Summary: A transfered officer comes to the Outer Rim
Out of Darkness: Reporting for Duty
Year of the Empire 1,468
by BlackRose, 2000
Outer Rim Fleet, Star Destroyer Nakis'sgha
In the end, the advent of his desire came not with a bang, but
with the softest of whispers. The man sighed, regarding the
pale shadow of his reflection in the shuttle viewport. By habit
he reached up, smoothing back stray strands of dark hair that
had escaped the plait that hung heavy at his neck, letting
tendrils wind around his finger. The reflected wraith
pantomimed the gesture, its dark eyes blurred by the stars as
they swung past. In the distance, fast approaching, the
glittering bulk of a ship caught the starlight against its
sharp angles, sending it back in paleglimmers. Nakis'sgha, the
Shadow Hunter, flagship of the fleet. The undefeated prize
jewel of the sector and the shining path of his future.
His crewmates had laughed, when the orders had first come
through. Seated in the cramped dining hall of the Sefu, he had
been unable to keep his fingertips from stroking across the
comp pad that held his secret glory. The message had come
through quietly, downloaded with all of his other missives, a
full half of them marked with the same urgency but dismissed
and discarded all the same. Until that one. After that, the
rest had been meaningless.
The shift end had come, crewmen surging through the mess doors,
voices raised, the room come alive with the sound of laughter
and arguments and clattering trays. He had done his best to
ignore it, eating his own meal with neat haste, until the table
he sat at had been pre-empted by a group of junior command deck
officers.
"Hey, Crionde, what's that? Transfer orders?" There had been
laughter from the others clustered around the dining table at
the woman's jibe, a long standing joke that he had been the
butt of for rotations. He had shot her a sour glance,
unconsciously cradling the comp pad closer.
"Yeah, Crionde," the man who had elbowed into place beside him
prompted, grinning. "Get transferred off this garbage scow
yet?"
The temptation had been too great. The smile he had given them
had been cold, a movement of the lips that never touched his
eyes or any emotion behind them. Flipping the pad around, he
had held it out to the woman. "Actually, yes."
It had been worth it to see the smile slip from her face; to
see, for an instant, the unguarded look of pure, unadulterated
jealousy that had burned through her eyes. It had been masked
quickly, he had granted her that; reaching out automatically to
take the comp pad, her lips had twisted in a mocking line.
"You're jesting."
"See for yourself, Barre," he had invited, knowing that his
smile was showing far too many teeth and unable to contain the
small, spiteful feeling of glee.
The laughter had trailed away, most eyes in their section of
the dining hall fixed on the exchange. Barre had frowned, the
corners of her expressive mouth turning down. "Very funny,
Crionde. You've been trying for a transfer for over a year -
even if some ship was fool enough to take you, you think the
Captain's going to let you go?" None the less, her haughty tone
wavered slightly as she glanced down at the comp pad, scrolling
quickly through the message on the screen.
The color had leeched from her face, then, casting the scars
across her cheeks into stark relief. His smile had deepened,
satisfaction providing a warm glow. "You were saying, my dear?"
"Force!" Barre had gasped. Around her others had clamored for a
chance to see but she had held the pad tight, her aghast gaze
locked to his. "Force, Crionde! What are you, insane?"
"No," he had snapped, stung. Reaching across the table to pry
the pad from her grasp, he had cradled it protectively, as
though the tiny bits of information copied within its data
streams might disappear. "No, not insane. Just more ambitious
than any of you."
"Insane," Barre had insisted, stabbing a finger towards the
comp pad. "The Outer Sector Rim Fleet? Force, that's a death
wish! Do you know the casualty rate out there?"
"Outer Sector?" the man seated beside her had exclaimed.
"Light! She's right, Crionde. The general for that sector..."
"Is a genius," he had shot back, irritated. "He's never lost a
ship, which is more then our dear General Windu can claim."
"He's a monster," Barre had huffed, and around her heads had
nodded in agreement. "Don't you listen, you fool? The
disciplinary casualty rate on his ships is astronomical. He
goes through people like water."
"Maybe," he had snapped. "But if you survive a tour in the
Outer Rim, your career is guaranteed. The officers from his
ships can write their own ticket, wherever they want." Glancing
around at the faces seated about the table, he had snarled,
seeing in their blank, disbelieving expressions all of the
reasons he had tried, so very hard, to achieve the very thing
that they feared. "Cowards!"
No one had stopped him as he slammed away from the table, no
one had said a word as he left the dining hall, but he had felt
their eyes on him every step of the way. /Crazy,/ they were
whispering, just out of his earshot. /Stupid./
/Dead./
It had sapped the first, wondrous, newborn exultation from his
receipt of the orders. Angry and sullen, he had locked the door
of his quarters and, digging out a pack from the back of his
clothing locker, had thrown it across his sleeping couch and
followed it with the contents of the locker itself. Uniform
shirts and trousers, old, serviceable, new, one set of formal
dress, clearing the drawers of his stores in record time, the
clothing strewn about and haphazardly folded as he took his
temper out in the harmless occupation of throwing things.
In the end he had slowed, going back and neatly folding each
item, packing it away securely. The essentials of life among
the Fleet, issued identical to every being, followed by a bare
handful of personal effects. There had been a bitter taste as
he packed those away - such small, insignificant things, and
all he could claim after over a decade of service in the Fleet
and years aboard the Sefu. Finally, unwilling to look closely
at any of them, he had stowed them away secure and left the
pack, full and bulging, at the foot of his sleeping couch to
await his departure. The quarters, bare of his belongings, had
seemed no less empty then it had when they had been there.
Had there been fear, then? He snorted at the very idea,
dismissing it. No, there was no fear. He knew the risks, had
looked into them and weighed them carefully. The Outer Rim's
reputation was earned, and earned well - but the rewards, if
one survived, were worth the risk. Looking at his reflection
against the stars, he could track the traces of silver in his
dark hair, the network of fine lines that was beginning to
frame the corners of his eyes and mouth. Marks of years, of
rank, of climbing that ladder with effortless ease until he had
found a place, a position, that he could not seem to rise
beyond. And then... years piled upon years, watching
opportunity slip by, watching as he petrified and grew old
without hope of change.
His lips twisted, drawing down. No, that would not be for him.
Not any longer. He would find his future in the Outer Rim, or
die. And if die - well, and why not? A quick exit, rather than
lingering stagnation. It was a price he was willing to chance.
Out beyond the viewport the Nakis'sgha grew larger each moment,
until it towered above them in sleek lines, stark and deadly.
It was nearly time. He reached up, smoothed back his hair once
more, straightened the line of his collar, his tunic,
fingertips returning by habit to brush the service scar on his
cheek. The hard lump of his initiate disk, buried there deep in
the cheekbone, ached. He rubbed at it fitfully.
Not with a bang, but with a whisper. The whisper of the
shuttle, as it eased into the hanger, the whisper as the
docking gear descended, the hiss of the pneumatics and the
thump as the craft settled to the floor.
There would be no turning back. He had known it, but never yet
in quite the same way, as he shouldered his pack and walked
down the length of the entrance ramp to set foot for the first
time upon the deckplates of the Nakis'sgha. No turning around.
It was now or never.
A senior officer, more crisply turned out than any of the
Sefu's staff had ever been, hair and uniform starkly neat, met
him at the foot of the ramp. The woman glanced at him, her gaze
dismissing his importance as easily as if he had been a pallet
of goods. Stung, all too aware of the imperfect neatness of his
own appearance compared to hers, he snapped to attention.
"Commander Crionde, transfer from Inner Fleet ship Sefu,
reporting for duty."
Dark eyes had raked over him, judging and openly finding
wanting. Reality, he found, was much more disconcerting then
dreams. Beneath that blade sharp gaze he didn't dare so much as
swallow. None the less, she extended a comp pad to him, one
which he took eagerly. "You'll find your quarter and shift
assignments there, Commander," she said crisply. "We run tight
ships in this fleet - especially this one. The Captain and the
General expect perfection. See that you keep that in mind." Her
gaze dragged across him once more, from head to foot and back
again. The disdain in her voice was evident, though her
expression betrayed nothing. "See the quartermaster about new
uniforms. And that hair, Commander. *Before* your first shift."
"Yes, sir," he replied automatically. No wince betrayed what he
felt, neither the flush of shame nor the stab of irritation. He
did not, even when she turned on her heel to leave, reach up to
pat the thick plait of hair coiled at his nape. /Sacrifice to
the ambition,/ he told himself firmly. All the same, it left a
bitter taste, to think of letting them cut the plait away.
Shaking his head, he re-shouldered his pack. If done, better
done soon. A glance at the comp pad showed his quarter
assignment. There first, and then to find the quartermaster.
His shifts would not start till the 'morrow, and the time
between was best spent learning his way around.
He was halfway across the hangar when he heard the footsteps
clattering across the floor, long and hurried. They came from
behind him and, automatically, he stepped aside to allow the
being to pass. Instead the man dropped into step beside him,
voice brisk and not at all out of breath despite his hurry.
"Xanatos Crionde?"
He stopped at that, turning. "Yes?"
A first glance took in the youthful line of cheek and jaw, the
face of a man probably - if one were uncharitable - nearly less
than two thirds his own age. But the second glance, coming hard
after the first, noticed the black folds of a tunic cut
differently then fleet issue, the material soft, clinging
across the strong lines of shoulder and chest. Traveled up,
tracking the stark black and crimson of the sharp angled lines
that traced across cheek and forehead. Mark of a Sith Lord, and
only one in the Fleet fit that youthful description.
Breath caught in his throat, he snapped to attention so quickly
he felt the jarring in his bones. "My Lord General, sir!"
Full lips curved into a smile, something of real amusement
touching the blue eyes nestled in their network of tattoos. "At
ease, Commander. I came to welcome you aboard."
Smooth, cultured tones, and beneath it he could feel, dimly,
the dark thrum of the Sith's power, the undercurrent of the
Force that he could still hear like the echoing ache of a limb
removed. It raised the hairs across his arms. "Yes, sir," he
managed, breathless. This was the man who ruled the Outer Rim
fleet. The one the Inner Fleet called blood thirsty. Offered
the rank of Master, he had turned it down - it was said he
liked the Outer Rim battles too well to return to Coruscant.
"Second Commander Xanatos Crionde, weapons officer, reporting
from the Sefu, my lord."
"Good. And you have your assignments? Excellent." The General
looked at him, nodding slightly. "Your request was well timed,
Commander. The Nakis'sgha lost its weapons officer ten days
ago."
Fleet news had spoken of no battles. /He goes through people
like water./ Squaring his shoulders, Xanatos lifted his chin.
/The disciplinary casualty rate.../ But that was fear talking,
and he would not listen.
The General was regarding him, eyes narrowed slightly beneath
the brushing waves of his honey toned hair. A smile touched his
lips, seemingly pleased. "Yes, Commander. I think you'll do
well."
"My Lord General." Not only was that gaze hair raising, but
this, directly off the shuttle, was far from the introduction
he would have liked with the man. Freshly laundered and
barbered, perhaps, but not right then, with the disdain in the
receiving officer's tone still loud in his ears.
Crystal blue eyes narrowed a margin further, studying. "Sidra
tore into you, didn't she? Tight ship, new uniform, all of
that?"
His mouth was too dry to swallow. "The First Commander
suggested uniform and a hair cut, my lord."
The General shook his head, an indulgent sort of gesture. "Then
by all means, see the quartermaster for new uniforms. As to
hair..." The General's gaze sharpened. Stepping around Xanatos,
who dared not move, the Sith Lord reached up, plucking the pins
from the older man's hair. Freed from confinement, the heavy
braid of dark hair unwound, snaking down his back to brush,
silken, just below his belt.
Xanatos clenched his jaw, refusing to flinch as the Sith Lord's
hand took up the weight of the braid, wrapping it once about
the man's wrist before letting it slide free. The tie at the
end of the tail was tugged out, fingers combing through the
strands, making him shiver. Just above the small of his back
the General gathered the plaits again, fastening the tie neatly
back into place. "There," the man pronounced, sounding
satisfied. "Wear it like that, Commander."
It took him twice to find his voice and he could see the
amusement in the General's eyes as the Sith stepped back around
to face him. "It's not Fleet regulation, my lord."
"No." Blue eyes flashed slightly, the wry touch of a humorless
grin sending cold shivers down his spine. "It's my regulation.
Wear it like that."
His voice was starting to crack. "Yes, Lord General."
"And that's enough of that," the Sith snapped, his tone brisk
rather then irritated. "Here, on my ship, it's General Kenobi.
Understood, Xanatos?"
"Yes, sir." He didn't, couldn't, dare to say more.
The General smiled slightly. "Good. Welcome aboard, Commander.
Dismissed."
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