of his data terminal. A few cycled subfolders later, and a small holo-projector flickered into life. Above it spun a representation of what Merrin hoped would one day become his pride and joy, but that was for now a glorified ultrasound scan: his baby was a very long way from being ready to be born.

"Y' are nae the only ones tae realise tha' astromechs might be a wee bit of a problem," Merrin explained, with a slightly more defensive note than he would have preferred. "Or tae notice tha' peacetime doesnae require the same kinds a' planes tha' supply raids an' ambush missions do. We're calling this an E-Wing: E for escort is the rationale. Something somewhere between an A-Wing and an X-Wing: no' quite the same hyperspace range as a T-65, and no' quite the dogfight agility of an RZ-1, but better suited - we hope - tae defending convoys, planets, borders, an' the like."

He killed the projection, and frowned again. "We were considering hiding a wee astromech in the superstructure, tae protect the poor bastards from getting their heads popped off by laser fire, but we decided to save a wee bit a' space an' try tae squeeze a little more out a' the nav computer for the RZ-1. As she stands, she's as good a plane as us Incom designers can make."

He hesitated. "But, hypothetically, it wouldnae be impossible that together we can make it a wee bit better."

He frowned, a thought only just occurring to him. "What would we even be called, anyway? My lads and lassies will nae be happy tae become some nameless subsidiary, if tha's what y' planning."