The Courtship of Vansen Tyree

[Taataani Meorrrei]

It occurred to her, right about the time that she hit her orgasm, that it had been a particularly good two days. As Taataani's throaty vociferations and shrieks melted into sated sighs and purrs, she pitched forward, propping her hands against Kirro's freshly-waxed chest. All save for one errant chest hair that had escaped notice from the beautician, hiding in the no-man's-land near the nipple. With an impish twinkle in her eyes, she plucked it.

"Kosa!"

Kirro attempted a wounded look, but he too succumbed to the afterglow, his purr almost harmonizing with that of his mistress.

"That..."

Another sigh as the Senator arched her back, now straddling her youngest husband fully upright. She held to her lips the finger that still had Kirro's errant single chest hair, and blew it away in a puff of air.

"...wass loveljy, Kirro. jI rrealljy sshould sskjip brreakfasst and head sstrrajight forr dessserrt morre often."

Kirro, for his part, wasn't quite ready to dispense with the most important meal of the day. Reaching to the bedside stand, his hand found purchase on the sajoi bowl, and he helped himself to a bit of live repast. When the sound of crunching bones had diminished he sat up on his shoulders.

"The meetjing went well, then?"

Taataani's eyes narrowed and she grinned broadly.

"Sspec-tac-u-larr, darrljing. jI can't beljieve mjy good forrtune. Two dajyss ago, jI wouldn't have been ssurrprrjized jif the underrworrld opened wjide underrneath me and sswallowed me whole. Now? Now we'rre pojissed to trruljy domjinate."

The matron dismounted her bearded beau, helping herself to a sajoi as she rolled off the bed and onto her feet. She cinched a silk robe around her middle, and threw open the drapes of her bedroom window to let the sunlight in. Kirro sat up fully at last, putting right his mussed-up hair.

"jI ssupposse that'ss a blesssjing frrom Saanjarra then? That Admjirral Tjyrree called when he djid?"

Huh.

Taataani's expression turned thoughtful.

"jI ssupposse jI sshould conssjiderr extendjing mjy grratjitude to hjim. Have a box of mjy cjigarrss ssent to hjiss offjice."

No. No, that wasn't quite right.

"Wajit."

Taataani turned to her husband with a smile that said she'd figured it all out.

"Let'ss do djinnerr jinsstead."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen missed the Clone Wars. Times had been simpler back then: there'd been respectable people above him, issuing orders; those following his were reliable and respectful; and the vast majority of the people causing him frustration and annoyance were people he was actively encouraged to shoot at. The Empire had broken that, replacing the superiors he respected with ones who were corrupt and power hungry, and the unwaveringly professional subordinates with anyone they could pressgang or conscript: people less expendable than clones, but also far less likely to survive due to their own incompetence. The Alliance hadn't been much better: idealism was a poor substitute for respectability, and the only consolation of the desperate lengths and measures that he was required to take was the knowledge of what they were: a rebellion, freedom fighters, a desperate rag-tag bunch with a clear goal that they would probably never achieve, but tried none the less because it was the right thing to do. There had been something strangely romantic about the noble futility of it all.

Except now the Alliance had achieved it's goal; or at least, a far closer approximation than anyone had ever realistically hoped for. Overnight they had transformed from opportunistic Rebellion into fledgeling Republic, and everyone who so very much wasn't what a new Republic required was forced to pretend as best they could. Pirates, smugglers, defectors, conscientious objectors, the dishonourably discharged: never before had a legitimate government been defended by such a sorry and motley collection of people; and with Hutt Space just next door, that was really saying something. Lax protocols, sketchy tactics, and desperate risks had given way to an elaborate fraud of professional legitimacy; and Vansen Tyree was forced to be one of it's main architects.

He let out a growl of frustration as he skimmed another improperly formatted, poorly written, utterly useless reconnaissance report from one of his patrol squadrons. He knew of the unit's commander: another rebel poured from the Skywalker mould; idealistic kid from some dusty Outer Rim backwater, good enough at staying alive to have earned his seniority by longevity rather than qualification or skill. Good behind a stick he might have been; good at typing, spelling, and making himself clearly understood in formal communications, he was not. This was the complex and unfortunate circumstance that the Alliance found itself in: the Empire had cultivated a generation of highly motivated soldiers, but had stunted the galaxy from yielding too many potential officers, who could think for themselves and make the right calls. The Senate could talk about training academies and education programs as much as it wanted; but not even Kamino could cultivate a crop of officers as fast as the Alliance needed them.

Tossing the report aside, Vansen slapped his hands to his face, and for a blissful moment viewed the world like a normal person, his remaining eye just as useless as the empty socket beside it. For about the seventy-third time today, Vansen regretted ever accepting the first promotion that had led him down this path, stolen him away from his bridge and trapped him behind this desk. It wasn't just the Clone Wars he missed: it was Captain Tyree; it was the old Valiant; it was the man he'd been, and had been comfortable being, way back when.

An alert quietly but insistently beeped away from the intercom in his desk; Vansen didn't look to know that the cause was the Bothan Ensign seated beyond his office door. He jabbed a finger into the controls, and offered a grunt of acknowledgement.

"There's a Cizerack here to see you, sir," the Ensign explained. "Says he's here on behalf of Senator Meorrrei."

Vansen's instant reaction was to assume this was some sort of business associate of the Senator; some part of the discussions and negotiations between Incom and Koensayr-Meorrrei that he had managed to make himself part of. He almost missed the operative word, he: the concept of a matriarchal society was simple, and yet so foreign to his mind that the significance took a few seconds to register. As far as he understood, Cizerack men weren't used for business; not that sort of business, at any rate.

A frown formed across his brow. "Send him in, Ensign," he instructed.

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Kirro entered when bidden, standing across the distance from Vansen's desk. His previously-mussed hair was coiffed expertly now, and he wore a bespoke suit that seemed less tailored to his figure than some perfect thing that he'd simply grown into. Everything about him, from his manicured nails to his surgically-trimmed beard to the subtle-to-be-nearly-invisible application of makeup to accentuate his features was dressed to impress. Even a curmudgeon like Admiral Tyree would, if pressed, be forced to admit the Cizerack so completely dominated the descriptor of 'handsome' that it almost seemed wholly diminishing.

Kirro Meorrrei was a beautiful man.

"Ja irra korra'nai, Admjirral."

Kirro's smile radiated as he nodded his head deferentially.

"Mjy mjisstrresss ssendss herr warrmesst rregarrdss and mosst ssjincerre thankss forr jyourr jindjisspenssable asssjisstance of late."

It was then that Vansen noticed the Cizerack carried a parcel and an envelope tucked under an arm. Kirro produced both, extending them to the Alliance officer.

[Vansen Tyree]

Kirro may have epitomised handsome, but in that moment, Vansen Tyree was the living embodiment of abject confusion.

His visitor could not have looked more out of place had he tried, and that was quite the achievement all things considered. The Intergalactic Trade Mission, where his offices in Drev'starn were located, had a strange and complicated history for the Bothans. While it was, as the name suggested, built with an intent towards diplomacy and economics, for hundreds of years it had been the headquarters of the Bothan Spynet. Under the Empire, that role had been secret; but since it's liberation, the Trade Mission had taken Alliance Intelligence and the Alliance SpecForce as house guests, and the Bothans were proud that the headquarters of all things covert and strategic in the Alliance of Free Planets was located in their capital city.

Aside from the military officers and political aides, the grounds and corridors of the Trade Mission saw Bothans and offworlders of all walks of life on a daily basis. That was the cunning of the Bothans choosing such a facility as their hub: more than just a name, businessmen and merchants and spacers all often had legitimate reasons to visit the Trade Mission. Anyone, from the most prominent of politicians to the most lowly of street-Bothans could walk into the building, and there was no way to know if they had legitimate business, or were merely covering for their activities with the Spynet. The Bothans had normalised visiting Spynet headquarters to such an extent that their operatives could hide effortlessly in plain sight.

With that in mind then, Kirro should not have seemed out of place at all. No one should have seemed out of place; that was the entire point. Perhaps it was the fact that he seemed to be trying too hard, his appearance too exacting, too perfected. Perhaps it was the fact that he did not seem to be here on business: in a place where everyone was supposed to have a justifiable reason be there, the people who didn't stuck out like a sore thumb.

Vansen expected, however, that it was simply because the man was smiling. Anyone who had spent more than ten seconds at the Trade Mission swiftly learned that being in a good mood around the cycloptic Human Admiral could be detrimental to one's health.

He dismissed the Cizerack's platitudes with a grunt, and had half a mind to simply ignore the man, attend to trivial flimsiwork until Kirro became uncomfortable enough with simply standing there to blurt out what it was he actually wanted. Not a particularly charitable or benevolent tactic, true: but it worked so delightfully well on rookie pilots and freshly pressed officers that Vansen couldn't help but take advantage of it from time to time. Alas though, Senator Meorrrei had sent the man, and much as Vansen loathed his dealings with Senators and politics, Meorrrei and he had important business that required a certain amount of platitude.

A sigh escaped him as he accepted the items that Kirro offered, already deeply suspicious of what the parcel might contain: his experiences with felininoids of any kind was limited; his one silent hope was that the Cizerack didn't express their gratitude through the gift of dead or nearly dead vermin.

"Is there some Cizerack tradition that means she couldn't say all that via the Holonet," he asked; despite the gruff edge in his voice, there was the faintest spark of curiosity about whether that might indeed be the case, "Or is there some other reason that you are here -"

Vansen's mind searched the addled depths of his memory, trying to remember if he had been formally introduced to the Senator's... aide? Butler? His mind stumbled across a half-remembered passing comment, which he hoped was somewhere close to correct.

"- Kirro?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

"Mjy mjisstrresss often prreferrss a morre perrssonal touch than a hologrram can prrovjide. Perrhapss not asss effjicjient, but sshe dessjirress to make lasstjing jimprresssjionss."

The contents of the envelope and the package would prove precisely that point. The box was full of two dozen Ithorian Optiaprincepa Madaw Coronas, a personal favorite cigar of Taataani's and from her own private humidor. Each hand-rolled, each aged a year under precise conditions. At eighty credits a cigar, they weren't given lightly, even by a Baroness Executor.

The envelope was somehow equally as lavish. A deep burgundy, the material of the envelope wasn't paper at all, but a lovingly-tended rich vellum, trimmed in gold leaf. It was the sort of artisanal touch to personal effects that was rarely seen in the hurry-up world of the present, and it's silk-like feel compelled you to take notice.

At Vansen's correct recollection of his name, Taataani's husband nodded deeply.

"jYou rrememberr me. jI'm flatterred. We djid not have tjime to exchange pleassantrrjiess beforre. Kirro Meorrrei."

Respectful of the human custom, Kirro extended a hand in greeting to shake.

[Vansen Tyree]

A Meorrrei as well? Interesting.

He studied the Cizerack in front of him more carefully, scrutinising his appearance for indicators of age. He wasn't sure what the tell-tale characteristics for such a thing were in a Cizerack, and most everyone in the galaxy seemed young by comparison to him; whether that surname meant husband, or son, or distant relative was anyone's guess. Kirro could have merely been an adopted member of House Meorrrei, or some freed slave even; or maybe Meorrrei was just a ridiculously common name, some Cizerack equivalent of Antilles, perhaps?

This was the problem with the Alliance of Free Planets: it had come from nowhere, grown too damned fast. Too fast for him to understand the complexities of the cultures that he was becoming exposed to. Too fast for the military to grow and protect it. Too fast for the economy and industry to get their business in order, so that they'd end up with anything other than a motley, mismatched infrastructure. Say what you want about the Galactic Empire: Palpatine had taken his sweet time growing his New Order, and reprehensible as almost everything he'd ever done was, at least the Imperials knew a good bit of coordination and standardisation when they saw it; the Empire was nothing if not neat.

Vansen could ask, he supposed; but that was a dangerous tactic, that eroded the ground beneath your feet. Curiosity was a virtue, until you reached the dizzy heights of having status: then it became a weakness, every admission that you didn't know exponentially multiplied in those around you. He who questions everything, appears to knows nothing, was the pearl of wisdom that chose that moment to float through his mind. It was an ass-backwards mentality; but that just meant it was orientated the same direction as the rest of politics.

The Admiral shook the offered hand, but didn't reciprocate the Cizerack's warmth: not for lack of desire to, but merely for lack of possession of it. The gruff and weary aura that Vansen radiated was no mere act: it was hard earned over too many decades. He was old, half-blind, and out of his depth; but he wasn't stupid. Another, slightly corrupted idiom floated through his mind. Beware of politicians bearing gifts.

"Personal touches and lasting impressions are all well and good, Mr Meorrrei," he countered carefully, "But unlike the Senator, I'm afraid I'm not graced with an abundance of patience, nor time; and if there's one thing I've learned since being on Bothawui, it's that no one around here does anything for nothing."

His eye narrowed. "What's your angle? Gifts, and smiles, and personal touches - what's your mistress after? I'll tell you right now, I don't trade in favours. If you're trying to sweeten me up to get something out of me, or if you just think you're buying capital with me for a later date, I'm afraid the Senator is wasting your time."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

The Admiral's hand was coarse and calloused, a testament to a life of more work than Kirro was accustomed. Not an unpleasant sensation, simply a kind of confirmation of the sort of man with whom he was dealing. Unfortunately, the Admiral wanted more information from Kirro than he actually had, and the Cizerack's eyes simply traveled to the envelope.

"jI rresspect jyourr jintegrrjitjy, Admjirral. Howeverr, jyou know asss much of mjy mjisstrresss' motjivess on thjiss matterr asss jI do."

Which was a lie. Kirro had an inkling, and although Taataani had been mum on the matter, he could sense a slight tectonic shift in the way that his mate approached the Admiral now. There would be plenty of time to see whether his speculation proved true. If so, Taataani was either brilliant or insane.

"jI am herre ssjimpljy to convejy herr thankss, and to deljiverr whateverr rressponsse jyou ssee fjit."

[Vansen Tyree]

Response.

That was enough to spark a faint glimmer of intrigue in the Admiral's mind. This Kirro Meorrrei claimed not to know what his mistress wanted, and so there was nothing for Vansen to respond to, save for the contents of the package and envelope that he had provided. Vansen had dismissed both as platitudes; a gift to curry favour, and a note or a greeting card to explain the contents. That there was more to it than merely that provided him with a sense of genuine interest that he hadn't felt since long before he'd stepped into this office for the first time, all those months ago.

Carefully, he eased open the envelope, almost with a sense of reverence. It felt expensive, beyond anything he'd ever been able to afford on his paltry military salary. He owned clothes made from less luxurious material; the concept of such frivolous discharges of wealth jarred with his mind, and caught him off guard. It was easy to imagine wealthy people buying starships and yachts and planets and all those big, expensive things; but spending more on the little things than was needed was a foreign concept. Idly, he wished he'd taken the opportunity to investigate the refresher facilities at the Senator's residence: wiping his ass with silk sprung to mind as a possibility.

The letter inside was just as obscenely luxurious. He didn't have the faintest idea of what it was written on, only that it was more expensive than any sort of paper he'd ever felt. The writing, it seemed, was penned by the Senator's own hand - either that, or she had some equally feminine, equally graceful, equally confident person in her employ whose handwriting looked exactly like the Admiral would have expected hers to.


Vansen,

Words are poor offerings to show how grateful I am of your recent assistance. You've once again served the Alliance faithfully and done a kindness to me as well. You would honor me with your company if you joined me for dinner at my villa tomorrow evening. I would love to discuss the future with you.

Faithfully,
Taataani

Despite all the elaborate furnishings that presented the Senator's message, the note itself was short, and clear. It was the epitome of what he had learned the Senator to be: beautifully presented, beautifully adorned, and yet exactly as direct and honest as it needed to be in order to get the job done. His gaze lingered upon the terms of address: he couldn't remember the last time he'd read a message addressed to him as anything other than Admiral; and with the handful of close peers he considered friends trapped within the confines of the military hierarchy, there were barely any people left in the universe who referred to him by his actual name. He should have been irritated by the impertinence perhaps, at the fact that the Senator had taken that privilege rather than being offered it, but the annoyance was lacking; it felt strangely comfortable, even. That solicited a confused frown.

"Tell the Senator that I am -"

He was bad at this, at choosing words that weren't naturally defensive, that weren't formulaic, that weren't pre-programmed. Glad to accept? Honoured? Those were the kinds of words you wrote in letters, that you hid behind when you needed to show respect, whether you felt it or not. His gaze shifted from the letter back to Kirro.

"Tell Taataani I will see her tomorrow."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Kirro wasn't privy to the letter's contents, but he had an interesting perspective as audience to the Admiral's changeable expression. The curmudgeonly defensive glower he wore so well was suddenly broken up; interfered with. In it's wake wasn't exactly confusion, but almost a holding pattern. A frown formed, but without ill portent. An almost null expression that turned thoughtful as he picked his best reply.

Tell Taataani...

Kirro was fully aware of how his mistress miserly hoarded her honorifics. He'd corrected from Senator to Taataani. The Admiral was pruning his word choice with a finer touch than a bayossa topiarist. These things might not matter to laymen, but powerful people knew they weren't used casually.

A polite smile, and a nodded head.

"jI wjill let herr know. Thank jyou."

No further message to be given, Kirro took a step back from Tyree's desk, and departed.

[Vansen Tyree]

I would love to discuss the future with you.

Vansen continued to study the letter even after Kirro had departed. It wasn't the first time he'd received an invitation from someone on Bothawui; it wasn't the first time he'd accepted, either. Usually though, it was a manoeuvre. Usually someone was trying to drag him into their machinations. They had an intent. A plan. A scheme. They wanted him to meet their Senator friend from Sullust. Did he know the Admiral from Sluis Van? Vansen wasn't a man who considered himself as having any sort of political capital at all, but apparently everyone else thought differently.

This was different, though. The future than Vansen and Taataani had in common was of his making: his plan, his proposal. Incom-Koensayr-Meorrrei was his brainchild, that Taataani had been gracious enough to give birth to. Their baby. His scheme. Anything further to that which Taataani had in mind was at his invitation; it wasn't a manipulation, simply an evolution. This was a path he had chosen to walk down, and the fact that the Senator was proactively seeking to walk the journey with him?

He smiled a little to himself, an odd sensation forming in his stomach. His memory was rusty, but he was pretty sure this was what having a friend felt like.

[Taataani Meorrrei]

"The Admjirral hass accepted jyourr jinvjitatjion, Mjisstrresss."

Goddess, she loved a challenge. Something new and undiscovered. A delightful enigma to tease and enrapture her curiosity, with risk and reward held dangling under her nose like they were balanced on a scale. It taxed her mental faculties, and demanded the best she could offer. A challenge also stimulated the appetite, which was bad news for four plump Arkanian pheasants. A pile of bones and feathers lay heaped on a plate as the Senator daintily licked traces of blood from her hands. A final pheasant shivered in a cage, hoping the demise of the previous three would sate the Cizerack matron and stay its execution.

"Fantasstjic."

Taataani retrieved a mostly-stripped pheasant leg from the leavings, chewing the last vestiges of meat and sinew from it as Kirro discussed the results of her intrigues. From his expression, he seemed to have more to say on the matter than simply reporting the outcome.

"He addrresssed jyou jin the famjiljiarr."

The Senator flippantly shrugged as she discarded the now stripped-bare pheasant foot.

"And whjy sshouldn't he? He jiss a frrjiend."

Her husband shifted on his feet, and the twitch in his tail betrayed his slight discomfort.

"An alljy, jyou mean?"

Taataani resumed the tedium of cleaning her hands, gaining a clearer picture of Kirro's discomfort.

"jIssn't that how frrjiendsshjip begjinss? Wjith a common causse? Bessjidess, therre'ss morre to the Admjirral than ssome cljinjical mutual benefjit..."

"A loverr, then?"

Kirro's face wore his curiosity plainly. Admiral Tyree was obviously sharp-witted and powerful, but the way that Taataani carried on, well, he'd been stalked prey before as well. Still, Tyree was an old one-eyed human. Not that every matter of attraction was physical, but it seemed so out of place. Taataani's smirking silence only confirmed his query, and Kirro shook his head in disbelief.

"That'ss ssorrdjid, Taataani."

The accusation only made his mistress smile as she leaned back in her chair.

"jI know what jI want."

"Hjim?" disbelief kept Kirro's mouth agape. Taataani purred, wetting her lips with her tongue.

"jI fjind the mjileage attrractjive. Not jin anjy conventjional ssensse, but neverrthelesss, jI want hjim."

"He'ss prractjicalljy an equal!"

Oh, he'd erred. Taataani's ears perked as her expression went impish.

"To me?"

Backpedaling, Kirro shook his head as his tail jerked.

"No, cerrtajinljy not. But, jI mean, rrelatjiveljy sspeakjing. The Admjirral jiss powerrful."

It just wasn't something that was done. Kirro didn't have to say it. They both knew that well enough. Turning playful, Taataani teased a ringlet of hair that cascaded from her auburn wig.

"Jealouss, mjy ljittle sajoi?"

That was enough to throw water on Kirro's little tantrum, and he laced his fingers together in front of him.

"No morre than when anjyone elsse ssharress jyourr bed. jYou'll have to assk the Admjirral how he feelss about ssharrjing."

Which was, of course, a very valid point. But all part of the challenge. Taataani rose from her seat, removing a few feathers that clung to her blouse. Intrigue, there was always intrigue with men. A new one in the roost, and gossip became the new currency. Closing the distance with Kirro, she twined her tail around his midsection as she drew him close, silencing any more bellyaching with a kiss. Their lips parted, and she smiled, tracing a finger along his neatly-manicured beard.

"The Admjirral jiss frrom Rrendjilji. We wjill want a Rrendjilji chef to caterr the djinnerr. Can jyou make the arrangementss?"

Kirro nodded, returning for a kiss. Again their lips parted.

"Alsso, tell Kallum jI wjissh to ssee hjim."