Ours Are The Furies: Together Alone

[Vansen Tyree]

Last time on Star Wars: Jovan Station. And now, the continuation...


The glass fell, shattering against the deck.

Vansen paid it no mind, nor thought any about the wasted contents that were now soaking into the carpeted floor: his hands were needed for a different purpose. Proving that age had done little to hamper the former pilot's reflexes, in an instant his arms were thrown around Taataani, dragging her from her feet with surprising strength and pulling them both into a crouch that pressed them both against the outer hull, as far from the viewport as Vansen could conceivably get them in a few quick strides.

You didn't spend your entire life on starships without learning to recognise that sound, that feel, that shift in the deck, that rumble through the bulkhead. Close proximity detonation. Explosive decompression. They were sensations burned into his memory from as long ago as the Clone Wars; he still vividly remembered the feeling as the Challenger had been slowly crippled, all those years ago in orbit of Bothawui. Just like then, his first instinct was to run, to burst out of the room he was in and sprint to the launch bay; to get himself in a cockpit; to do something, anything to feel like he had the power to make a positive change in this situation. It could have meant anything, from an accident at a docking port to an attack by the Empire; either way, he was of no use to anyone here in his guest quarters.

Except to Taataani. His reflexes had kicked in, and no matter what the cause of the rumblings through the station, he knew that he and the Senator needed to be as low as possible, braced for decompression as far from the vulnerable viewport as they could get.

Seconds passed, the vibrations slowly subsiding. He shifted his arms, peering beneath the protective barrier that he had turned his body into at the woman sheltered beneath.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying more softness and concern than it's usual gruff tone was used to.

[Taataani Meorrrei]

How funny.

She'd just been muttering something in the full throes of self-pity and doldrums about lamenting the threats of peace. Now something more prescient and violent had reared it's head to show her folly. Were she a religious person, she might utter a prayer ward against Traanjirra the Trickster Goddess. As it were, judging from Vansen's take-charge approach, she probably didn't have the luxury of further introspection and uselessness.

You okay?

His voice was calm, if not with some tension underneath. That he was cool as a sip of water made her heed his words and actually take stock of her own situation, which was well-jostled, lightly doused in whisky, and with a bit of a bump on the back of her head. On any other day, a travesty. Today...

"jI'm okajy."

She nodded along as if to punctuate her reply for extra reassurance. Now came the trouble, following after the initial wave of adrenaline like a poltergeist.

"Vanssen, what wass that?"

[Vansen Tyree]

"An explosion."

The instant Taataani had confirmed she was alright, Vansen's attention had shifted elsewhere: not ignoring her, simply peering off in search of the answers that he wanted just as much as she did.

"Explosions," he corrected. He was fairly confident of that. From the way the objects strewn about the guest quarters had been rattled, from the fact that the deck hadn't lurched in any single discernible direction, and from the fact that they were still feeling the slight rumble of aftershocks as they translated their way around the circumference of the hull, it seemed reasonable to conclude that the station had been rocked by multiple locations in at least two locations: at least one close by, and at least one far enough across the station that the vibrations straight through the heart of Jovan had reached them faster than the equivalents coursing around the outside. That was a bad sign: an isolated incident wouldn't have struck dispersed locations like that; not in such a synchronized way. The absence of an Imperial fleet or the rapidly moving glimmer of starfighters outside the viewport suggested that they weren't dealing with an attack either; not unless their attackers were making a deliberate effort to conceal themselves. That led only a handful of very bad possibilities.

Vansen's mind strayed to the jacket on the back of his chair, the badge of office that he'd discarded and yet found himself badly needing and wanting. Perhaps it was simply a crutch, a comfort blanket to make him feel a shred more prepared than he currently did. Perhaps it was just about feeling unprepared for the clearly dire situation they had found themselves in; unmatching the pillar of authority that the situation would no doubt need him to be. Perhaps it was just Taataani being so close to him, not enough layers or barriers between them anymore.

He fought the urge to move though, not ready to neglect Taataani just yet. Fumbling at his belt, he tugged loose his comlink, bringing it closer before flicking it on. "Tyree to operations." Nothing but static replied. "Command deck, do you copy?"

Still nothing. His expression soured. He was broadcasting in the clear on an open channel; if no one was paying enough attention to the comms to respond to their visiting Admiral, either things were very bad, or the comms were down. Or both, his thoughts carefully offered. He considered his options; there were ships outside the station, but his handheld comlink didn't have enough power to beam out a signal through a hull that was designed to shield against radiation and withstand micro-meteor impacts. With direct line of sight and a little tinkering, maybe, but for now they were shut in. The crew was no doubt already at work resolving whatever was going on, but even so -

"- I can't stay here," Vansen uttered quietly, finishing his thought aloud. His attention shifted, his gaze fixing on Taataani, deep, penetrating, and questioning. "I can't stay hidden in here while something is going on. Not unless -" His empty hand shifted, carefully finding it's way down Taataani's arm to wrap gently around her fingers. "- you need me to."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani slowly gained her footing, taking stock of the dire prognosis the Admiral had given. Explosions. More than one. She didn't have to understand intricate details to know that an incident like that in plural didn't lend itself to coincidence. Jovan Station wasn't a backwater. It was the jutting patrician nose of the Alliance peering at the heart of the Empire. It made a tempting thing to bloody, were one so inclined to swing for it.

"Admjirral."

Taataani's posture straightened as she addressed him by his title in the aristocratic lilt he'd heard when they first met.

"Mjy daughterr jiss aboarrd thjiss sstatjion. jI need to know sshe jiss ssafe."

Which, in fewer words meant that she'd be damned if he was charging into this without her.

[Vansen Tyree]

And that was it, then: the one word that brought their amicable bonding to an end, and reset everything back to the professional tone that the situation demanded. Vansen's expression hardened instantly, his posture straightening. The jacket was back, even though he wasn't wearing it, the weight of all the responsibility and obligation, the required roles and required responses that came with it pressing down on his shoulders once more.

"Then we should find her, Senator," he replied, formality obscuring the slight note of disappointment that snuck it's way inexplicably into his voice.

He contemplated their situation for a moment, considered the path it had taken to reach his temporary quarters earlier that day. If there was any amount of damage, they couldn't rely on the turbolifts to be operational; wisdom meanwhile suggested they move as far into the interior of the station as possible, as far away from vulnerable viewports and hull plates as possible. A small amount of solace came from the fact that the core of the station was where T'yeellaa was most likely to be.

One other small notion crossed Vansen's mind, though.

"Are you armed, Senator? We can't be sure what happened... the station's corridors may not be entirely safe."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani opened her small handbag, producing a Vespr DDX. Ultracompact and slender, it's frame was plated silver with intricate metalworking in the etching, with a lustrous cocobo knurled grip. The hold-out weapon looked more like a fashion accessory than a practical application of violence. It was a purchase she'd reluctantly made shortly after Taurrifar died. Equal parts security blanket and a statement of never again. With a familiarity to the sidearm Vansen may not have expected, Taataani checked the tibanna magazine, primed it, and toggled the single action down.

"A Ssenatorr prreparress herrsself forr aggrresssjive negotjiatjions, Admjirral."

Despite the bravado, Taataani had no illusions about her situation. Her pistol was suited well enough for pressing into the belly of an attacker, but if Vansen was expecting a threat on the station tied to synchronized explosions, the order of the day may very well be to be in a place where she wouldn't have to use the gun at all. The halting pace of her swaying tail betrayed insecurities that the normally-unflappable Senator was famous for hiding.

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen offered a small, wordless nod as he watched Taataani ready herself. For a moment, he'd hoped that the Senator would have said no: that she lived an existence where an ever-present blaster was not a necessary consideration for a Galactic Senator. Sadly, if such a situation existed in this galaxy, it was not on any world that Vansen knew of.

A moment more passed before Vansen withdrew, swift strides carrying him to his desk. A quick code was entered, and a locked drawer slid open, an Imperial issue blaster bundled together with a belt and holster was withdrawn and carefully attached to his waist. His eye lingered on his jacket, then glanced back to Taataani for a moment, an almost desperate plea cast out to the ether to let him avoid being the Admiral for just a little longer. Vansen already knew though that the galaxy would not be so accommodating. He had made his mistakes, he had worn his uniform too often; and not only had it cost him everything he held dear, his unending penance was to never be free of it ever again; a hell of his own making, to remind him of his past foolishness.

Shrugging the jacket onto his shoulders, he spent a few moments securing all of the fastenings, and making himself at least partially presentable for the sake of anyone they came across, before advancing across his quarters to the waiting door. Leaning against the frame, and lifting his blaster free and ready, he turned his gaze to his companion once more.

"Taa-"

He stopped himself, correcting mid syllable, a painful reverse of his usual mistake.

"- Senator, I'm going to need you to stay behind me. We will make our way to your daughter if we can, but my absolute priority is ensuring your safety. No heroics, are we clear on that?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani nodded. False gallantry would be tacky here, and Taataani understood the nature of what she did, juxtaposed against what Vansen's duty was. But even thinking that made her feel cold. He wasn't some soldier or pawn. There was the beginning of affection, and she knew the feeling intimately. She wasn't going to let him jump in front of a blaster shot, and erase himself from her life.

"Prromjisse me the ssame."

Beyond the door, Taataani could faintly hear voices in passing. There was confusion all around.

[Vansen Tyree]

"Shame," Vansen muttered back. "Here I was hoping to use this opportunity to impress you."

They were words that Vansen was surprised to hear himself say. A few decades ago perhaps, when he was young, and impetuous, shooting his mouth off at that insolent Padawan s'Ilancy, getting into all kinds of trouble; but not now. The Empire and the War and his wife had beaten that spark out of him, stamped it down into the dirt and then left it to be slowly covered over by the dust of ages. But now, this? Some small part of him felt like that young Vansen again; like Tyrant, fighter pilot extraordinaire. Perhaps not physically - his bones still ached, and his joints didn't move nearly as fast as they used to - but in his mind, something old, no, something young had awakened. For once, Vansen didn't find himself trapped on a bridge in the middle of a crisis, standing idle and helpless while hundreds or thousands of subordinates risked their lives on the basis of nothing other than his orders. It might say Admiral on his uniform, but for now he was just a single soldier with a single mission.

Falling silent, and holding his blaster ready, he silently counted down with his fingers before triggering the door mechanism, and leading the way out into the chaos beyond. Instantly he flinched as a ruptured power conduit above send down a sputtering spray of sparks, accented by a whiff of either smoke or coolant. Beneath it, the station's civilian populace stampeded around like a herd of undomesticated equines; without any transmissions from Ops to reassure them, they had fallen into a blind panic.

Vansen grimaced; there wasn't time for this, and yet these people needed to be attended to, needed to be calmed and contained before anyone got hurt. If only there was -

"Ensign!" he bellowed, spying an Alliance uniform moving through the crowd.

The young woman turned, startled and shell-shocked eyes looking in Vansen's direction. As he fought his way through the crowd towards her, her gaze seemed to settle on his rank insignia, a wave of relief washing across her expression. "I can't contact anyone," she uttered, a slight tremble in her voice. "I don't- I don't know what's going on, sir."

Vansen placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder, choosing one of her eyes and fixating on it. He even mustered a rare flicker of an almost paternal smile. "Neither do I, Ensign. But we're not going to let us let a little mystery stand in the way of us doing our jobs, are we?"

"N-no, sir." The young woman tried her utmost to muster a smile of her own, straightening a little as if somehow that would flood her system with more confidence than she currently had available. "No, sir, we are not," she tried again, far more emphatically.

Vansen offered a proud and appreciative nod. "What's your name, Ensign?"

She seemed to need to think about that for a moment before she mustered another reply. "Kelsky, sir. Evyamin Kelsky."

"Listen up!" Vansen suddenly bellowed, loud enough to snare the attention of everyone within earshot, he turned, making sure that everyone got a good look of his grizzled and determined features. "We have an emergency situation here, and we are not going to fix it by running about like a bunch of feckless drunken Rodians. Ensign Kelsky here -" He patted her shoulder for emphasis. "- is going to lead you, in an orderly fashion, to the nearest secure communal area: where you will wait calmly until someone arrives to tell you otherwise. Anyone who does not comply with this will be knocked unconscious, and locked in the nearest storage closet until they come to their senses."

A sea of eyes focused on him; a sea of panic, of questions, of people frightened beyond the limits of their capability. Now wasn't the time to be nice: that wasn't what they needed right now. They needed certainty. They needed something immutable to cling onto; clear instructions to obey while their minds were too overwhelmed to think of logical actions for themselves. Vansen allowed a moment of silence, one last glance cast across the group before he spoke again.

"You heard me. Move!"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

It was one of the few moments Taataani had experienced where she was the background, and not the object of focus. She watched Vansen speak to the shocked and confused throng. He pounced upon chaos, bringing it to ground with a predator's assurance, and as he spoke, he could see the way his words impacted the group. Ensign Kelsky went from being a casualty of panic to a part of the solution, and it was this transformative change that Taataani knew. The unsaid, unquantifiable characteristics of leadership. Distilled into it's purest, it was a thing that couldn't be taught or imitated or faked. It was a birthright. Some tremendous gift often sealed up in someone until they were thrown into a crucial moment for it to awaken. It wasn't a result of the Admiral bars or the years of service or the battles he had joined in younger years. Those were just the catalysts to make Vansen Tyree show his true form.

Still in the background, Taataani said nothing. She only nodded an unseen nod, holding her blaster close. The moment called for a leader, and they had one.

They pressed on, heading through the corridors of the executive habitation section. The place of dignitaries and persons of note and of influence. The pair rounded a corner, and as they passed a junction something caught Taataani's eye. At first it seemed like a piece of floatsam, just debris from whatever had shaken loose only minutes before.

"Admjirral." she'd stopped in her tracks, staring down at the B1 battle droid crumpled at her feet.

[Vansen Tyree]

For a moment, Vansen wondered if his remaining eye was failing, or if his mind had somehow chosen this moment to compensate for his missing one by flashing visions of his past in front of his gaze. That seemed the only explanation: some fractured insanity of his mind brought on by the situation, plaguing him with flashbacks from a war that had ended thirty years ago.

Yet the Senator had seen it too. Seen it first, in fact. Vansen crouched down over it, inspecting the damaged chassis with practiced skills he had never expected would need dredging up again. There was carbon scoring on the headpiece; a rookie mistake. Soldiers accustomed to fighting sentients were used to a headshot being the epitome of accuracy: the most efficient way to fell an opponent swiftly and decisively. For Battle Droids such as this though, that was far from the case. On a B1 droid such as this, the headpiece was just optics and a vocabulator; most of the operating systems were within the torso, close to the tranciever that allowed the droids to be controlled remotely from a control ship. Cut off the head, and the body would still continue to fire; though with a lot less accuracy of course. Truncate them at the waist, and not only would the upper body continue to operate, in some cases the legs would even keep working. They were incredibly redundant despite their somewhat simplistic coding: a trait that had contributed to them being such a problematic adversary for the Republic's elite clone troopers. Someone seemed to have worked that out eventually, if the blaster pockmarks on the chest plate were anything to go by.

Still though, it made no sense. "These were all deactivated and scrapped by executive order," he mused with a heavy frown. He'd heard of certain companies refurbishing damaged units, cobbling together functional droids from broken bits of salvage, but those were in the hands of collectors, not in active use. Not the kind of thing you'd want to use in an attack on a space station - not one lone unit, at least. More then? A genuine droid strike force? Vansen's frown deepened further.

"Who the hell would have an army of battle droids in this day and age?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani didn't have a ready answer to Vansen's musings. Instead, she simply watched him pick at the destroyed droid. As he turned over the parts in his hand, something caught her eye.

"Wajit."

There, on the chest piece, below one of the scorch marks. Her eyes had previously panned past it with all the battle damage, but it was something written in Cizeri glyph.

"Rou'taai'o Automaatoa."

Her eyes widened, and the Senator bent down to inspect closer. A thumb smeared away black carbon on the carapace, unearthing skeletons of the past.

"Keppaa Brens."

She looked up at Vansen with an expression of shock and concern on her face.

[Vansen Tyree]

Rou'taai'o wasn't a name or turn with which Vansen was familiar, but there was no mistaking the words that followed: Keppaa Brens, one of the most significant and valuable worlds in the Carshoulis Cluster, and the one that Taataani herself represented in the Galactic Senate.

That new fact yielded far more questions than it provided answers to. Like many non-human cultures, the Cizerack had sided with the Separatists during the Clone Wars, a fact that Vansen managed for the most part to avoid dwelling upon. Various Separatist holdouts had clung on to their droid armies after the War, but Vansen couldn't recall ever being aware if the Cizerack was one of those. The mention of Automaatoa had him wondering if perhaps these weren't remnants of the Confederacy at all, but rather new builds to old specifications, illegally constructed in the Cluster - to what end? A misguided coup against the Alliance? An attack against a station that the bureaucrats had branded a beacon of cooperation between the races? Or was the station merely collateral, part of a much more targeted strike?

"Senator -"

Vansen's mouth drew into a thin line. The Senator for Keppaa Brens shows up on the station, and soon after droids from her homeworld are implicated in a string of explosions? Quite the coincidence, that.

"How many people know that you're here?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Had she made a mistake? An error of omission somewhere in her calculus? Taataani rose slowly to her feet, her mind moving faster than her body as she drew her hands together at her chest.

"Mjy ajide, Kallum..."

Who despite his dubious beginnings was somehow beyond suspicion. He might steal from her if ever he thought he could, but no, nothing at all like this.

"...Aleeha, Taaliaala..."

Her middle daughters were capable-if-unimaginative businesswomen, and even if they weren't, they were family. Out of the question.

"Mjy bodjygua..."

Taataani's voice trailed off. No, not her bodyguard. He'd said he'd been sent from the High Mother, but those were his words. Kosa! She had been so...so stupid!

"All of thjiss...to get to me?"

That couldn't be right. If her bodyguard wasn't who he said he was, he could have disposed with her easily. No explosions, no battle droids. No one else in the crossfire. There was a message here, still not translated. And before Taataani could work to understand any of it, a voice called out down the hall.

"Rrou'a, Arr'o. Arre jyou okajy?"

A Cizerack Jaani'saarri had turned the corner. He was tall and lean, with dark Naala'in tones and a cropped shock of blonde hair sitting high and tight on his head.

"jIt jissn't ssafe herre. Come wjith me."

He gestured ahead with his hand.

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen's grip tightened around his blaster, thumb loitering over the switch that would toggle between lethal blasts and stun ones. He recognised the uniform of the Cizerack Marine, but and in this situation, with battle droids of apparent Cizerack origin getting shot up in the halls, something as simple as a uniform didn't offer all that much reassurance.

His gaze shifted to Taataani - carefully, reflexes still readied to dispatch the Marine if he so much as moved funny - with a questioning look.

"It isn't safe on the whole damn station, Senator." He hesitated, a slight grimace as his thoughts strayed back to the droid. "But this seems like Cizerack business here, and you're the expert. Can we trust anyone?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

What's trust? It was the cream of cynical thought to rise to the top, and Taataani gave her one-eyed companion a look as if he'd asked for a book and she was holding a library. They walked under the aegis of their newfound protector, and the Senator stole a glance in his direction as well. Nothing seemed out of place. The uniform was the genuine article, and though a member of the Baroness Oligarchy rarely mingled with the common sort that often joined the military, he seemed no more different than the untold horde that kissed the High Mother's du'arri and took her oath.

"We'rre not Hapanss." she sniffed, shoulders back with indignation. "Ourr jintrrjiguess arre done wjith worrdss. Ssangujine affajirrss arre forr the djinnerr table."

It was largely the truth. Violence was a tool of the state, and even then the High Mother rarely used it among other Cizerack. Still, Taataani's mind was fixed on the destroyed battle droid, and of the bits of history it represented. Her personal hand-wringing over what were proper social mores was merely a stodgy stalling tactic that ignored the absurd reality of now.

And that reality was that Taataani was completely blindsided.

"That drrojid jiss frrom the home guarrd legjion. Frrom durrjing the warr."

She needn't be specific here. They both knew exactly what war she was referring to.

"We werren't an jImperrjial holdjing afterr the Confederrate ssurrrenderr. The Empjirre wass merreljy ssatjissfjied to know that ourr drrojidss werre deactjivated and put awajy, and that we werre wjilljing to trrade wjith the vjictorrss."

The Jaanni'saari guard paused at a junction, holding a hand up for his charges to hold position. He peered carefully around the corner, leading with his rifle, before moving ahead once again.

"The drrojid warrehoussess that held the legjion had a token guarrd at besst."

Carelessness born out of assumption. Clearly someone had decided to make violence a political tool, and they were putting on a clinic at present.

"jI have no sshorrtage of enemjiess, Admjirral, and jI frreeljy admjit jit. But thejy'rre enemjiess that sscheme to rrojil mjy housse jin sscandal orr rrujin me fjinancjialljy. Cjivjiljized sschemess."

And yet the blood was on the wall. A testament to Taataani's myopia.

"But to do thjiss? Ssomeone wantss to do farr morre than desstrrojy me. Thejy arre afterr the Prrjide jitsself."

It was supposition, but the Senator didn't waver from it for lack of a smoking gun. It was the only thing that made political sense. If you could not change the system through intrigue, then you sharpened a knife.

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen sneered out a small sigh of frustration. It was the fundamental difference between himself and Taataani; between the soldier breed, and the politician. They found glory in subterfuge, in subtlety, in manipulation and circumvention. He saw no honour in that; not really. Such was the way of politics, and you evolved to suit the battlefield you found yourself on, true, but stabbing backs and undoing people with nothing but words and exploited legislation felt wrong somehow. It was success, but not victory; or if it was, then the victory was hollow, stolen rather than won.

People joined the military for mostly benevolent reasons: there might be a desire for personal glory perhaps, but at the core of it they sought to serve the greater good, the state, a cause larger than themselves. People entered politics for the opposite reasons: a few might want to make the world a better place, but most sought only wealth and power and personal gain.

He respected politicians, the same way he respected a python in the grass, unable to deny that it excelled at what he did; but he had more respect for the predator who overcame adversary to chase down it's victories than for the serpent who lay around waiting for a moment of weakness and then let their venom do all the work.

And yet, was this not exactly what his rationale led to? Destroying the Pride, Taataani had said. Whoever she spoke of, whoever she presumed these people to be, clearly they had cast aside the subtleties of covert toxins and resorted to more brute-headed tactics; a soldier's approach, a military approach. This was how the Empire had done business, resolving their issues down the barrel of a blaster, and look how that had turned out. Politician or soldier, it didn't seem to matter: every victory seemed to be reached by clambering over bodies and rubble. Perhaps they were all doing it wrong. Perhaps there really was no way to win.

Or perhaps we should stop trying to win, and not make a contest of everything.

"Why do I get the feeling there's more to this than you're telling me?" Vansen muttered, mostly to himself.

Because you're a Senator, he mused, answering is own question. There's always something you're not telling me.

With the hand that held his blaster, Vansen scrubbed the back of his wrist against an eyebrow, trying to assuage a persistent itch. He forced his mind to think about this tactically: to look behind the obvious, and think his way through the rationale that might lead someone to this resort. A token force, she had said, guarding the disabled droid legion back in Cizerack space. Not a difficult process to liberate them, then - or at least, not something requiring significant numbers. Then with the droids themselves, an instant army. A small movement, then? A powerless force resorting to these tactics, because no others were available to them?

"What would a Cizerack gain by destroying the Pride?" he said aloud, though quietly enough that only Taataani would here, and not their ambiguously reliable escort. Vansen kept his blaster trained on him, just to be sure. "That's not the move of someone making a grab for power. Attacking this station sends a message, perhaps, but the actual harm to the Pride and the Pride Mother is minimal. So why attack here, and not something higher profile, closer to home?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

"jIt'ss a ssjymbol, and ssjymbolss arre powerr."

The Cizerack Marine pointed down the next junction. "Thjiss wajy, carrefulljy." Taataani obeyed, unsure where they were being led.

"Jovan rreprressentss ourr tjime jin the ssun, Admjirral. Rrarreljy have we everr made ssuch efforrtss to embrrace the galaxjy bejyond. Ssome would quesstjion whjy we would need to at all. Afterr all, we arre the chjildrren of Saanjarra. Ssuperrjiorr."

Taataani glanced at Tyree with the taut lips of a skeptic at that last demonstrative boast.

"Otherrss majy fjind the hjypocrrjissjy of ourr ssocjietjy sset agajinsst ssuch opennesss to be unbearrable. That we jojin an Alljiance of Frree Planetss whjile frreedom eludess manjy of ourr own people."

To this notion, Taataani seemed somewhat less skeptical. If the expression carried anything, it was a modicum of discomfort. The marine leading the two VIP's seemed to slow at Taataani's words, glancing back at the two inscrutably.

"Sso when jI ssajy thesse terrrorrjisstss wjissh to desstrrojy the Prrjide, sstarrtjing at ejitherr pojint would ljikeljy fjind jyou at the hearrt of the matterr."

[Vansen Tyree]

As controversial issues went, what Taataani alluded to was perhaps the ultimate representation. What made it so significant was that it was a dilemma wrestled with since the very dawn of the Republic and of civilisation, and that it was still wrestled with, still unresolved to this very day. The Republic had always prided itself on it's pledge to promote a common community that embraced morality and equality above all other things. Yet, despite the outlaw of slavery in Republic space, the slave-based cultures of Trandosha, Zygerria, and Hutta continued to thrive. Despite the premise that all races were equal, ever since the Pius Dea Crusades the galaxy had been divided into the us and them of human and non-human, a divide that the Clone Wars and the New Order had only served to reinforce. When it came to the genders, the only balance that seemed to exist was that the galaxy compensated for it's abundant patriarchy with a handful of extreme matriarchies like the Cizerack and Hapans represented.

The Alliance struggled with it more than any government before it, because despite the lofty aspirations of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, the simple truth was that the Republic was a broken model, a faulty template for how the galaxy should be. The Confederacy of Independent Systems had gained so much traction three decades ago, not because the dark side had conjured conflict out of thin air, but because the underlying cracks and fissures within the Republic were already there, just waiting for the right nudge to begin crumbling into pieces. Non-human races so sick and tired of the humanocentric homogenization that the Republic brought with it clung to their traditions and ideals all the more tightly, and those oppressed and repressed by those traditional regimes were forced to stand and watch as other races danced around in freedom right outside their door.

Wealth and gender were the Cizerack's two biggest points of social contention, and that was an alarming thing to realise in this situation. The women became richer, and wielded all the power; the men were pressed into service, as labourers, lackeys -

Soldiers.

Suddenly the protection of a Cizerack Marine felt even less reassuring than it had a moment before. Instead of a baseline distrust of anyone, Vansen now found himself with an explicit reason to hold the Marine under greater scrutiny.

"Still sounds like a stupid plan to me," Vansen countered, ensuring his voice was loud enough that the no doubt eavesdropping Marine could hear him easily. "Out here in the big wide galaxy, the Cizerack get exposure. Those serving on this station get exposure to the way that other races and other cultures treat their citizens, and it makes it that much harder for the rest of the Alliance to ignore the inequalities in your culture if you're out here shoving it in their faces." He shook his head, a dismissive half-sigh, half-growl escaping his throat. "All they gain from attacking Jovan is forcing the Pride back behind it's borders: fortified, consolidated, and that much less likely to ever change."

His voice transformed into a disappointed grumble. "Idiots don't have a damn clue what they're doing. This is child logic, not strategy."

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani wasn't so quick to condemn, and her eyes were distant and thoughtful.

"Dessperratjion brreedss jirrratjionaljitjy. jIf that werre jindeed thejirr motjive, then perrhap-"

"Ta'u saai Fey'danna kaiheessa!"

Everything changed in an instant, and Taataani saw too late the hand swatting her to the ground. Claws tore at the shoulder of her garment, shredding it bare and bringing two lines of crimson to the fore as she fell to the deck. Her blaster snapped up to fire, but was off the mark in the tumult as the Jaanni'saari aimed his weapon at his intended target:

Admiral Tyree.