Bid Against the Thunder || ONC 2020

Chapter 3 - Don't Save Me

 Early in his career, before being assigned to the Omman Diplomatic Corps under Admiral Derin, Tabraile piloted a transport for a covert operation in the Chommell Sector. It was a grueling, overnight basebust operation that swept across the surface of the planet Naboo destroying Rebel bases. From the smallest Forward Outpost to the larger Detachment Headquarters, 27 bases went down in ten hours. 

He remembered it distinctly because the mission was led by a Socorran woman, a girl really. The Sith swarmed about her like eager drones to a queen and worshipped her for the mayhem and chaos she brought them. For every city, every sleepy hamlet they encountered, death and destruction followed in their wake.

That's how it was with Sith. Tabraile knew them to be ill-tempered, volatile beings of chaos, barely in control of their emotions or their faculties, and now he, like the basebuster found himself in service to one.

He felt a tugging on his pants legs and awoke to blood trickling across his face and an alert beacon. Having fallen asleep at the helm, he sat upright in a panic, then remembered where he was. His head was pounding, his vision slow to return or resume focus. It was by instinct and feel that he located the hyperdrive alarm and silenced it as the shuttle emerged from the hyperspace and into the distant starlight and darkness of space above an Imperial Star Destroyer.

"Lambda-Class Shuttle, this is the Invictus. Your transponder beacon is not transmitting. Please identify yourself."

"Invictus, this is Captain Marric Tabraile. My transponder beacon is restricted. Sending the access code now." He flipped the switch to temporarily activate the transponder and then turned it off. The prolonged silence that followed came as no surprise.

"Captain Tabraile, we've been expecting you," the tech said, his voice underpinned with anxiety. "Follow the beacon to docking bay 9691."

"Copy that. Thank you, Invictus. Docking bay 9691." He wanted to engage the officer in a bit of humor, making a joke about keeping the lights on or having a plate of food ready, but it was difficult to summon any joy to accomplish that. Thirty hours on Dantooine and 16 bodies was more than enough to dampen even a Socorran's spirits.

He wiped the blood from his face with a towel and gingerly pressed on the rudimentary gauze bandage wrapped around his forehead. It was damp with blood. Without bacta treatment, the injury would leave a telling scar.

An incessant beeping came from below, and he glanced down at RK-O9, who was holding up his black cap in one of its mechanical arms.

"Thanks, partner." He got up from the pilot's chair as the shuttle settled on the berth. While space was his second home, he felt unsteady on his feet from the head injury and held onto the back of the chair while listening to the mouse droid's whistles of concern. "I'm good, buddy. Let's go. Sounds like the good lady is expected. Better not make her late."

As the droid made its way to the mechanized lift, Tabraile proceeded into the passenger cabin. Though most Lambda-class shuttles were outfitted as troop transports, this one was designed for passengers and featured luxurious seats, flight benches, even a bar.

Lady Vannre was lying on one of the benches, her black robe draped over her as she slept. She was remarkably beautiful ... and deadly, he reminded himself as he stooped to shake her.

"Father!" she cried.

Startled by the outburst, Tabraile took a step back. She reminded him of the child who had died in his arms on Dantooine. Wary of the assassin, he shook her again with a heavier hand and was ready when the back of her fist flew at him. Her fingers were clasped around the silver and red hilt of the lightsaber.