Most pirates wisely kept their distance at the first sight of a lifesize Imperial warship, though, and those attacks that really came were uncoordinated and poorly executed, from a military point of view. As it was, they came nowhere close to being as major a threat as the massive raid had been the day before, but their sheer number appalled Bjarnesson as he and Captain Markas orchestrated the defence against each one in turn.

Almost every single pack of brigands that was detected by advance probe droids and long-range recon sweeps along the way was strong enough to be the sure doom of any lone freighter, or even to overcome the light mercenary escort which were commonly employed by many of the wealthy merchant guilds. Of course, they did not stand a chance against the well-armed and well-led flotilla that protected this particular convoy, but that did not keep a number of them, braver or perhaps more foolish than the rest, from trying. Sometimes, they appeared completely ignorant of the sheer devastating power of even a single warship, or simply too over-confident, their ability to rationally assess their chances in a stand-up fight perhaps too dulled by raiding and plundering helpless civilians to even have an inkling of the odds they were up against. Or maybe all the vile Rebel propaganda about a weakening, decaying Empire had taken root in their minds. Well, Imperial gunnery crews were never slow to make sure this particular lesson was driven home with utmost diligence and thoroughness.

In the end, it took Captain Markas' explicit order to let at least some of the very few scattered, shell-shocked survivors escape with their hides mostly intact to tell the tale of an Imperial Navy that, despite everything, was every inch as razor-sharp and deadly still as its finest old-days' reputation suggested. And yet, even so, every attack repelled, every skirmish fought, every pirate vessel ground asunder by the vengeful Imperials nevertheless took its toll on the wearying defenders, claiming soldiers and crafts every time.

To Bjarnesson, all these pirates, brigands, smugglers and lowlifes were a telltale sign of the encroaching darkness that the Rebellion was bringing over the galaxy. Wherever the Rebels managed to push back the Imperial rule with their cowardly ambushes and sneak attacks, they left a power vacuum the so-called New Republic was unable to fill. And so, subsequently, it was filled by criminals and self-seeking rogues eager to enrich themselves on the spoils of war. These outlaws and aliens were a plague to be exterminated, a spreading cancer that had befallen the worlds of man while the Imperial forces were locked in a mortal stalemate against the vile forces of the Alliance. Under the Empire, they would not have been suffered to exist. And one day, with the Rebels finally brought to heels, the cleansing flame of the Imperial Navy would return, he swore to himself. And those that were now preying and scurrying would then scuttle for hiding to escape their just punishment, only to find that they ultimately had nowhere left to hide. Of that he was convinced, and he hoped to live and serve to be part of that one day, when the Empire was forged anew, and law and order were returned to the stars once more under its banner.

Even so, there was also an upside to the hideous butcher's bill. Apparently, the freighter captains were slowly but surely developing not only a measure of healthy respect for the courage and abilities of their escorts, but also a visible degree of trust, seeing Imperial soldiers valiantly laying down their lives to protect them and their precious cargo every time a threat arose. Some of the braver ones among them even stood up to side with the Imperial warships on occasion, adding the firepower of their own transports to that of the fighters, cruisers and frigates that came rushing to their defence. Grimly smiling to himself, Thor read a communiqué from one particularly gung-ho freighter captain who actually asked for instructions on how to paint the correct kill markings onto the hull of his ship after his thumping and coughing lasers had finished off two Pirate fighters already badly maimed by Warsong.

Then, finally, after almost ten hours of constant, nerve-wracking, physically exhausting vigilance, the convoy had crossed the invisible line in space that marked the outer perimeter of the system's overlapping gravitational fields. Safe for the moment, all ships had plotted their respective coordinates for the next part of their journey and had jumped the light barrier, and he, Thor, had finally been able to hand the bridge over to one of the junior officers and retire.

Fatigued and weary, he did not look forward to the duty that still awaited. Yet, with all his pent-up anger, hatred and frustration, he was very much in a fighting mood as he stomped down the winding corridors and stairwells towards the gym after having already exited the lift cabin bristling with mounting aggression. Crew members gave him an extra-wide berth, he noticed, as his heavy footfalls rang out sharply on the deck plates, announcing his approach. None of them dared to meet his gaze.

Oh, but how he was beside himself with rage! Rage at her upstart ways, rage at her lack of respect for his seniority, rage at her very cocksure confidence. How did she ever dare oppose him like that?! He would give that foolish girl one last chance to stand down, and woe betide her, should she insist. She'd get no more and no less than she had asked for.

And to hyperspace with her being a woman, that's no excuse, not in her case. Talks like a man, brags like a man, gonna get beaten up like a man.

When he had roughly stuffed his sweat-soaked uniform into his personal locker and emerged from the men's changing room in his usual training dress of well-used pants and undershirt, this time completed by a plain, white martial arts jacket, his mind had already cooled down a little. When he had begun his usual brisk warm-up rigor, rationality had almost completely reinstalled itself along with the routine. Only moderate anger now remained. That and determination. He would not - would not! - allow himself to be undermined like that. Period.

Being well warmed up and stretched, he stepped into the matted and padded side room of the gym that was reserved for martial arts and close combat training and was mainly occupied by the security Troopers most of the time. At this point of the day, he found it empty as he shot an angry gaze around. The only other occupants were two slender-limbed training droids that immediately retreated into their wall sockets at his growled command.

He had barely begun to throw a few tentative, practicing punches at thin air when she arrived, dressed in a tight, body-fitting athlete’s suit complemented by the heavily ornamented vest of an Oran-Cho adept. For a moment, that particular piece of clothing startled him more than did the sight of her stunning figure that showed clearly under the form-fitting suit where the baggy flight dress had concealed it so far. Close combat techniques had never been held in high regard in the Imperial Navy where battles where fought at distances measured in thousands of kilometers with weapons that could level a city or reduce a ship to just so much drifting debris. He knew that Imperial ground troops extensively trained for hand-to-hand fighting, which he attributed to the fact that this was precisely what those dog-grunts where supposed to do, and Navy officers were obliged to acquire at least basic skills in a martial arts form of their choice in case they needed to physically reassure authority and discipline among rather ill-disciplined conscripts, but so far, he had considered such methods beneath himself. He had enjoyed putting his physical strength and agility to the test ever since his childhood and so had been no stranger to unarmed combat even before his Navy training, and he had challenged numerous skilled opponents during his career already. Nonetheless, meeting an actual adept of Oran-Cho was new to him. Certain elements of elite Stormtroopers had first adopted this particular, exotic fighting style renowned for its lethal efficiency, then had adapted it to their particular needs and subsequently become the best in the galaxy at it. Apparently, it had slowly started to filter even into the tradition-bound halls of Imperial Navy academies and Fighter schools. Or wherever it had been that she had learned these moves she was now starting to practice after having grunted a noncommittal greeting. Having spent the best part of the day in her fighter cockpit, she definitely looked the worse for wear, as the lines around her still bloodshot eyes clearly proved. Even if, as usual, she seemed hell-bent not to let it show. He decided to be generous.

“I know it was a long, hard day for you, Commander Paragrin. I respect your determination, but it would certainly be protocol to delay this issue if you are feeling too tired to fight with your best strength.”

“It would also be protocol to delay this issue if you are looking for a cheap excuse, Commander Bjarnesson!” Her retort made him shut up and clench his teeth. The impudent bitch!

Thinking hard, he tried to remember everything he had heard about the style of Oran-Cho. As far as he knew, it taught the value of surprise, of unorthodox tactics, introducing new elements into a battle and thereby catching the enemy unaware. It occurred to him that this particular approach to some situations might be an explanation for some elements of her behavior.

Minutes passed as they both went through their respective preparations, keeping the distance for the time being. Then she stepped into the invisible circle, meeting him eye to eye for the first time at this day and giving him a brief nod.

And with that, it was on.

For long, silent seconds, they were both standing there, motionlessly, gazes locked, unwavering, warily eyeing and trying to assess each other.

It was she who moved first, sidestepping him with fluid, graceful motions. He reacted in kind, and they both circled like preying hunter-felids, none yet daring to close the distance. He was tense, and he could sense she was, too. There was an almost tangible aura of anticipation hanging in the air between them as they both waited for an opening, a misplaced foot, a slight lowering of the opponent’s guard.

Again, it was she who broke the rhythm, suddenly darting towards him with eye-blurring speed and a blood-freezing battle cry. His stop-kick, aimed at her left thigh, only met thin air when she sidestepped again in the last possible of seconds, diving below his hasty left-handed jab and dealing him a vicious, stinging hook to the stomach. It was all he could do to raise his shoulder in time to block the backhand punch aimed at his head. When he had turned to counter, she had already fled out of his range. Steaming after her in a counter-charge, he threw a hard, low roundhouse kick at her, which she barely evaded, then followed up with a one-two combo of jab and low hook. While able to avoid the jab, which had been a feint anyway, she had to lower her guard to block the hook, enabling him to drive his other elbow forward towards her head.

Yet it did not connect. With a swift, cat-like motion, she had thrown her head and upper body back and forward again, inside his guard, and dealt him a severe blow to the side of his head before moving clear once more.

He shook his head, blinking hard, and snarled, now being seriously enraged. This first brush had been a test of skills, a means of learning about each other’s reactions and speed, and he had to admit that she was really skilled, good at reading his body language and a lot faster than him. Yet, his low hook had hurt her when she had been forced to block it, he could see it. It was difficult to land a blow against as nimble an opponent as she was, but when he could, his superior strength counted. As did his superior stamina, he realized. His bulky, muscular frame made him slower to react and less agile on a move, but it also gave him a measure of protection against weak or misplaced blows, and it would be no good for her to try to wrestle with him. If he could wear her out while not allowing her to place a decisive blow to a vulnerable spot, the advantage ultimately lay with him.

She had realized it, too, renewing her attacks a moment later, not giving him time for further thoughts. A flurry of blows and kicks rained down on him in the space of bare seconds, and he did not manage to deflect them all in time, feeling the stinging sensation of several hits against his body and head. His own feeble counter-blows seemed to have little effect. Already, he was gasping for breath, and his body hurt from several minor bruises when she retreated again. But even so, she had paid a price for her successes as well, he noticed. Like him, she was panting, and sweat was soaking her hair and dress. Yet there was a light in her green eyes that told him she was just the more dangerous for it.

Again, she attacked, capitalizing on an opening in his guard - which he had allowed to lure her. This time, it was her blow that went astray as he ducked and brought forward a massive fist in a punch that would have caved her ribcage in, had it connected.

Yet she was no longer there. Too swiftly for him to react, she had redirected her attack and danced around his charge, dealing him one hard kick to the kidneys, then another, which made him grunt with pain. Belatedly, he realized she had allowed him to believe she had fallen for his trap, using his own momentum against him. Feints within feints, tactics within tactics. Boy, but she was good!

Panting hard with the adrenalin rush of mounting pain, he charged with a vengeance. This time, it was she who had to give ground before his onslaught, and at least one of his repeated hammering blows penetrated her guard, making her stumble back. His follow-up move was stopped cold when she used his momentum to her own advantage again, driving home two, three lightning-quick, consecutive punches through his guard and into his face.

He recoiled from the pain, crying out sharply when he felt his lip split and at least one tooth give. Another hard, vicious kick barely missed his groin, leaving him limping and stumbling for his balance. He spat blood, shaking his head hard to clear his vision. This was beyond sport now, beyond an honor bout. This was personal. He knew it, and from the look of hatred in her eyes, he could tell she knew it too. And welcomed it.

Rage kept him going, blindly, furiously. Before she knew, he was back at her again, hammering a powerful punch against her guard, then a second, then another, not giving her a chance to back away this time. He did not even feel her counter-punch grazing his temple. The fourth blow drove her right arm aside, and then his elbow came forward straight into her face with force.

There was a crack of bone as she was thrown back, bright red blood spurting from a gash above her right eye, staining her jacket. She shrieked with the pain.

Then his merciless kick caught her in the stomach, front and center, and keeled her over. He was on top of her in no time.

Locking her arms to the ground with his knees, he paid no attention to her groans of pain as his massive fist came forward into her face once more, then his hand clasped around her throat and pressed down.

“Yield!” He almost did not recognize his own voice in the rasping sound he produced, fighting to draw breath. Spots danced before his vision, and his ears rang with the boom of his own heart. She struggled, kicking, and he tightened his grip. Her eyes widened, swelling forward out of her head with the onsetting lack of oxygen, and she gurgled. A little tighter, and she would pass out on him. No, he did not want that. He wanted a clean victory, wanted her to be conscious to recognize his authority. “Yield!”

“I… I yield!” It did not come easily, and he almost did not hear it the first time. But then realization slowly began to sink in and he loosened his choke-hold, even though his instincts momentarily demanded for him to wring her neck anyway. He fought down the urge, getting off her, hearing her desperately and painfully drawing breath.

Coming to his feet was almost beyond him. He struggled to stay upright as a wave of dizziness swept over him and he trembled with adrenalin. His breath still came in uneven gasps, his body hurt from dozens of bruises, his knees were weak still and his lip was bleeding freely. His hands, he realized, were stained with both his blood and hers as he wiped them across his jacket front, leaving ugly red smears. The salty, metallic tang of his blood was also lingering heavily in his mouth and nostrils.

She coughed hard, hoarsely, repeatedly, as she tried to lift her head and get up onto her elbows and knees, the effort of not throwing up almost more than she could manage. Blood and saliva dribbled down her chin and onto the mats. When she tried to get to her knees, she collapsed and hit the ground again, moaning in pain. Yet, she fought to get up again immediately.

Acting on a gut-feeling, he reached down and offered her his hand. She looked up to him, the look of hatred appearing in her eyes once more, lingering for a second before being replaced by something else, something indefinable. Spitefully, she made another feeble attempt to get up by herself, which failed. Then, suddenly, she clasped the proffered hand with her own in a tight grip, which he shared. When she pulled, though, it was too much for his still shaky balance, and instead of helping her up to her feet, it brought him down to his own knees again. They came to kneel opposite of each other, holding on to each other’s arms, barely avoiding dragging each other to the floor again, badly mauled faces inches apart, both gasping for breath. He looked at her, noticing she was examining him at the same time.

“You look worse than I feel, Sir!” Her remark made him laugh out, even though he had to cut it immediately because of the pain in his ribs.

“You’re…” he coughed, “you’re in no position to talk, Commander. Looking at your desolate appearance, you’re a disgrace to your uniform!”

They looked at each other for a second, then broke simultaneously into a laughing fit that lasted until they both had tears running down their blood-smeared faces. When he looked into her eyes again, it told him all he needed to know, told him she would never ever be opposing him again.

Finally stumbling out of the gym, unsteady still on their feet, both holding on to each other for support, raw and bleeding, they made for the sickbay through a crowd of gaping, whispering crewmen.

* * *

“This is absolutely unacceptable!”

Nia winced, and that came only partially from the fact that standing upright to attention was giving her tremendous pain in spite of the medical droids’ best efforts. The main reason was Captain Markas being well into the tenth minute of a major dressing-down. And she had a bad feeling that the really serious part was yet to come. Next to her, Commander Bjarnesson was standing in the same stiff posture, looking equally the worse for wear and trying equally not to show it. Markas, leaning forward across his stateroom desk, eyed them both in turn sharply, the angry expression on his face increasing even more rather than not.

“My two most senior officers are the talk of the ship, looking like cat and dog! What were you possibly thinking?! Commander Bjarnesson, I would have expected a little more decency from an Imperial officer of your status and seniority. I demand an immediate explanation for this outrageous behavior!”

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Now? Either of you?”

“It was… .” Bjarnesson began, and Nia inwardly dreaded what was to come now. He would spill it all, of course, the whole issue, consigning her squadmates to a doubtful fate at the scant mercy of a court martial. That she had not been able to protect her fellow pilots hurt her even more than the injuries she had suffered at his hands.

“It was a training accident, Sir.” She could not believe her ears when he finished the sentence, hearing him pronounce the obvious lie cleanly, all calm and nerves.

“A what?” Naturally, Markas wouldn’t buy it.

“A training accident. Commander Paragrin and I both underestimated each other’s… proficiency and determination. Hence things got out of hand. A training accident.” He coughed. “And one that will not occur again, Sir, on that you have my word.”

“And mine, too, Sir,” Nia hurried to assent, even though she still found it difficult to believe what was just happening. Am I dreaming or is this duty-addicted regulation-loving Bjarnesson just letting my men off the hook right when he has them at his mercy?!

“Have I now?” Captain Markas seemed to be unsure, stroking his chin thoughtfully, obviously still not believing a word of their poor cover story. Then, apparently having come to a decision, he banged his hand on the tabletop.

“Well, you two better take more care the next time you should brush. If I ever - ever again - hear of another such… training accident, I’ll personally make sure the two officers in question get demoted to Rating and spend the rest of their tour of duty on my ship cleaning the coolant condensers with a toothbrush! Do I make myself understood?!” There had been more than a hint of menace in his last words.

“Yes, Sir!” the reply came quickly and in unison.

“Well, that’s something at least. Now get out of my sight until I have forgotten this issue! Dismissed, both of you!”

Throwing up a salute and turning on her heels made Nia clench her teeth with barely suppressed pain. Her body felt like it was basically one big bruise, and the few hurried steps that took her out of the Captain’s small state room required a considerable effort. Outside in the corridor, she stopped and turned, looking up at Bjarnesson. Tilting back her head hurt as well.

“Might you perhaps care to explain that theater I have just witnessed? I don’t think Markas believed a single word of what you said!”

The tall Commander looked down on her with what seemed slight bemusement. “Of course he didn’t. He didn’t become a Captain in the Imperial Navy for being stupid, you know?”

“Then why did he let us get away with that lame cadet’s excuse of yours?”

“The Captain trusts my judgment, Commander. He knows that if I decide to leave certain things unmentioned, I have my good reasons to do so. And he trusts in my ability to handle certain situations. As should you, by the way.”

“I was damn sure you were hell-bent on throwing me and my pilots to the vultures.” She decided to ignore the none-too-subtle reproach.

He looked past her, raising a hand and scratching the back of his head in consideration of his next words to come. She could see the motion alone caused him pain.

“Well, Commander Paragrin, apparently, in the light of recent events, several facts have arisen that have made me reconsider my decision concerning the court martial. In short, I have decided not to bring this issue to the personal attention of the Captain. The charge has been dropped.”

“What? You’re mocking me!” Clear disbelief showing on her face, she slammed her hands into her hips, trying to look ready for another fight. Inwardly, though, she suspected she rather looked ready for another tour in the sickbay.

“No, Commander, honestly, I am not.” He raised both hands placatingly. “Let’s call it a last-minute change of mind, if you will. Or an attitude adjustment, if you prefer that. Or my side of a deal, as I, personally, would like to think of it.”

Were it not for the danger of crewmen eventually rounding the next corner and for the all-too-serious probability of causing both him and herself serious pain, she would have hugged him with heartfelt gratitude at that moment. Then again, she would perhaps not been able to stretch that high upwards. Anyway, she beamed at him, the relief she felt at that moment clearly showing on her face.

“What kind of deal?”

“From this point on, your pilots will integrate into the crew and learn to work and fight as a team.”

“Agreed.”

“And they will behave.”

“Agreed.”

“And you will learn to follow orders!” He gave her a crooked smile as he noticed her reluctance to accept this condition. “Equal share of burdens!”

“Well… ,” she hesitated, then looked him into the eyes, “agreed.”

“Great! Then, I guess, we have something of a truce.” He stretched out his hand, his face betraying a friendliness she had never before witnessed on him, far from the arrogant façade he had displayed towards her so far. Suddenly, she found all her emotions towards him turned upside down. The sudden twist of things made her mind reeling. He was more of a man than she would ever have expected of him, capable of such a magnanimous gesture. With her initial aversion against him rapidly fading, she realized she was beginning to find him seriously likeable. More so, she caught herself finding him attractive, in spite of the fact that his face was still maimed from her administering, one eye blue-bruised and bloodshot, going into violet, one side of his face swollen and his lip still encrusted with dried blood. His slightly hunched posture failed to conceal the damage to several of his ribs he had sustained in the fight.

Very attractive, to be precise.

“I’m Thor.”

“Nia.” Her own slender hand looked unbelievably small, clutched in his muscular paw. She returned his smile, suddenly feeling herself beginning to blush, which embarrassed her even more. For a fleeting moment, she felt like that young schoolgirl again that she had been what seemed a whole lifetime ago, having just been asked for a date by the boy of her secret dreams, and she mentally admonished herself for the very thought.

Oh, come on now, girl, keep it together. Yesterday, that man gave you the beating of your life. Two days ago he was going to have your friends skinned alive in court martial, and you were more than ready to stick a slammer up his… and don’t you even start thinking about how very muscular and appetizing that behind looks in those uniform pants! With an effort, she averted her gaze.

“Well, Nia, welcome to the team. If…”

He was hesitating, she noticed, looking for words, clearly wanting to say more.

“Yeah? If?” She decided to give him a little encouragement.

He looked down on her. “If you don’t consider it inappropriate, now that our differences are largely settled, as they are…. I mean, I was just wondering if you would care to accept… ahem… a humble invitation for dinner tonight. That is… uhm… clearly formal, of course, strictly speaking, just to…” he cleared his throat, “to discuss our future cooperation, maybe….”

“So you’re asking me if I want to show up at your cabin tonight to share the peace pipe over some food and wine.” she summed up his rather evasive line of formulation.

“Precisely!” This time it was him who beamed at her. “If you don’t consider this a bit early, given our rather initial level of acquaintance….”

A little shy to ask a girl for a date, are you, big fellow? Might I have discovered a soft spot about the mighty Commander Bjarnesson?

“Have you ever witnessed me being slow with anything?” She was momentarily taken aback by the straightforwardness of her own words. Come on, Nia, keep it tight! How could you possibly say that?! You pretty much just signaled him you’re up for grabs!

He cracked a smile that was only slightly ironic, one eyebrow raised. “Not yet. Let me see, we have about ten hours of hyperspace time left, twelve until my next watch begins. Would oh-eight-hundred ship standard hours suit you?”

“Deal.”

“Well, see you tonight!” And with a last smile and a look in his eyes that made her heart skip a beat, he stomped away, his usual gruff fashion somewhat soured by his limping, leaving her standing there, outside the Captain’s stateroom, unsure of her own feelings, wondering what she had let herself in for with this man.

The thought was still nagging at her when she found herself standing outside his cabin door, hesitating as she had been three days ago, the night after the battle against the raiders. Only this time the circumstances were different.

This time she wasn't still wearing a flight suit that stank of ozone, of burning and, most of all, of her own stale sweat. Rather, she had chosen an outfit of olive-drab fatigue pants held by a black leather belt, tall black uniform boots and, having deliberately omitted the tight-fitting jacket, a plain olive uniform blouse without any insignia. It was casual enough to be comfortable, yet enough of a uniform so as not to look out of place in a semi-formal atmosphere between fellow officers, should she have been mistaken about his intentions. Also, this time she had not brought a disc containing tactical data, but a few culinary gems of her own to add to anything he might have prepared, items she had dug up from the tiny pile of similar things she kept for private use, for one of those occasions that never came until they did. And, lastly, she didn't look a complete mess after having cried for hours straight - that memory brought some of the old pain back for a moment until she forced it down. Today, her hair was held in a pony-tail that fell forward over her right shoulder, kept together by a plain clasp, reflecting the lights like copper as it was supposed to, parts of it even woven into slim, decorative braids. Also, she had put on some subtle nuances of make-up, even managing to conceal some of the still all-too visible aftereffects of their gym encounter. The sweet scent of her favorite perfume, though used very sparingly, accompanied her.

What was nagging at her the most was the fact that she didn't have a rational reason why she had spent all that time and effort preparing her looks like that. She was trying to tell herself that it was because she had wanted to pay a certain attention to her outward appearance, as befitted an Imperial Officer, but the truth was, if she allowed herself to admit it, she had done it for him. Or, rather, for herself, knowing he would notice and appreciate it, hoping he would find her attractive. Somehow, after everything that had happened during the past few days, she found herself longing for some social comfort, the thought of some genuine male attention that went beyond the basic physical level feeling strangely reassuring to her, strangely warming. Or was it precisely this basic physical attention she longed for? There had been something in his eyes this lone, fleeting moment right after she had accepted his invitation that had fueled this strange sensation, this hope against hope she almost caught herself feeling.

Yet what if she was wrong? Doubt stalled her hand an inch from the door panel. What if she entered and found him his usual cool, distanced self?

Well, there's only one way to find out!

Angrily pushing the thought aside, she palmed the intercom. Seconds passed that left her heart pounding in her ears. What's wrong with you, girl? she chided herself for her own contradictory emotions. What is it about this man that leaves you in this state?

The tiny speaker crackled, briskly interrupting her self-admonishing with the sound of his voice. "Who's there?"

"Someone very hungry, just in case you forgot."

"Of course not. Please, come in." The door slid sideways, and the smell of cooked meat and exotic spices greeted her as she stepped forward.

"Please make yourself at home; I will be right with you!" His voice resounded from the tiny kitchen alcove at the far side of the cabin along with the sound of clattering pots and plates. Dropping her gifts onto the writing desk, she took the liberty of strolling around in his cabin, taking in the interior consciously for the first time.

It was Spartan, to say the least. There was little furniture besides his desk, only a leather-padded chair, a likewisely padded sofa - both Imperial Navy officer cabin standard issue and colored an ugly grey, accordingly - a well-filled bookshelf and a small eating table, set back into a small niche with two other chairs. She briefly wondered when the second chair might have been used the last time. There were no decorations made to the steel walls and the viewport shutters were down - it would have shown only the strobe light effects of hyperspace anyway. Three more doors, one on each side of the room, led to adjoining compartments, one to the kitchen, one to the small lavatory, the last to the bedroom, just like in her own domicile. Everything was very tidy, very neat and very much in order.

There is hardly a personal touch to his room. The living space of a man who lives for his duty.

Then, on a second look, she noticed the eating table had been laid with expensive porcelain, and candles had been placed on it and lit. And she realized he must have cleaned up and made all those preparations for her.

"Please forgive the delay, took me somewhat longer for the bru'alki." He rushed into the room bearing a sheepish smile and brandishing two large serving trays full of steaming food, which he placed on the table before turning round to her.

"Welcome, Nia. Good to see you." The smile grew even wider as he stretched out his hand for a greeting.

She shook it, feeling his strong grip. "Good to be here." They both took a moment to take in each other's outfit, and she would almost have burst out laughing when she realized how similar their individual choices of clothing were. He, too, had opted for uniform pants and boots, and his tight-fitting black t-shirt virtually clung to his muscular frame, emphasizing his well-developed arms and upper body. Informal, yet not too much so, just in case. Just like her. And she could see he had recognized the similarity, too. Their eyes met, and there seemed to be a silent, slightly amused understanding between them both.

"Well, take a seat, will you?" He gestured for one of the chairs.

"Thanks!" She held up the things she had brought, smiling. "I took the liberty of making a contribution to tonight's banquet."

He raised an impressed eyebrow, giving a low whistle. "Praesitya berries! Excellent stuff, but hard to come by these days. And the bottle?"

"Caldonian Fireberry Wine. Grown in volcanic caves, best served hot. Puts the fire of the volcano into your veins, so the natives say. I don't know about you, but I could use some warming."

"Matches my idea of dessert. May I?" He took both items from her, disappearing into the kitchen again. While she took a seat, she watched him fuss about. He seemed to know pretty well what he was doing, just like he was used to it. Again, that came to her as a surprise. She had pretty much expected him to be someone who had his meals in the officer's mess, tended for by busy steward droids. Militant single household, that one. Used to living alone on starships. Knows how to take care of his own biz.

And pretty well so, she mentally added, regarding the food laid out on the table before her. Fried bru'alki, perhaps a trace too dark, but maybe he liked it that way. A side dish of cooked vegetables and plain, simple white rice. Several spicy dips and sauces. Strong, ruby-red wine to match, instead of ale.

Real, fresh stuff, all of it, and not cheap, sure enough. That wine alone must have cost a small fortune. I wonder where he dug that up. Apparently, she wasn't the only one to keep a small treasure chest of things for special occasions. He returned, having filled the berries onto two small serving dishes, and sat opposite of her, passing one.

"All right, help yourself while I open the wine. I hope it will be to your liking."

"I could eat a Tauntaun raw and frozen right now." Her brusque answer was meant to conceal how much his extensive efforts flattered her. The food smelled delicious as she took hearty portions of each while he poured her a small measure of wine to sample, adding more generously after she had sipped it and nodded. His table manners were immaculate, she noticed as they ate, sipping wine and sharing casual, friendly banter all the time. He topped off her glass time and again, and before long, she felt herself begin to blush with the strong wine. The mutual aversion she had felt between him and herself ever since their first meeting seemed to be completely gone, and somehow, he seemed to be feeling the same way. There was no trace of his usual aloof manners any more. Rather, he seemed to be enjoying the growing familiarity between them just the same way as she did. A particularly hilarious anecdote he recounted from his past career left them both laughing hard. Then he got up, removed the dishes and trays, to return with the dessert. She sighed at the sight of it. "Corellian shortcakes and chocolate. That's my diet in ruins for the rest of the mission! Not that I did care!" She grabbed a nugget of dark chocolate even before he had set the plate down.

"Looking at you, you don't need to be worried much." He smiled, winking. "Unlike me, of course. Excuse me for a minute while I heat up the Fireberry wine."

"Sure! Mind if I take that one over to the couch?"

"Feel at home!"

When he returned with two steaming ceramic cups, she had not only carried the plate with the sweets over to the low couch table, but also the candles. Sitting back next to her in a very much relaxed and comfortable posture, he handed her one, and they toasted. Both gasped as the hot alcohol ran down their throats, spreading its warmth through the whole body almost immediately as they sipped it between pieces of chocolate and pieces of conversation. Well into the second cup, she felt a heady high setting in as well. They were sitting close to each other now, barely inches apart. Their feet almost made contact, and he had reached out and casually touched her several times already during their conversation.

"You haven't told me yet what made you decide to let my pilots off the hook."

"Ah, yes, the obvious question." He scratched his head thoughtfully. "Basically, you did."

"Me? What do you mean?"

"Your pilots are personally loyal to you. They have to be. Judging by the way you were willing to put yourself on the line for them, they must virtually love you. Am I mistaken?"

"Well… no. Go on."

"So I figured you were the real culprit and the key to this issue. You have difficulties with subordinating yourself, so, consequently, have your pilots. On the other hand, you command their respect, so I concluded you would also be able to call them to order. Again, am I wrong?"

"Not at all. I think I follow your line of thought so far."

"After our duel, I was faced with two alternatives: to pursue this issue to the end or to propose a deal. After thinking this over for some time, I decided for the deal, because I did assume you would honor your part of it, and your word would bind your men as well. And, frankly, I did it because your courage very much impressed me. You stood up to protect your men. There's a good many out there nowadays who wouldn't have. You're a good officer. You and your pilots don't deserve court martial. In any case, I have achieved my goal. Discipline has been restored."

She nodded slowly, pondering his words.

"You seem to be very keen on discipline. Why is that?"

"Because discipline is essential in any fighting force. The ability to stand fast, to act as one, to hold together and stand united. It is discipline that gives us - the Imperial Navy - our superiority even in the face of numerically adverse odds. If that idiot Mishkanaka had possessed the necessary discipline to hold the battle line the other day, he would have never left an opening for the raiders to exploit. We could have engaged that Nebulon-B with our own capitals, and your fellow pilot would most likely be still alive."

That smarted, but she had to admit it drove the point home thoroughly.

"Or, think, for example, of the battle of Endor."

"I think we lost that one," she interrupted him. "Wait a minute, you were there?"

"Yes, I was. Tactical officer on the Predominance. Anyway, it was the Rebel discipline, along with our own arrogance, that defeated us that day, not the strength of their fleet."

"How so? I thought the Rebels caught our fleet by surprise."

"Hardly. The fleet had been on alert for days straight before the attack came. And even if so, do you think surprise alone is all it takes to defeat an Imperial battlefleet?" She did not reply, seeing his point.

"True, the Rebels used unorthodox tactics that day, but the real turning point of the battle was when the whole Rebel fleet turned as one and engaged our Star Destroyers at close range, thus denying the Death Star a clean field of fire. It was against all tactical doctrines, against sanity even, but they pulled it off. That was discipline, to be sure."

"And how did that defeat us?" she took another sip of her wine.

"First of all, we did not expect them to be capable of such a move. That was our arrogance. We thought the Rebel fleet to be ill-disciplined rabble. When they displayed tactical discipline on that scale, we were surprised. But anyway, we held our line and fought them, broadside to broadside, at dagger distance."

"And still they managed to destroy both the Death Star and the Executor."

"True, but that cost them dearly, and it did not win them the day outright. Even with the Death Star and the flagship gone, what do you think would have happened if our line had held?"

She shrugged.

"We would have clobbered their puny fleet to smithereens, that's what!" He jabbed his index finger at her to emphasize the point. "They were badly outnumbered and being hammered from all sides. What if we had wiped out or routed their fleet that day? Imagine having Ackbar at gunpoint, Calrissian at gunpoint, Skywalker at our hands, Han Solo and Leia Organa at our hands on the Endor moon, their fleet in tatters and on the run. It would have been the end of the Rebellion that day. But our line broke." He leaned back, folding his hands over his belly. "The destruction of the flagship caused a command vacuum nobody was able to fill in time. Our battle line was fractured and we couldn't re-establish it. Several Destroyers held their positions. Others started mounting a retreat. The result was perfect confusion." She could see that the memory alone was painful to him as he recalled the events. "Our discipline faltered that day. Theirs didn't. Those Star Destroyers that held on to fight were rapidly finding themselves alone, cut off from the retreating elements, to be picked off one by one. We have been struggling to recover from that day ever since." He sipped his drink.

"Do you understand now why I stress this particular point above all? This democratic 'rebellion' is weak because it lacks discipline. It will plunge the galaxy into turmoil and constant bloodshed for its inability to hold together and pursue common goals. The Empire, upon its ascendancy, brought a purity of purpose to the galaxy. That is order. The Rebels fear our power. That is true. What those countless worlds fear is our dedication to our goals and our unwavering determination to pursue them, no matter the odds. That is discipline. It is our iron discipline that enables us to emerge victorious even from adverse situations."

She nodded. "You are quoting Veers, from the introduction to his Pillars of Leadership."

"Veers has recognized the value of discipline and the power it bestows. Thrawn knows it, too, and he has proved it over and over again. And if discipline is invaluable in a soldier, then it's twice so in an officer. We are meant to be examples that the men look to for guidance"

She tilted her head, clearly impressed, thinking. "You have read Veers. I'm surprised. Unusual, for a Navy man. Most prefer Piett's Coat of Arms."

"Veers is a soldier of the Empire, pure and simple. He has a soldier's determination, a soldier's courage and a soldier's honor. It's this purity that appeals to me. No double-crosses, no falseness, no schemes. Whereas Piett is… "

"A politician," she suggested.

"Very much given to the machinations of command. But you seem to be familiar with Veers, too."

"I have an interest in things unorthodox, if you haven't noticed. Mind if I take a closer look at your bookshelf?" She jumped up.

"Not at all." He watched her from the sofa as she strode across the room and glanced at the books on the top shelf, reading out the titles under her breath, making remarks on each.

"I've made the experience that from a man's books, you can judge his character. History of the Clone Wars, by Njeemec Seet… . On War, by Adar Tallon. Somebody once called him the most thoughtful soldier who ever learnt to write."

"True, if you ask me."

The Demise of the Republic, by Dre'shan… . Sjuban's treatise on the political involvements of the Jedi Order. A first edition. Interesting. And you're telling me you're not interested in politics? The Fight for Naboo, by Padmé Amidala. The Corellian Art of War in the Skies? Ah yes, Ackbar once said he was very fond of it."

"Precisely why I read it," he interjected.

"You're a cunning one, aren't you? Disgrace before Dishonor, by Crix Madine?" She gave a low whistle. "Now wait a minute, that book is on the Black List!"

"More's the pity. Madine was one of ours once, did you know that? Imperial Army, like Veers."

"So why did he come to join sides with the Alliance?"

"Because some of the political decisions of the late Tarkin and the Emperor left him with no other choice. Madine had a strict code of honor. He refused express orders on more than one occasion for reasons of conscience, and he was one of the few officers to publicly oppose Tarkin over the construction of the first Death Star. It's all in the book. Madine loved the Empire, but he did not want to see its ideals perverted by the likes of Tarkin. Hence, to preserve his Empire, he decided he had to leave the one that Tarkin was building."

She had reached the second line of books and stopped when she came across a holopic in a small flat-frame. It showed Thor in full Navy regalia along with an elderly couple - his parents, most probably - and a younger man in an Army dress uniform. "Who's that young guy in the picture?"

"My younger brother, Arne. He's a Stormtrooper officer. Served with distinction in the Hoth campaign, decorated twice for valor, made it into the Vader's Fist Legion. The family's black sheep."

"Why is that?" She regarded the picture more closely, noticing the similarities between Thor and his brother.

"The Bjarnesson family has produced soldiers in virtually every generation as far as our history dates back, first during the Republic, then under the Empire. But all were Navy. Arne's out of line." There was unmistakable humor in his voice.

"I see. I bet he's not out of line being the hero." She stopped.

There was another flat-frame on that shelf. Another holo-portrait. A tall, slender woman wearing the uniform of Imperial Civil Service, embracing a girl of about six years. Both were smiling into the camera. The girl was bright blond and way too cute to be anybody else than his daughter. Nia felt as though she had been bludgeoned.

"My wife and daughter." He had risen. She heard his heavy footfalls as he approached her.

"Are they…" she gulped, forcing her voice to be level, "are they waiting for you back home?"

"They died years ago." His voice was soft and low.

She turned towards him. "How?"

The sadness in his look was almost painful to see. "It was shortly after the destruction of the first Death Star at Yavin. The Rebels were making use of the propagandistic value of that victory to instigate riots everywhere throughout the Empire. I was stationed with Orbital Defense on Oriella IV. My wife and daughter had accompanied me to that world. My wife was in Civil Service at that time. Anyway, uprisings broke out, virtually overnight. It started with anti-Imperial protests, but soon random acts of violence and vandalism were committed against Imperial installations. Then we saw planet-wide riots. The planetary governor decided to evacuate all Imperial personnel and the loyal citizenry. I was worried about my family, of course, but not much so. Army troops had secured the largest spaceport and were shielding the refugee crowd from harm while the shuttles debarked and returned. Then something went terribly wrong."

He was writhing in pain with the memory, his jaw tight, his fists clenched.

"It turned out there had been Rebel infiltrators in the crowd, the same ones that had originally triggered the uprisings, trying to leave the planet disguised as refugees. They had concealed weapons under their rag-coats. When their cover was blown, they started shooting indiscriminately. When our soldiers returned fire, panic seized the crowd. My wife and daughter perished in the ensuing stampede." He shook his head. "I don't know why I'm telling you all that."

She looked up at him, sympathetic, compassionate. "You miss them, don't you?"

"Of course." He looked her into the eyes, then reached out to touch the visible bruises over her eye, cracking a smile. "Gee, did I do that?"

She froze as his hand softly stroked her face with a gentleness she had not thought him capable of. Electrified by his touch, she instinctively brought her own hand up to grip his, feeling his warmth seeping into her skin at the same time. From up close, she was suddenly aware of his very male scent.

And suddenly, she realized they had arrived at a crossroads. She could slowly pull his hand away from her face now, he would withdraw it and the fleeting, unique moment would be gone, never to return. Or she could just let things run their course. The tension filling the small cabin was tangible.

The hand stayed where it was.

Her arms barely reached around his broad, muscular back as they embraced to kiss. Reaching up that high pained her, but it did not matter. Reaching down to hold her pained him, but it did not matter. All that mattered for the moment was their kiss.

They did not lose any time. His hard, Spartanic bunk barely served their needs as they explored each other passionately. They were fast asleep with fatigue in each other's arms when the General Alert was sounded.

Continues in Part Three