Unexpected Arrivals

There was rated to fly single-seat hypercraft, and then there was accustomed to flying single-seat hypercraft. Until now, Mackenzie Tallen had never truly appreciated the vast gulf between those two states.

As a field officer with the Imperial Security Bureau, it had been a necessary part of his training to familiarise himself with an assortment of starcraft that he might happen across over the course of his duties. He was rated for, and familiar with using shuttles and light couriers. He was rated on starships up to 400 metres. His TIE Fighter aptitude scores were a point of pride, and he'd flown combat in such craft more times than he was at liberty to divulge.

But then there were the hyperspace-capable starfighters. Though the Empire itself chose to rely mostly on sublight TIE Fighters, the duties of an ISB agent sometimes required them to commandeer craft from local militias and private citizens, and so their training reflected that. Mackenzie had trained on fighters with external hyperdrives like the Alpha-3 Nimbus. He'd trained for internal hyperdrives on the Z-95 and Cloakshapes. By the Security Bureau's estimation - and his own - Mackenzie Tallen was rated and ready for anything. He was not.

It was with a sense of relief that Mack watched the countdown cycle all the way to zero, and was permitted to reach out and push forward on the hyperdrive controls. The StarViper that the Mandalorian military had set aside for his use was a beautiful craft: a marriage of ancient Basilisk war droid design from Mandalore's past with modern TIE Fighter concepts imposed and inspired by the Imperial occupation of Manda'yaim. The cockpit, with is vast forward viewport felt comfortable and familiar to the TIE-trained agent. What was deeply unfamiliar, and more than a little unsettling, was the experience of flying such a craft through the swirling void of hyperspace.

Until now, Mackenzie had not realised how reassuring it was to be in the cockpit of a Headhunter-style snubfighter, surrounded on most sides by the reassuring embrace of durasteel. Hyperspace was above and before you, but the presence of hull beneath your boots, and structure constantly in the periphery of your vision was a comfort when you stared out into that cascading blue abyss. In a StarViper though - and presumably in a TIE Defender, or any of the other hyperspace-equipped members of that family, that Mackenzie had thankfully missed out on the opportunity to fly - your entire field of view was as empty as possible. In combat, it maximised your visibility, but in hyperspace it did the exact same thing. If Mackenzie glanced down past the flight controls, he saw himself on a precipice suspended over infinity, seemingly one false move away from a fall into oblivion. Stuck in hyperspace for several hours since they had left Mandalore, Mackenzie had never been so unsettled for so long in his life.

As the stars and the black came back into focus, Mackenzie released a small sigh of relief. True, the abyss beneath him was still infinite, but he'd done his mandatory zero-g and ejection training; he knew how survivable the vacuum of space could be, if you knew what you were doing. The stars remained reassuringly still, and the vastness of space just sat there being vast and benign; quite the contrast to the swirling maelstrom of death that lay beyond the speed of light.

His nerves hadn't quite settled by the time a voice crackled through his helmet comm, however; he forced himself to take a moment to collect himself.

"Landing clearance obtained. Escort fighters: form up for our approach to the station."

"Escort-2, copy," Mackenzie acknowledged, gently leaning his StarViper into a roll as he peeled right, banking around to take his position aft and starboard of the Kom'rk transport's thrusters. A sidelong glance revealed Escort-1's corresponding fighter in corresponding position off to port. He exchanged a silent respectful nod with the pilot before concentrating on the flight trajectory that his HUD superimposed over the starfield ahead. Following the curved arc with his vision, his gaze came to rest upon the familiar dorsal view of Jovan Station, floating like an ugly great asterisk in space.

At least I won't have to look at that once I'm inside, he mused. Imperial design and architecture could be striking and impressive when it wanted to be, but stations of this type were a failed endeavour. Unless, of course, Fleet Command had wanted it's stations to look like space mushrooms doodled by a one-armed blind man; in which case, good job.

The three Mandalorian ships followed the path that the station's Alliance occupants had issued with meticulous care, and before long they had swooped below the docking arms, coming upon one of the many glowing wounds in the station's side from slightly below. Metre by metre the landing bay grew; before long the tiny moving specks had grown into recognisable figures swarming across the bay, and the gaping entrance had swallowed Mackenzie and his companions whole. The StarViper shuddered as magnetic energy buffeted his bow, the field fighting to keep the precious atmosphere in, but surrendering enough to allow spacecraft inside. Idly, Mackenzie wondered just how powerful the repulsive force was. Did the ground crews of stations like this have to contend with debris and micrometeorites finding their way through the atmosphere shields, like dust and leaves wafting in through an open door?

As Escort-2 settled down with a clunk against the Jovan Station deck, Mackenzie extracted himself from the cockpit with a little more enthusiasm than quite fit the impression he was trying to convey. He longed to rip the helmet from his head, and grant himself a few breaths of fresh air - or at least, fresher air; the station's air circulators were somewhat more effective than the feeble units installed on his ship. That wasn't permissible though, not now at least. He had been wrapped in the accoutrements of Mand'alor's personal guard: traditional Mandalorian armour painted in the colours of the Death Watch. Personally, Mackenzie didn't much care for the symbolism and meaning of it all, but he respected the need for such things; and so he carried himself with the poise and professionalism that Mand'alor would expect from him.

A few paces carried him and the stoically silent Escort-1 to the base of the transport's boarding ramp. For a moment, Mackenzie entirely forgot the helmet hiding his features, and took great care to adjust his expression into something modestly polite as the transport's most notable passenger disembarked: Beviin Goza, the sister of Mand'alor. If there was a fancy word for that, Mackenzie didn't know it yet; nor did he much care. He was making the effort to respect the Mandalorian traditions for the sake of his father and sister - mostly his sister - but there was respecting the letter of the traditions, and there was respecting the precepts they were based on. The former, Mackenzie did very well; years of Imperial service had taught him how to obey with orders and protocols that he didn't necessarily agree with. But respecting the pseudo-religious basis of all things Mandalorian? The notion that by not complying with a few rules and a few morals he was somehow dooming his soul to oblivion? That was a tougher pill to swallow. That would take some time.

Of course, if anyone asked, he could fake it like the best of them. He was honoured to be here; to be part of Sisterlore's distinguished entourage on this vital mission for the brave and noble people of Manda'yaim. Suddenly, he was very glad of the obscuring quality of his helmet, and his well-practised ability to sigh silently.

The request from Mand'alor had come not only from the leader of their people, but from her beloved brother. True, the Resol'nare dictated that when the Mand'alor called all the children of Yaim were to answer. She would have done her duty regardles, though she had to admit the personal nature of their meeting and Beskade's words meant a great deal to her. As a child, Beviin had been forced to learn and live without him given the trials that he had faced. To know that he respected and trusted the woman and the warrior she'd become ameliorated the bitterness she carried within the darkest corners of her heart.

She emitted a faint sigh as she leaned back into her seat, fingers absently checking her crash webbing. The ship began its final approach to Jovan Station, the chatter of the pilots and those in the escort fighters coming through the speakers in the lounge area clearly. Beviin smiled at the efficiency and clipped tones of all involved, pleased with those chosen to accompany her. A few of the ship’s crew would remain with her on Jovan to establish the Embassy after negotiations, and serve as her honor guard, while the rest returned home to resume their various duties there.

The woman wondered distantly as she felt the ship touch down in the hangar, where Mara was off to with her duties. She’d missed her friend since the redhead had returned to active duty and her post aboard the Novgorod. With luck, they’d be able to meet soon on the station for some much needed girl-talk.

But that was neither here nor there, and Beviin rose with a stretch as she assembled her thoughts onto a more proper path. Slender, calloused fingers checked her armor, it’s deep blood-red color gleaming from it’s recent maintenance. Her long locks were pulled back and braided neatly, the length partially bound up and the rest hanging down her back. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded as one of the pilots spoke.

“Excellent. Thank you, A’den...I’ll have you on your way home to Arris as soon as possible, I promise.” Beviin smiled at the young warrior and settled her helmet in the crook of her left arm after tucking her gloves in at her waist. Her steps echoed down the ramp as they stepped down it with her leading the way. She stopped a few feet after the ramp ended, now flanked by the escort pilots in addition to her crew.

Head canted, she nodded towards each of them, her attention returning to the hangar bay door as it swooshed open to admit their welcoming committee.

The welcoming committee was somewhat lacking; and somewhat flustered, though Adonis Inirial was practised enough in these situations to make such things entirely invisible.

It had begun as a calm morning. He'd stepped out of his quarters at 0823, exactly the same as any other day. He'd walked the exact same route, exchanged silent greetings with the exact same tired crewmen, as he had done every day since stepping aboard Jovan Station as a new member of it's crew. Just like any other day, the exact same order of caf was already waiting for him; the exact same smiles, and phrases, and friendly conversation exchanged with the barista as any other morning. The only variation came with how many seconds he waited for the lift car to arrive, but that was a known variable. Expected. Familiar. Everything was exactly as it should be. He leaned up against the exact same segment of the car's safety rail, braced himself subconsciously as it accelerated, stopped, and accelerated again at all the same familiar corridors, without even bothering to look up from the datapad in his hands. Overnight station reports. Communications logs. Customs -

A frown had crinkled his brow at an odd transmission lurking within the ether. A nondescript transmission code; a hyperspace message, requesting landing clearance in advance from Jovan Control. Nothing unusual about that. Civilian traders and private ships usually played their arrival by ear, dropping out of hyperspace, making the necessary electronic handshakes with landing control, and then waiting their turn for a birth to arrive. Scheduled transports, military vessels, and pleasantly organised people were the only ones who bothered to call ahead, providing expected arrival times so that Jovan Station could make preparations for them. A transport full of passengers or ordnance supplies didn't want to be left floating around in space, where paying customers could become frustrated, and valuable supplies could present an all-too-tempting target to foolishly opportunistic pirates.

No, the transmission itself wasn't strange; it was the clearance code attached to it. It was a consular ident, one of thousands handed over to the Alliance Senate to be shared out amongst diplomatic transports, private yachts, couriers, shuttles - any kind of craft that the bureaucrats and politicians felt was important enough to be spared from delay. In isolation, it meant nothing. A visit from some daughter or cousin or other relative of the Meorrrei clan. A shipment of top shelf alcohol from Zeltros that Silas had accidentally mislabelled as essential diplomatic supplies. A Jedi might be using Jovan as a layover en route to do whatever it was that the Jedi did these days. It could have been one of Yon's mysterious now-a-guy suppliers, shipping in something exotic from somewhere exotic. It hadn't raised a flag with anyone, and understandably so.

But anyone didn't have those consular ident codes etched into the neutronium surface of his memories. Anyone hadn't been part of the Alliance Intelligence team that had compiled and distributed them. Anyone didn't know at a glance that this particular code was among the batch given to Alec Tallen, for distribution to the government of Mandalore. No one had expected them to be used; it had just been a gesture, part of the standard greeting basket for anyone who arrived on Bothawui claiming to be the duly elected Ambassador for a non-aligned world. But this one was being used, and a little further scrutiny confirmed it. A MandalMotors transport. An arrival vector pointing in the right direction.

Mandalorians were coming.

That moment of recognition was what shattered the daily routine, and had Adonis leaving the turbolift a full three stops early. His fingers had already tapped out a subtle alert to station security, a polite warning that they might want to keep an extra eye on the public spaces, drinking establishments, and known trouble-makers for the rest of the day. Mandalorians were bound by honour; but they were also bound to get into a fight at some point, with someone. Better to be ready, than to have chaos erupt on the promenade.

Two lefts and a right, weaving through the memorised blueprints of Jovan Station, and Adonis found himself at the hangar bay door; solitary and alone. He'd looped himself into the landing control feed, trying to glean more information on what lay beyond the doors for him. A transport and a modest fighter escort. About half a dozen Mandalorians in all. A raiding party, planning to use Jovan Station as an avenue to creep across the border into the Alliance? A delegation? Ambassador Tallen joyriding around the galaxy trying to ruffle as many feathers as possible?

It was worse, Adonis realised, as the doors slid open. Most of the masks and faces were hard to discern, but the woman standing in the centre of it all was quite the contrary. The Mandalorians were an unknown quantity; prone to combat, hard to predict, and completely non-aligned with the rest of galactic politics. You didn't allow a sector like that to loom across the border a few lightyears from your doorstep without becoming acutely familiar with the important people. And this? Well, this was an odd one. Not an ambassador, not a war leader, not one of the Ministers; this was the sister of Mand'alor. Adonis didn't quite know enough about Mandalorian culture - or rather, the new permutation of Mandalorian culture that Mandalore the Liberator had been crafting of late within their sealed borders - to be sure if there was any ceremonial significance to Mandalore's blood relatives; but better safe than sorry.

"Alor Goza," Adonis greeted, with a respectful bow of his head, scrambling through his thoughts for every scrap of Mandalorian trivia he had ever come across. "Welcome to Jovan Station. I am -"

For a microsecond he hesitated. He should have roused Akiena or Meorrrei for this. He should have rounded up security officers and random technicians as he passed; something to make him more than just one man alone in a hangar bay. An uncomfortable subconscious nudge thrust him into the only solution readily at hand.

"- Lord Adonis Inirial, late of Alderaan, and a Commander with Alliance Intelligence here on the station. I'm afraid you'll have to forgive the lack of preparations for your arrival, but -"

He trailed off, a subtle smile that was polite and charming at the same time settling itself onto his features.

"- I'm afraid no one thought to warn us in advance that you were coming."

There was no formal word in her native Mando'a for what she was as the sister of Mand'alor...she was simply one of many, and content to be so. Addressing her as alor was a deft touch by this Lord Adonis Inirial as he so named himself, and Beviin favored him with a smile that warmed her features for it. She took a moment to appraise him closely, her dark eyes coursing over the visual he presented. Critical, analyzing. Purely taking stock. Certainly not noticing that he was a rather nice place to rest the eyes.

Indeed not.

Beviin returned the polite bow of his head with an inclination of her own. "Thank you for the welcome, Commander. Please, do not trouble yourself over the lack of preparations. Though we did not wish for anything formal to be prepared, you should have received word that I was going to be arriving. I'll have to have a word with our Ambassador." It was years of training and conditioning that kept her tone light and jovial, nevermind the presence of the other Mando'ade around her. One or two in particular of whom would have taken exception to her poor opinion of Alec Tallen. Best keep that one to herself, she mused absently, before turning her thoughts back onto their proper course.

"When you have gone through all the trouble of setting up such an endeavor as Jovan Station, it only seemed proper to come see it for ourselves." She continued, briefly casting her gaze around the hangar bay. Inirial. Something about the name was lingering just at the fringe of recognition, and it truly bothered her. She'd heard it before, of that she was certain, and not simply in the briefings about the Station that she'd received. Bah. Nothing would shake itself out of her memory so she gave it up for the time being.

Her dark gaze settled over her shoulder on Mackenzie, and she gave him a nod. "Tallen bal Goran, sur'ulur te rusur."**

Beviin returned her attention to Adonis and renewed her smile in the process. "If I might be so bold, Commander, is there somewhere that we could speak privately? There are a few things I would like to discuss."


-----

**Transl. "Tallen and Goran, keep an eye on the ships."

Adonis watched as one of the pilots and one of Miss Goza's entourage peeled away from the others, the remaining pilot taking a slightly protective half-step forward, clearly having no intentions of letting himself be separated from the visiting dignitary. There might have been something more to that subtle protectiveness; but for now it was filed away, his mind focused on more significant matters.

That mention of Tallen caught his attention, though. His Mando'a was a long way from fluent, but he knew enough to recognise what was a name, what was an instruction, and to derive the general gist. He wasn't sure whether the name belonged to the pilot or the guard; but neither of them appeared to have the size or frame to be Mara Tallen - which made a comfortable correlation with simple logic; Major Tallen was lightyears away aboard the Novgorod, as far as Adonis knew. The Novgorod did make frequent visits to the station between it's patrol missions though, and so Commander Inirial had seen fit to acquaint himself with members of it's crew; particularly the ones potentially disruptive to station security. The way that Goza had referred to our Ambassador ruled out Alec Tallen himself as the occupant of one of those helmeted suits of armour, but he remembered mention of a brother, one with supposed ties to the Imperial Security Bureau. That raised all manner of questions; how did someone go from being an agent of Mandalore's oppressors to escorting one of it's most important dignitaries? Did they simply not know? Did Mandalorian honour mean that they didn't care?

It was a contemplation best left for later. He offered a polite smile. "My office isn't too far," he suggested, his eyes briefly flickering to the featureless mask of Beviin's self-appointed bodyguard before deciding it was probably best to focus on the lady herself. "And I can assure you, the office of an intelligence officer is thoroughly private, I've made quite sure of that."

He hesitated for a moment, wondering what the protocol was supposed to be in this kind of situation. Imperial and Alliance diplomatic manuals proposed all kinds of options, but somehow Adonis doubted any of them were geared towards a culture as honour-bound and tradition-orientated as the Mandalorians. If their curiosity in the station was potentially going to evolve into something more, he'd have to take the time to make himself an expert, just as he had tried to with every other major culture that had made itself comfortable in Jovan Station's halls.

Adonis gestured behind him towards the waiting doorway. "If you'd like to follow me?"

As this exchange took place in the docking bay, a trio of onlookers found themselves in it's unlikely midst. Three Jaani'saarri, the Cizerack Pride's Royal Marines, kept watch over the area from a security booth up on the second level balcony. Alone in a boring posting with all the real work being handled by a human warrant officer manning the bay controls and cameras, they were there to be the rarely-used (if ever) muscle in the event that something went wrong. It meant a four hour shift full of little but standing around and talking, which they all did in Cizeri to keep the warrant officer out of the loop.

"Eh Dondaarro, take a look at this ship!" T'suuka head-nodded in the direction of the window as he leaned against a panel.

Dondaarro didn't immediately respond to the summons, giving only a bored "What now?" The dark-toned Naala'in marine busied himself with a small comb and a pocket mirror, making sure his hair was smartly coiffed.

Rei'kuurri merely glanced up from the task of filing his claws, blowing against one of his curved nails to clear away the residue. "It's just another ship. T'suuka, you water head, you're so easily impressed."

"It's a Mandalorian ship!" T'suuka insisted. "I saw one in a holo. They fly in iron butterflies. Like that one!"

Rei'kuurri and Dondaarro laughed out loud at T'suuka's enthusiasm, causing the dreadlocked marine to glower back at them.

"Iron butterfly?" Dondaarro scoffed, closing his pocket mirror and putting it away. "That sounds like a band name."

"Did it become a caterpillar when it landed?" Rei'kuurri joined in on the fun, raking another claw against his nail file.

"Idiots." T'suuka snatched the file from Rei'kuurri's hand and threw it down the hall. "It is one! And the people coming out are wearing armor."

"So what?" Rei'kuurri watched his nail file fly away, and decided for the moment it was more interesting to humor his squad-mate than to chase after it. He sat up in his chair. "Lots of guys wear armor. We wear armor."

"So do Imperial Whitetroopers." Dondaarro added, pocketing his comb as well. "I mean, big deal. If I flew in a butterfly I would probably want armor."

Despite their skepticism, Dondaarro and Rei'kuurri were just bored enough to humor T'suuka, and they both approached the window. Rei'kuurri's ears went askew and he raised an eyebrow at the sight of the people below.

"That is...some really nice armor though!" He glanced down at his own plastoid composite suit, suddenly feeling less impressive.

Dondaarro was a harder sell, looking smug as he shrugged with high-tilted ears.

"Ah, it's okay. But look at the scuffs and dents. And they're all different. They can't even agree on one color."

T'suuka pointed out one of the warriors as he turned.

"See on their backs? They have a flying pack."

Rei'kuurri peered closer, a skeptical look on his face.

"Is that what that is? How do you know it flies?"

Dondaaro pushed Rei'kuuri away from the mirror with a laugh.

"He doesn't, he just drinks the jeeta water. It's all tall tales, you know. Flying commandos, elite training, Jedi hunting. Besides, I know all those stories, so those aliens *can't* be Mandalorians because Mandalorians are ten feet tall."

All three marines paused, glanced to the window, and re-evaluated their enthusiasm.

"Oh yeah..." T'suuka muttered, a little disappointed.

"Idiot." Dondaaro scoffed, giving the shorter marine a swift punch in the arm. "These are just mercenaries or travelers from some little alien world."

"But that *is* nice armor, though..." Rei'kuurri reiterated, not sure where he now stood on the matter.

"So what?" Dondaaro was now fully unimpressed. "Are we supposed to be intimidated by wardrobes now? Underneath all that are just some puny aliens we wouldn't otherwise give the time of day."