Wonder Years

(OOC: Anyone on the Knightfall, or even just Rebel and is around, can come on in. We can work something out.)

Plunk was a word that Ben Merasska never really thought about, despite how weird it was. Plunk. Onomatopoeia, plunk was. Both words, plunk and onomatopoeia, were odd. But as the worn table in the common area of the Knightfall silently and dutifully took the brunt of the plunking that Ben subjected it to via the large bottles of Corellian whiskey and Alderaanian port he held in his hands, Ben felt that no word fit the sound or mood better than plunk.

Lyanie walked in, holding the glasses, as she said she would. Ben liked that about Lyanie, her ability to meet him halfway. He was comfortable around her in a way that he wasn’t comfortable around anyone anymore. Except for the Cap’n, who Ben felt an odd sort of camaraderie with. It was like he knew they held something in common, on some deep, intuitive, instinctual level. No more two different people could you find in the galaxy than the quiet and thoughtful Cap’n Henning and the whimsical and absurd Ben Merasska. But that’s how two different people deal with events in their lives that they can’t outrun.

“Think these’ll be enough?” he asked. It wasn’t a sarcastic or even ironic question that implied he didn’t think those two large bottles of alcohol would be enough; he truthfully wasn’t sure. Both were strong in their own right, but neither he nor Lyanie were newcomers to drinking hard and strong alcohol. That reporter guy had disappeared sometime after they’d docked with the... ship; and he didn’t know where Chaz had disappeared off to. Or whether her name was actually Chaz for that matter. But the chances remained that they might end up with three or more people sitting around the table and drinking. If it came to that, Ben doubted the alcohol would last long at all.

He stayed standing, ready to get some more of the alcohol that he’d managed to get a hold of during one of the few forays he’d made into the interior of the Rebel ship, getting supplies for this very event. While he and Lyanie slipped into a familiar friendship and working relationship as if they hadn’t spent the last six years roaming the galaxy (with Lyanie assuming that Ben was dead, on top of that), they still hadn’t gotten the time to really catch up and talk to each other beyond the mindless little conversations that people have with their good friends. The kind of conversations that impart a sense of invaluable emotional depth to the memories of the friendship as a whole, even though not a word of those conversations could be remembered. So tonight, or whatever time it was, (Ben was a spacer, and all those words having to do with days that mean something planet-side didn’t mean much to him except in terms of duration of travel: weeks, days, that sort of thing) they were going to Catch Up.

The Knightfall was the kind of ship that didn't lend itself well to privacy. The freighter had been designed for a small crew, with enough space for a modest cargo at best, but long stays aboard certainly hadn't been in mind during the craft's construction. Oddly enough, even with the long corridors of the Wheel's many ships open to them, the crew of the Knightfall would most often be found aboard their very own ship. The captain rarely left at all. Presently, he sat in the cockpit at the communication board.

“The Knightfall is the only unassigned ship in the area capable of making the delivery,” a voice said, whilst Barton peered down at the speaker it was coming from. “It's a little over your average load, but we have external cargo pods you can make use of.”

Part and parcel of his ownership of the freighter was it's service in the Alliance Support Services. They called themselves the unsung heroes of the Rebellion, moving food, fuel and other supplies all throughout the galaxy, often into Imperial occupied territory. It was dangerous work, but work was what the crew needed, it was what they thrived on. Barton nodded.

“Alright. We'll make the pick-up come morning.”

He cut the signal and for a moment simply sat, letting the air drain out of him in a long breath. In the quiet, he could hear the clink of bottles coming from the common area, along with hushed voices. Ben and Lyanie. Pressing his palms against his thighs to push himself to his feet, Henning made his way out into the circular room at the ship's centre.

His pilot and mechanic were there, settling themselves in for the night. Barton looked between the pair, arms folding loosely across his chest. Briefing them can wait til morning.

“What you got there, Ben?”

"It'll be enough." She replied, setting the glasses on the table and standing up fully afterwords, hands on her hips. She swept around the common area with a long look, then turned it back to Ben and smiled. "Yep."

It was as if nothing had changed. It was comfortable. For everything that was happening, could happen or had happened in the galaxy these six years, they were here now to partake in an old ritual of friendship. One for old friends, new friends and friends to come. They were here now and force be damned it that was going to change again anytime soon. Ben Merasska was one of the very few people that remained from past years. Not only from death, but also from choice.

Lyanie slipped into a seat at the table and left her hands on her lap, glancing off in the direction of the off/on ramp, shrugging her shoulders, then looking back to Ben. She wondered too, what had happened with the other members of the crew that had signed on initially, but it was little wonder. Sometimes crews like this weren't for everybody. Sometimes life just demanded things of people that were opposite to what they planned for themselves.

"Do you think it'd be better to wait..." She asked, tipping her head slightly at the bottles. "...or to get started? I mean, we don't know who, if anyone, is going to come around. On the other hand, it would be polite to wait for them."

It was then, with Ben about to give her some answer, that Captain Henning wandered into the place. "Hey, Chief." She glanced again at the bottles and smiled back at Henning, then. "Well, what do you think it looks like?"

“This, Cap’n,” Ben said with an expansive wave of his arm, “is Catching Up. Me an’ Lyanie here are old war buddies, and we haven’t seen each other in years.”

He hesitated a bit as he said “war”, as it brought back memories he’d not like to remember, but he felt he covered it quite well. He didn’t like to think about it, so he liked speaking about it even less.

“You’re welcome to sit down with us to celebrate this ancient sacred ritual of friendship, Cap’n. It’s not just for old friends, you know.”

The last time someone had offered him a drink, Barton had ended up shooting his way out of a casino on Cloud City. Not that he supposed there was any correlation between the two occurrences, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Frowning at the route his thoughts had taken, it took Barton a moment to realise that both Lyanie and Ben were looking his way, expectantly.

“Thanks.” Henning nodded and took one of the empty seats. He tilted one of the bottles and inspected the label, shaking his head with a small smile as he read the name of the contents: Bespin Port.

“There's a lot here. You must have a lot of catching up to do.”

Lyanie laughed with - was that uneasiness in the tone of it? - a bit of a lilt to it and beamed happily as the Cap'n finally took a seat and joined them, examining the label on one of the bottles. She shuffled forward in her seat a bit and propped her elbows up on the table, dropping her chin into her hands. The last time they had sat around a table like this, they had just met. It was amazing just how many things could happen in so few months.

"I guess you could say that." She glanced sideways at Ben, then back at Barton. "Six years is a long time for anyone that's had anything to do with the Rebellion. Staying alive is an achievement. That's a lot of ground to cover."

She didn't mean to make the occasion at all dreary. Remembrance and thankfulness were sort of the aims she was going for. "I never thought I'd be coming back to it."

Ben snorted and began twisting off the cap to the bottle of Corellian whiskey.

“I spent the last six years stayin’ away from the Rebellion,” he said, as the strong scent of whiskey permeated the air. “And the Empire. But I needed a steady job, and it seems the only steady jobs for dedicated pilots nowadays are in the cockpits of starfighters. Everything else is pretty much temp work.”

He set up the glasses, one in front of each of them. “You want whiskey or port first, Cap’n, Lyanie?”

“Port for me, thanks.”

Ben poured half a glass for Barton, who took a small sip then sucked breath through his teeth. It was sweeter than the average bottle of out Bespin, with quite a kick, but he liked it. He swirled the blood-red liquid slowly around the inside of the tumbler, letting it breath a little.

“Spent a lot of time avoiding the Rebellion myself. Funny how life turns out.”

"Whiskey for me, thanks, Ben."

She indicated with a motion of one hand to the said bottle and nudging a glass his way with the other hand to fulfill the request. He quickly obliged, nudging the glass back to her in much the same motion that she had used. Lyanie smiled, plucked the glass from the table and took a long draw from it, stopping, swallowing and smiling with satisfaction when the sip was finished. Good as always.

"What'd you do with yourself then, Chief? I stayed a mechanic, a good one as ever I was, but not here. I thought that was for the best." She nodded, taking another sip. "Yeah, life is funny like that. It always has other plans."

(ooc: hope this is okay, if not please lemme know and I'll edit it out)

Cirr wiped his brow as he stood over his prizes. An hour and a half of pilfering from the "loaner" pile on the Knightfall had yielded him about twenty kilos of durasteel and assorted components. Most were smeared with grease or marred with a little surface corrosion, and almost all were either common parts or definitely out of the Corellian sort of design school. Angular, ugly, but rugged as hell and if it didn't fit, you knew you could either beat it into place or grind the edges until it slid.

He'd arranged for this sort of impromptu smuggler's bazaar with Captain Henning, putting down a spare antigravity stabilizer as collateral for the bartering. Sanis was back on Layla, no doubt starting the menial task of ripping the guts out of the lower hold. With their relative windfall of Alliance parts and labor, the entire ship was becoming a bit of a hobby project. Somehow it was still spaceworthy while they tweaked it, though it would be a week or so before all the parts were finally put back where they should be.

It was called ratfuck. Cirr had quickly picked the colloquialism up from the Alliance techies on his crusade through every ship he could weasel into. There were very fluid rules of quartermastering and inventory in place in the Rebellion, and if you could supply credits, better parts, food, booze, drugs, or pussy (at least one master chief on the mon cal barge was a notorious whore, and accordingly sat on a mountain of inventory), you could purchase the floor out from under some other bastard. And if you couldn't afford that, you stole it.

Sanis had no problem being the bad guy, and he was better at stealing parts. Cirr played the white knight. Besides, of all the goobers and chuckleheads in the Alliance convoy, they at least got along well enough with the Knightfall. It was probably a honeymoon that wouldn't last too long, knowing folks of smuggler stock, but it was good while it lasted.

Sighing, Cirr zipped up the hefty rucksack he'd brought along for carrying the parts and slung it over his shoulder. He still wasn't quite used to having military pips on. He'd taken the clean coveralls for sure (they'd be dirty very soon), but the insignia felt weird on him. He wasn't sure what to make of this Lieutenant Raurrssatta person. At least Sanis made sense to be called a Captain - every swinging cod with a bulk freighter adopted the moniker when it suited them.

Cirr passed by the assembled crew of his host ship, nodding in appreciation to Henning as he paused.

"Got my pjick of the ljitterr, thanks forr gjivjing me the rrun of jit."

Sensing that he might be interrupting something, his ears lowered a little as he again wiped his sweaty forehead.

It didn't surprise Barton to know that Lyanie had spent her down-time from the Rebellion as a mechanic. He'd yet to meet anyone who was better with a hydrospanner, and within weeks of coming aboard it seemed like she knew the Knightfall inside out. Her presence was truly invaluable. As for Henning himself...

“I got by.”

What he had been doing prior to taking ownership of the freighter wasn't a topic often broached. Fortunately, someone else arrived at the common room at that time, taking the attention away from the Captain. Barton recognised the big Cizerack and gave a nod.

“Not a problem.”

Henning glanced around the table, which was still empty for the most part, in spite of the bounty of booze Ben had brought on board.

“You a drinking man, Lieutenant?”

"jIs that a trrjick questjion?"

Cirr repressed an urge to grimace at the Captain namedropping his rank, instead flashing a little smile. It would just take some time to get used to. Taking the invitation offered, he eased down the rucksack, which rested on the deck with a hefty thud, and slid into the nearest chair, which creaked a little under his weight.

"What's the occasjion, orr do we need one?"

“Of course we don’t really need one,” Ben answered, having taken a shot of the whiskey first, was now working on a glass of port, though much more slowly.

“But this is a special occasion. We’re Catching Up.”

Ben studied Cirr for a moment. “You strike me as a whiskey, but I’ve been wrong before. Whiskey or Port?”

"Whjiskey."

Even the word caused Cirr's ears to perk up a little. Years of working alongside Sanis had a way of ensuring it was a drink that stuck with you.

He looked to Ben, then Barton, and Lyanie. They had that sort of unspoken ease around each other that he recognized in his own person when he worked around Sanis. Something was strange about being a freighter jock. You developed family bonds you didn't realize you had.

"How long have you all been crrewjing togetherr? How'd you come to jojin the Alljiance?"

Lyanie approved. Cirr had taste. Couldn't go wrong with whiskey. Well, you could, but it depended and it was hardly the fault of the whiskey. Her inner musings brought a bit of sheepishness to her otherwise cheery (for the most part) demeanor. A bit of blush crept up her face and she wished to beat it down with a really big stick before anyone noticed or worse, poked at it. Instead, she laughed, took a hearty gulp and smiled as if nothing was going on in that pretty little head of hers.

"Well, not very long, with the Chief here and the others, wherever they are. Pity they're not here.... anyways. But Ben and I go back a ways. This is actually our second go in the Alliance hopper." She shrugged and took another long draw from the glass. "It might not be preferable, but it's fairly steady work and really, nothing beats having a family of sorts."

Again. That was the word left unsaid. Such losses were a common thread with many of the Alliance's personnel. On that note, anything was better than being a subordinate of the will of the Empire. Lyanie smiled, giving nothing away about the things on her mind. The whiskey helped, without being at fault for any sort of mood that might be going through her head. No matter. After enough of the drink got in her, about the only moods she stumbled into were good ones.

"I think the first time around, it was sort of the same as this time around. Answer the job ad, join the Rebellion. See the galaxy. Meet people. I met Ben then, when I was mech crew for the squadrons. Though, they had me mostly keeping the precursor to the Rogues in shape." She stopped in her talking, turning her head from Cirr to Ben. "Hey, Ben? You remember how exactly we met? I think you were always better at telling it."

“Oh,” Ben laughed. “’Course I remember how we met! It was great! It was, oh, almost seven years ago or something like that.”

He took a large draught of his port, draining the glass. Smacking his lips in appreciation, he continued to tell the tale.

“Lessee. I was in Red Squadron at the time. We’d been out on a sortie with a couple of Nebulons somewhere on the Perlemian, trying to keep the Empire guessing as to where the base was. The base was on Dantooine at the time, if I remember right. We got in a scrape with a Victory-class. ‘Skinda hard to believe those things were so scary then. Now we got Super Star Destroyers and Imperial II’s all over the galaxy. The Imperial I’s were still new then, so we didn’t see ‘em often.

“Well, we turned and fought ‘em. Was whippin’ them pretty well too, when one of the bombers got in a lucky shot at one of the Nebulon’s shield generators. The Victory pounced and nearly shot the damn thing in half. In the mean time, I was escorting one of the Y’s on a run. A couple of TIEs came up on our six, so we split up. I spun around to try and tail ‘em before they ripped the Y apart. While I was coverin’ for the Y, an Interceptor comes up on my ass, and nearly shoots off the canopy. Missed the R-4 unit by a hair.”

By this time, Ben was truly getting into the tale, moving his hand and arms, and even doing the sound effects of the fighters and explosions.

“Well, the cap’n of the Nebulons decided that we’d not live much longer, so we bugged outta there as fast as our hyperdrives could take us. We had to tangle the Victory for a bit with torpedoes while the damaged Nebulon limped away, and we barely got out of there with about seven of the twelve of us that had started.” Ben lost some of his animation here, sobering up a bit. “Only about four of the Y’s made it out too.”

He paused a bit, regarding the whiskey in his glass, but shook off the moment and was grinning again.

“We make it back to the fleet,” Ben snorted, “Well, we called it the fleet. It wasn’t much more than a single Mon Calamari boat with three or four Nebulons, and maybe an attack frigate. And it wasn’t a monster Mon Calamari boat either. It was one of those smaller ones that they thought, ‘Hey, if we put cannons on this, we can fire back at the Imperials!’ Before they realized that the bigger ones were better for attaching weapon emplacements and scarin’ the shit outta the Imperial boats after us.

“I land and get out of X-wing, all proud and shit that I’d splashed a couple TIEs; you know how it is. Well, Lyanie walks up to me, lookin’ mad as hell. I didn’t know her too well, as she’d only been recently assigned to us. Helluva good mechanic though, no one argued that. She walks up to me, and I say somethin’ stupid, like ‘Hey! How are ya? I’m Ben. I think I left a bit o’ work for ya.’ She smiles all cheery in that way she does, and punches me. Right in the face.”

Ben rubbed his jaw in remembrance. “’Bit of work? Look at her!’ she says, but I can’t since I’m on the floor feelin’ like she broke my jaw. ‘You won’t be livin’ long if’n that’s how you treat your snub,’ she says. ‘And you’re gonna help me fix her. And howdy, I’m Lyanie.’”

He grinned.

“Turns out Lyanie didn’t mean to punch me. She was thinkin’ that I was in charge, when she was lookin’ for Antilles. She was right pissed that so many of us didn’t come back, and we were supposed to be the best. I end up helpin’ her fix my snub; took us about six hours or so. She almost smacked me again when she saw I didn’t know jack about weldin’ either. We did a lot of talkin’, and got to bein’ friends after that.”

It was hard not to smile along with Ben. When he was done with his story, Barton picked up the the loose thread of the conversation.

“As for how we came together... I had some trouble on Cloud City - where I'd been working at the time, mostly avoiding the war - and ended up falling back onto the Rebellion for help getting out of town. They offered me a place in the Support Services, providing I could provide my own ship. Me and the rest of the crew,” he said, rocking his head in a nod towards both Ben and Lyanie, “Put in towards the costs. We've all got a stake in this old bucket.”

This last thing he said with a hint of pride, glad at least that two of his crew had stuck by him, even when the Alliance had offered to reimburse those aboard of the Knightfall's who no longer wished to call the ship their home.

Cirr nodded.

"What brrought you to the warr, then?"

He looked mostly to Barton as he took his whiskey down a level.

"jI'm stjill trryjing to sorrt out the whole decjisjion."

Henning hesitated, absently rubbing his thumb against a grimy spot on the common room's table.

“Family.”

It was true, in a way. The only family he'd really ever known had been the Jedi, and Alex Coal showing up on Cloud City had been like getting reunited with a particularly ill-tempered little sister, who just wouldn't be happy until Barton was back in the family business.

“We're all wrapped up in it now, though, seems. Not a lot of sense in worrying about the hows and whys.”

"Yeah, that's a good memory. You don't usually make friends, let along best friends, with people who try to knock your block off." She grinned. "But Ben here's just that understanding."

The Chief was right. Lyanie threw back the last of the whiskey in her glass and swallowed with satisfaction. The glass made the trip back down on to the tabletop and she looked at Ben. He knew what to do.

"It's all about family, that's darn right." She nodded. "This is family. You don't get to choose each other, really, but you're stuck with what ya got. It ain't as bad as we make it out to be, sometimes."

Cirr nodded as he drank, the ice clinking in his glass as it tilted.

"Famjily jis jimporrtant to me. Sanjis won't admjit jit, but that's because he doesn't underrstand jit. He's neverr had one. jI'm the closest he's got to jit. We arre..."

He paused, idly scratching behind an ear as he tried to parse between Cizeri and Basic.

"jei'shearr' e' aallie'arr...ehhh...brrotherrs would be the closest terrm. Orr maybe two husbands to the same wjife."

Embarassed for speaking his mind a little too much, Cirr finished his drink, chewing on some ice.

"A metaphorr forr the ljife we ljive maybe. We'rre both marrrjied to jit."

Ben was getting visibly more morose as first the Cap’n and then Cirr started talking about family. He sniffled as he refilled first Lyanie and then Cirr’s glasses with whiskey, and then filled his own with some as well.

“Lyanie,” he said, turning to the mechanic. “You’ve been around, eh? What’ve you been up to since... you know, then? Took a big tour of the galaxy, I’m thinking?”

She looked down at the full glass when it was sent back to her, looked up and smiled in appreciation at Ben, then back down at the glass. The smile, for the most part, disappeared. And Lyanie was about as quiet as she had been all evening, thus far.

"Well..." She looked up again and blinked. "... I actually visited my parents back on Dantooine."

The thought of them made her smile, but it faltered with the next words.

"And my sister. She was there." That thought was enough to make her take a drink, a long pull from the glass before settling it between her hands on the tabletop. She swallowed and gasped with satisfaction from it. "Nothing changed much since I'd been away. Mom and Daddy were all over me, so happy to see me. Like I'd died or something. And Benita... has not changed. I love my parents, but I didn't stay very long."

It didn't take very long for her to change the subject. She changed speeds real fast, plastering a smile back on her face and taking another sip at the whiskey. She could easily get carelessly drunk on that tangent if she didn't pay attention.

"I'm an honest-to-goodness certified engineer. Like, designing and building ships and their engines. I did contracted work there, but still the same old mechanic stuff along side. I wanted to make beautiful ships, beautiful engines, but I wasn't happy in the big cities, big corporations. Guess you really can take the girl outta the farm, but you can't take the farm outta the girl. Anyway, where I am now, getting down and dirty and greasy, getting my hands in there is where I'm happy. All those newfangled engines just don't have the beauty of what's tried and true, what we're all sitting on, right here."

Her smile turned proud, then. "She's my girl. She gets the job done."

Listening to the others, Barton felt a sudden sense of displacement. Lyanie had always been a nuts and bolts kind of girl, and her love of her work was evident in everything she did. Ben, he couldn't picture doing anything but flying. Henning himself, however... well, he wasn't a ships captain by choice. The Knightfall ran smoothly, but was that more on account of the crew than the man leading them? The thought turned him inward, and he feel silent, the conversation flowing on around him as he looked for answers in the scuffed table they were all huddled around.

"You say you djid otherr worrk beforre the warr Captajin?"

Cirr filled up his glass again, this time with port, passing it along for the Captain on it's journey around the table.

As the bottle slid his way, Henning looked up, pulled out of his introspective.

“Before and during.” He nodded, pouring out another meagre measure of the port.

“I ran my own clinic and surgery on Cloud City. Not a very profitable business, but.. it helped a few good souls, at least.”

Cirr's expression brightened a bit.

"A Doctorr? An honorrable prrofessjion on my planet. As a mechanjic jI can sorrt of jidentjifjy wjith that. That desjirre to help otherrs jis harrd to fjind. Always a good thjing when you do."

Henning nodded faintly. He took another drink, mindful that too much of the port would not end well.

“Cloud City was, and still is to my knowledge, neutral ground. It gave us a chance to provide some relief to any Rebels who might come by, without fear of reprisal... though we also patched up our fair share of Imperials and Empire sympathisers too.”

Cloud City. Now there was a place she hadn't stepped foot on in a while. It wasn't her kind of place, really. Too little nature. Which begged the question over why she wasn't bothered with being cooped up in a ship all the time. It was a question of planets. It wasn't her kind of planet. Ships just made her happy and that was an entirely different thing, altogether.

"So, Chief. Why the change? What made ya leave the good doctorin' to gallavant around the stars with us?"

Lyanie took another good sip of the whiskey and let it sit in her mouth for a few moments before swallowing. Savour the flavour.

Ben nodded, seemingly over his bout of melancholia. “Yeah, Cap. You’ve got that whole brooding and mysterious thing goin’ for ya, but I’m curious why you’d leave such a nice safe job for this one.”

Ben almost took another sip of his whiskey before realizing how his statement might have sounded.

“Not that I ain’t glad for it, Cap’n,” he backtracked, “Couldn’t be flyin’ for a better guy. But the spacer’s life ain’t one that most people choose out of desire, or stick with once they find out what it’s like. Course, then there’s the crazies like me who really don’t care about doing anything else. Lyanie's not crazy, but I figure she’s got at least a couple bolts loose up there.”

He grinned teasingly at Lyanie.

If ever there was a sore subject, that was it. Why he'd left Cloud City and the relative normality he'd made for himself was all down to a part of himself that Henning wasn't comfortable bringing to the table, not yet anyway.

“Got myself into a little trouble with the law,” Barton answered, the last of his words spoken half into his glass as he lifted it to take another drink.

Cirr bobbed his head knowingly as he paused to sniff at the port.

"Ajin't that a famjilljiarr tune. jIf my mama knew half of my rrap sheet, boy jI'd prrobably neverr hearr the end of jit."

He paused in the midst of his comment, somehow getting the feeling that the ol' doc was still dealing with it in a way.

Ben almost giggled, but admirably refrained from doing so.

“Actually, I used to be the law,” he said, taking the last of his whiskey down, and looking around for the bottle again. “Though I don’t know if anyone ever took us seriously. We were pretty dysfunctional, though we saved the city single-handedly about three times, at least.”

"My mother no doubt would be worried for my safety, but that's mom. She still loves me and I spare her about as much grief as I can manage by not letting her in on every little thing. Daddy, though.. he'd grill me. He's proud of me, even if he doesn't always let me know, outright."

She was relaxed, content at this table, throwing back drinks, trading stories, reminiscing. All with close friends, new friends... all family. Lyanie gently nudged the bottle of whiskey back to Ben, making sure it was right in front of him.

"Doesn't have to be perfect for it to work perfectly, now does it, Ben? I mean, look at this ship, for example. She ain't anything like a jewel, cosmetically, but she runs beautifully, with the right tee-ell-cee."

“Suppose you’re right, Lyanie,” he said thoughtfully. “We didn’t do a bad... well, we got the job done at least.”

He turned to Cirr. “So big guy,” he said, “You’ve been flying with... er, San... Sam... Samus for long?”

"Sanjis."

Cirr winced, conscious that he was correcting a mispronounciation with his own.

"Close enough."

With an easy smile, Cirr tipped back his port as he thought it over.

"We've been flyjing togetherr forr ejight yearrs now. Sanjis took me jin afterr jI...left my marrrjiage."

He sighed a bit at the thought of his past life.

"He taught me basjic, taught me most of what jI know as a mechanjic, and gave me an honest ljivjing, orr at least morre honest than jI was used to."

The big cat's smile was infectious, though Barton's didn't look quite so impressive without Cirr's mouth full of teeth. The crew of the Layla had an obvious comradeship, one that couldn't be bought or manufactured.

“He sounds like a stand-up guy.”

Cirr looked down at his hands knowingly.

"That's the fjirrst tjime jI've hearrd that sajid about hjim. Nobody else besjides me thjinks he's anythjing but trrouble. That sajid, we fjight morre orr less all the tjime too, but you know, ljike brrotherrs."

He looked at Barton.

"We've looked out forr each otherr forr so long, jI don't thjink we'd rreally know what to do otherrwjise. jI used to hearr forrda thjis and forrda that. Out herre, none of that matterrs, and jit shouldn't."

Lyanie listened, a fond smile on her face between sips, feeling resonance with the notion of being misunderstood. She had her own ill-informed opinions of Sanis Prent that she would keep to herself. She wasn't really mean like that, in any case and the man had never affronted her directly, or indirectly, to her knowledge.

"It was 'respectable' this and 'proper' that for me, but from my sister." She shook her head. "My mother agreed in a way, but not about how 'Nita went about it."

She herself looked at Cirr, unconsciously rubbing her thumb on the rim of her glass. "You're right. None of that matters out here. What matters is who's here, what's here and what we do when we're here and out there in the black."