hotspurs | for his_majestys_navy : a star wars story

for his_majestys_navy : a star wars story

He shouldn't be here. That's becoming clearer and clearer with every passing hour.

All Horatio is, at the moment, is another mouth to feed. The sheer accident of his vague association with the man they actually needed was far from a reason for them to be keeping him here. Soon enough, he's certain, the whim that had struck Pellew to keep him around would be lost, and his extraction would be a messy thing--or, perhaps, a painfully clean one.

It didn't matter where they left him, after all. There wasn't anything left to go back to.

If he were any use at all, it would be different. If he could be trusted with a ship, then his desperation would be easy to channel. If he could be trusted with a weapon, then his life could be thrown into usefulness. But every soft hint of a suggestion gets quickly shot down by Pellew with the same tired sigh and stern instruction.

He needs to find some measure of control.

It isn't enough that he's learned to keep his face in a mask of stillness. It isn't enough that his voice rarely breaks and his tone rarely shifts. It's the something inside him--the hurt and the fear and the voiceless rage he can't be rid of--that needs lashing down. It's that, Pellew has to point out far too often, that keeps rocking the debris around him when he loses even the tiniest bit of his focus. It's the grey that threatens to pull any usefulness in him crashing down into simply being a liability.

The frustration of being made to stay when everyone else moves is, unfortunately, a source of liability all its own. Standing on the sidelines as a scouting contingent of the little fleet prepares to move again puts a certain crackle into the air just around him--nothing solid, nothing overly forceful, but distinctly there.

This is exactly what he's meant to be fighting against. This is what needs to clamp down and stifle so that the universe flows through him in a balance rather than sticking muddily to the darkness in his chest. It helps when movement beside him pulls focus from the ships he's been gazing mournfully toward. The man he steps back to make space for, after all, is likely even more frustrated than Horatio himself that the young man is still here.

"Commodore."

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The hanger is a mass of activity: pilots, and droids crisscrossing each other's paths to find their ships. While the noise of ships engines and diagnostics for take-offs fills the air, James is very much aware of how small this little scouting party is, and how much space these men and women must cover in order to keep this rebellion hidden and safe. Their numbers are pitifully few, but even so, resources are painfully stretched. No one is expendable, no one is unwanted... but there are one or two whose place here is yet to be explained.

One such young man is nervously standing here now. Pellew's protege. James trusts the older man more than he trusts anyone else, Pellew can see things that James can only feel the edges of. He is logical, yes, but he has... he has something more than that. The Force is an old wives' tale, a story from long ago, but if anyone has it, Pellew does. He understands the shape of things without the need for complicated explanations or in-depth discussions. He can make his way to a conclusion quickly, and goodness knows that swift action is what the need now.

"Horatio," James greets, as a display of the newest co-ordinates is passed for him to check. His eyes dart down over the figures, before he nods to the young pilot and presses it back into his hands. There is only so many places in the galaxy they can hide, there is only so many places that their presence can stay secret, and they must seek out those places. They can only remain here a little longer, and every day they remain brings more danger of being discovered. And yet he can not send them out without a place to go, a rendezvous point.

When was the last time he slept a full cycle?

"What can I do for you? Are you not heading out with the scouts?"

There's a certain coolness that sticks to the older man which Horatio finds fascinating. It isn't quite the internal stillness that comes from Pellew, but it leaves the same prickling sensation somewhere in Horatio's chest. This is what he's meant to be emulating, he's fairly certain. This is a calm that goes deeper than the surface, toward some inner certainty that takes more than a flickering thought to unseat.

Maybe that's why he's here. Maybe he's been dragged along so Pellew can keep his attention trained on someone who has what Horatio needs to make himself useful again.

His mind is settled into contemplation of the figure before him (that easy tone, that quick eye, that firm nod, that straight spine even in the face of clearly encroaching exhaustion) when the question comes. Perhaps that's why he startles at it, eyes briefly wide and hopeful.

"I--"

It's just that then they flit over to the plucky little astromech droid that had incited this entire adventure, where it chirrups and beeps cheerfully beside Pellew. Horatio can feel the chastening before he forces himself to meet the man's gaze. Hope snaps back into resignation as he drags his gaze to the commodore's shoulder instead.

"--I didn't think I was-- allowed, sir."

James frowns. It isn't in displeasure, it's not anything to do with the young man from the back of beyond. It is more to do with the fact that he thinks he's not allowed.

"You can pilot a ship, can you not?"

He was told the young man could, in passing, by Pellow. He feels that if Horatio is to be here, he should make himself useful, he should prove that he has something to offer. What Pellew hopes to achieve is one thing: James is not sure that The Force is anything more than a legend now but... if Pellew believes there is something to this young man, James will give him the benefit of the doubt.

"There is a small area of the neighboring quadrant that should be scanned. Imperial scout-droids may be there already. You don't need to get too close and do not get spotted, but your report might give us more time to arrange a retreat here."

He pauses, an eyebrow raised. "Is that something you can do for us?"

This is exactly the problem, Horatio knows. This is exactly what Pellew has been attempting to wring from him so that it doesn't wrench him in the wrong direction by allowing himself to run between extremes.

But he's being asked to take a ship.

And there's never been any stopping the way the thought lifts him out of himself. The rush of joy isn't much more than a brief flicker in his eyes and the slightest lift of his chin, but it bleeds off the nerves like nothing else in the universe.

"I can do that."

Maybe he can't hold his center properly. Maybe he can't keep his mind still exactly where Pellew wants him to.

But he can pilot a ship.

Pellew may not approve that Horatio puts his skills to use, but the Rebellion needs as many pilots as it can get. There is no points in having high ideals and some religious purpose if they are all dead or imprisioned by the Imperials.

The slight change in the young man is barely perceptible but James sees it. He sees the slight lift of his spirit.

"I'll have the co-ordinates patched through to your driod. But thank you. Our need is dire as I am sure you are aware."

More than aware, as the young man has been in attendance of every meeting since he arrived, along with Pellew. Horatio knows full well the perilous situation they find themselves in. But they must push on.

There's something crooked about his smile, like hidden hinges rusted from disuse being forced into place. There's something bright in the back of his eyes that seems briefly hesitant before properly shining through.

This is, of course, exactly what the Rebellion is about: hope.

There's nothing remotely polished about the little salute Horatio throws, the shadowy imitation of the smartness he's seen from more seasoned pilots, but it's dreadfully earnest all the same. "Glad to help, sir."

So glad, in fact, that he barely waits for a response before he's off, barreling like his life depends on it. There's something equally excited in the way his droid chirrups as it starts off after him, leaving Pellew's stoic features just slightly in a disarray.

The ship is, truth be told, far from in perfect condition to begin with when Horatio clambers up into the cockpit. It won't be in markedly worse shape when Horatio brings it limping back after a long run, although the little mech's constant vocalizations have shifted to a much antsier shade of blips. The much more obvious change is the ferocity in Horatio's grin, his entire being lit up by the joy of having been allowed back into space for as long as he had been.

Even the trickiness of evading Pellew on his way through the hanger doesn't knock the smile from his features. The growing concern on his squadron leader's face as he makes his quick report dampens it a little, but it will still be in place when he's ultimately urged to explain himself directly to the Commodore.

The time between Horatio's departure and his late return does not pass quickly or easily. None of the equipment they have is new nor is it on the best state of repair: they lack parts and supplies for all by the most basic of maintenance are few and far between. But the squadrons do their suty, radioing back findings and possible sightings, anything that seems to be of use in the attempt to keep hope alive.

Horatio's squadron is the last home. Pellew doesn't panic but sits in the command hub, eyes closed as if listening to some inner communication. Horatio is not dead, but he is so far that his radio messages are garbled and his droid's signals are weak. What news he has much be delivered in person, and that only serves to have James pacing up and down, waiting for the young man's return.

It is announced with the hanger doors closing on the scorched and damaged craft, and James strides out, arriving as Horatio finishes his report to his direct commander. By rights it is the squadron leader that would bring the news to James and the rest of the war council. That is right and proper, that is how things should work but James would rather have the news directly.

"Well?" He asks, once the squadron leader spots him and urges Horatio on. "What did you discover?"

The longer he's out of the little ship, the more Horatio recedes into himself again. The wonderful freedom of flying feels in sharp contrast, after all, with the heaviness of his commander's frown and his master's gaze and his commodore's attention.

The superficial control is easy. It's the rest of holding himself in that doesn't quite fit yet.

"They were there, sir." Which should have meant a quick about-face. Which should have prompted a speedy return with a ship in better repair. "Just scouts. Three of them-- originally."

Originally, when his own ship had still looked battered but unscarred.

"The last one may have had time to radio back."

James is well prepared to listen to the news about scouts. He clearly thought that they would be discovered in that quadrant and the confirmation is welcome. Behind his eyes it's almost possible to see pieces fall into place, next moves plotted.

That is, until Horatio continues his report.

"You engaged them?!" It is said with no uncertain about of displeasure, with a heavy silence falling around the rest of the pilots still gathered for the debrief. Even as he speaks the Commodore's eyes move to the ship, the dark patches of burnt metal and plastics that are indicative of laser blasts.

James needs no further conformation. He turns on his heel, gesturing for Horatio to come with him, and strides back towards the command hub. "What sort of scouts? Long range or short range?" He asks. He does so for a reason, he needs to know how long before the Empire are upon them. Do they have time for the ships to refuel or must they be abandoned? Do they have days or hours?

Edited 2018-10-04 16:52 (UTC)

And there's the last of the good feeling gone.

"They--"

But the other man is already turning away with the sort of sharpness that forces Horatio's lips to snap shut again. A wave of frustration, anger, and guilt rushes through him only for an instant before his feet have to move to keep pace with the officer's stride. As ever, movement helps more than stillness. The rawness can be swallowed down so his mind can turn to the question at hand with a firm shake of his head.

"--short. Couldn't have been any more than a day out on bare bones like that." And even a day out for a stripped-down scout was closer in a more powerful (and dangerous) ship. "And-- hunting, from the way they were moving, sir."

The tight little pack hadn't been carefully feeling for some unknown. They had been flying with the half-certain air of knowing they weren't long from finding prey--what's more, prey that could probably clip one or two of them before a safe retreat could be beaten.

Prey like the base.

James' eyes close, briefly, and he mutters something soft under his breath. It might be a curse, it might be a prayer, it's impossible to tell. But it is fleeting, and soon enough James is speaking to the young man again. He does not mean to brush over the fact Horatio has risked his life to bring this information back to them, that he has, in fact, single-handedly saved every man and woman here, but there will be time for that.

If they do survive.

"That is the worst news you could have brought me." He says dryly and then reaches for the lever on the control panel. Pushing it down sets off a red light, flashing overhead, and sets off the sirens in the base, as well as the emergency evacuation recording. It takes a moment for the chaos to set in, but it is at least an organized sort of chaos.

He turns to Horatio then, who seems to have become younger in the space of these few seconds, and James does feel a wash of guilt. He should be with Pellew, learning self-control and about the powers he can perhaps wield in their aid, but instead James is using him as an errand boy. But what choice does he have?

"Horatio-" He begins, "The ships that came in first, they should be refueled. Have them escort the transports out of the atmosphere. They are to ferry out as many ships as possible for the Imperial fleet arrives. Have your squadron ready as soon as possible, help the ground crews evacuate as soon as they can."

They won't be able to protect the base. They don't have enough fighters, they certainly don't have enough fueled ships. If any TIE fighters attach here, they are defenseless. They must get as many people out now as they can. James will see to it that there is nothing left of the base for the Empire to use against them.

"Go! That's an order!"

The first blare of the sirens hurts. It cuts through Horatio like a personal disappointment--a problem, somehow, his presence must have caused.

There's no time to wallow in the emotion. This isn't quite the sort of shutting down Pellew has been coaxing him toward, but it's better than nothing. The way his mind empties is still too active, too much a matter of trying to catch hold of everything he's being told so that he can throw everything left in him into the next (hopeful) hour.

"--sir."

Even as half an outsider to the organized chaos of the evacuation, having a purpose helps Horatio cut through the tangle. Even as the bearer of bad news, the scarred ship he had returned to the base in seems to have set enough gravitas into his voice to start barking. In a crisis, most people simply want a sharp voice with a sense of purpose.

The diminished ships are set into proper fueling triage. Everything that isn't nailed down is stripped from the immediate area to be stuck in the transports. The first ships are in the air in a startlingly efficient amount of time, and the bustle diminishes with a school rapidity as more and more of the base is shot out into the dark above them.

Pellew is in the last transport, the last trio of X-wings as prepped as can be managed with the skeleton crew now scrambling into the ship trembling into life. James should be as well, as Horatio glances quickly over the faces settling in for the flight.

But James isn't there.

The transport's doors are slammed shut all the same. The other two fighters fire up to bring the overcrowded ship out of the hangar. And Horatio takes a breath before plunging back into the blaring sirens.

There might be enough time to find where James has hidden himself. It's worth the gamble of losing the last ship if it means bringing the Rebellion its Commodore.

It's not in James' nature to leave first. It's not in his nature to believe that the success of the rebellion relies on one man. Just as the pilots have their role to play, just as the engineers and the ground-crew, the medics and the foot soldiers, so does he. He is the only one that knows the codes for the self-destruct function at the base, and it is therefore he who must stay to put such a final act in motion.

The last transport is ponderously rising from the hanger floor when the first explosion rocks the base. What few instruments are left in the command hub confirm what James knows to be true, that the Empire is here, that they have been discovered.

There are still some fighters in the air as the fat, sluggish transport heaves itself into the open air, and towards open space. They will sea the TIE fighters keep their distance, James is sure. Once she is free of the atmosphere, she can make the jump to hyperspace, and the remaining X-Wings can follow.

Unfortunately, the Empire will not be at all interested in the Transport. They will want the information stored in the data-banks too large to be removed. They will want the ciphers, the codes, the names of those that have helped the Rebellion gain its foothold. James can not allow that information to be discovered, and as he is no longer allowed to fight on the front lines, he will take a blaster now, and if any Imperial soldiers make it into the base itself, he will see to it that they regret being so keen.

The self-destruct can only be triggered at the energy core at the heart of the base. It requires a code, a retina scan, and then the keycard around James' neck. Only then will it start the count-down, as the base rocks again with another, closer, explosion. Too close, as acrid smoke is already filling the corridors as he tries to race fate back towards the hanger. It's the closest way out now, as seconds tick down.

The explosion sends a shudder through the base, and for a heartbeat Horatio's footing is gone. It's a miracle he stays half-upright as he stumbles, trying to focus on the alarmed beeping of his droid. The timelines are all shortened. This isn't an even chance anymore, if James is still somewhere in the tangles of the base. The percentages are all wrong for even one of them to escape if they aren't gone in the next few minutes.

It's just that it's impossible not to keep stumbling forward as he finds his feet again. It's impossible to let go of that last grain of hope.

Another explosion, and Horatio feels steadier through the rocking as he continues running across the now empty space of the hangar--back toward his ship. There's the beginning of a chance if he taxis closer to the place James might be. There's the last bit of hope to have the fighter ready to fly the second the man appears, if he does.

And it's nothing in the world to lean bodily out of the cockpit to stretch toward the shadow he thinks he sees hurtling toward him, the faintest bit of a tug he almost isn't aware of lashing out to catch hold from a distance.

"Sir--!"

A real, alive voice is not what he expects to hear. He expects the sound of soldiers at any moment, expects the noise of blasters. But not the faintly familiar sound of one young man, and the whirl of engines as his ship beginning to build up speed towards the own maw of the Hanger. James runs a little faster, reaching the side of the ship and hauling himself up the side, using the rungs, and arm held out towards him.

Unfortunately, he does not so much as climb into the cockpit as tumble in, but he would rather seem ungraceful in this moment than be left behind. Thankfully, he does know one or two things about these ships, small as they are, and hits the button that seals them inside, making the craft air-tight.

"Let's get out of here!" It seems to be what young Horatio is thinking anyway, as he flips switches and takes full control. In truth, it is almost calming to watch someone else be in control, at least while his heartbeat slows and his breathing becomes less ragged.

As they leave the Hanger behind, James feels it. It feels as if the universe has taken a short inward breath, and then below them, the base explodes. The wave of energy that hits their craft shakes them, but it does no worse than that. Looking back, over his shoulder, James can see the thick black smoke billowing in the crater left behind. Hopefully they've taken a few Imperial soldiers down too.

"Thank you. I didn't expect anyone to have waited."

There's no need for the older man to be graceful. There's only a need for him to be quick. All Horatio genuinely notices is that the cockpit is shutting in what feels like the blink of an eye, sending his own fingers into the automatic motions accompanying take-off.

There's no time to worry. There's no time to think. There's barely time to hit the sky above the base before everything rocks and trembles around them, the poor fighter vibrating slightly with faint groans of complaint but holding together as they finally punch the atmosphere.

"Everyone else is out, sir." It isn't a proper response to the thanks, but it feels important to underline. This has been the last flight out. No one had been left behind; no one had been sacrificed. Still, it feels less incongruous in the air than what bubbles out next. "I'm-- sorry."

Maybe this had been inevitable. (A small piece of Horatio feels tight and constricted by the nagging sensation that this is his fault. It's irrational, given that the TIE fighters had been on a methodical hunt for them, but it nags and tugs and can't be shaken, not even by the relaxation in his shoulders that always comes with flying.) Still, seeing the base implode can't be a pleasant thing.

"Ready for the jump?"

The apology is unnecessary and unwarranted, as far as James is concerned. He frowns, wishing he could see the young man's face, but he doesn't really need to. He can hear the sincerity in his voice, he can tell that for some reason, Horatio really does believe he's done wrong.

"I think I owe you an apology." He begins, although admitting so much is not always an easy thing for him to do. He will do it all the same, when it is due. "It was inevitable that we would be found. You ensured that we had the time to abandon the base." Time they would not otherwise have had. "And there aren't many seasoned pilots who can bring down three enemy scouts so quickly. You're clearly one to watch, Horatio."

There's something else, too. Something perhaps a little more personal than what has so far been said. There's something... beyond the high praise for defending the base, something closer to home.

"I was not expecting anyone to wait for me."

But he does not linger on that, just straps himself in and takes a breath. Hyperspace is not fun, not as a pilot or a passenger, but as soon as they come out on the other side the better. "Please, Horatio. I'd like to make it to the rendevous as soon as possible."

Thank goodness that the shift to hyperspace requires motion in his hands and calculations in his mental sub-processors. There's something surreal about having a man like Commodore Norrington speak apologetically to him. It's stranger still when the words drift briefly into the vulnerability of the truly personal.

The half-turn of his head, riding the impulse to look at the man when he speaks, is stiff under the constraint of his helmet. That stops the impulse, settling Horatio fully back into the moment.

"--sir."

This can be mulled over later. This can be rolled back and forth in his mind when they're actually safe, returned to the fleet that's left them behind in its own flight.

The jump to hyperspace comes with a bit of a shudder, the battered little ship doing its utmost under the strain. It's a familiar sort of noise, not one to cause Horatio any worry.

The worry comes when he glances over the displays again and notes the fuel levels. There had been enough time to top off the hypermatter that kept the X-wing running.

There hadn't been time to grab more anti-matter pods.

The calculations begin all over again, his fingers flying to shift coordinates for the smaller jump they're apparently making. Coming out too quickly won't be pleasant, but it's better to take the controlled dive now than to wind up crashing into a planet if they ran dry.

"--hold on to something."

James had fully intended not to die at the base. He is not the be-all and end-all of the Rebellion, but neither is he going to throw away his life so easily. Beyond the base, in the thick tropical forest, there had been supplies hidden, a way for him to signal to be collected once the Empire had picked over the wreckage of the base and departed. This is a much better option, if they do no die en-route.

The ship is an old one, as they all are, but looked after as well as their meager resources allow. Had they had more time, he would not have allowed Horatio to fly this craft until engineers had gone over it, repairs had been made, all necessary parts replaced, restored, recharged.

But there had been no time. The noises the ship makes are concerning, although Horatio does not appear to be concerned. Neither does the droid, although James can sense that something is not right. It does not take too long for that to be proved right, and he takes a deep breath, trying to arrange his too-tall frame safely within the cockpit.

"A remarkably quick jump," He comments, as they drop out of hyperspace, into an unfamiliar patch of space part way to the rendezvous point. They're only lucky they aren't face-to-face with an Imperial fleet. "Exactly where are we?"

It could have been a bumpier drop. Horatio comforts himself with that fact as he swings them carefully toward the shadow of the nearest planet.

"Somewhere in the Dagobah system, sir." Far enough from the base to take a breath, but not far enough to eke the last of their fuel out the rest of the way to the rendezvous point. "We'll need to find--"

For a heartbeat, defeat begins to crush in on them. Was there a planet in this system that kept reliable stores of anti-matter pods? Was there one that kept a reliable enough population even just for hypermatter fuel?

"--something."

Even if only a few hours with his head under the hood, trying to trick the ship's computer into thinking it had more life in it than it actually did.

"Dagobah." He repeats, as the grey-green of the planet's surface spreads out before them, vast and unbroken. He knows very little about this system, aside from that it is the back-end of nowhere, empty of most usable materials and extremely soggy. Thankfully it is not the sort of place the Empire will seek to look for them, but whether it will be a place they can easily escape from is another matter.

"I trust you to put us down somewhere solid." James says, bracing himself again, just in case. Not because he does not trust Horatio's piloting, but because it might not be possible to find anywhere soild on this planet. They will make the best of it, they must.

But that does not mean he's eager for it, nor that he enjoys the bumpy, turbulent landing that has them shunted around in the ship like marbles shaken in a bag. Everything loose seems to hit him, hard, before they come to a stop. The straps that have held him to his seat have bruised his collarbones, of that he is sure, but he releases the catch anyway.

"Are you alive?"

Hyperspace to realspace had been relatively smooth, despite the unexpected dip. Space to the planet's atmosphere, however, is something of a trial.

The craft seems to be shuddering more--and, far worse, to be almost bucking from Horatio's control. The dense vegetation makes things even worse once they break the treeline, and it takes all his concentration to wind them toward something that looks like solid ground.

Actual landing comes with an inelegant stutter as the ship scrapes angrily into place. Horatio barely notices the way one hand moves protectively to the nearest panel, smoothing against the metal and plastic as if to soothe a shying horse.

"More or less." Another careful pat at the dash, and Horatio begins the slightly painful process of unbuckling himself. He'll be black and blue like a brand new pilot, he's fairly certain. "Should be all right to stretch your legs for a minute, sir."

"James will be just fine, Horatio."

James groans softly, sore and slightly shaky, the offer of getting out of the cramped space more than welcome. True, they were hardly there for long, but hyperspace has its own effects on the body, and for a little while he knows he won't feel quite himself. A moment or two longer in the uncomfortable seat will at least allow him to collect his thoughts and settle the queasiness in his stomach.

Perhaps that is why he doesn't notice the sinking feeling at first. Perhaps it is so slow, so gradual, that he can't be sure it's happening at all. It's only when the droid emits a high pitched screech that he realizes that he's not making it up at all, and he scrambles to unfold himself from the seat.

"I did suggest solid, do you recall?" He says, trying to help the other open up the cockpit and release the little robot from the magnetic clamps that hold it in place.

He should have checked first. He should have gotten out and checked where they had less parked and more crumbled to a stop.

But Horatio's first thought had been to dig out the tool kit. His mind had been flitting ahead to the rewiring that could be done to give them just a little more juice, when inevitably they couldn't manage to find the resources they needed in this swamp. Having a mind that whirled in half a dozen directions at once was sometimes a credit, of course, but now?

Now everything has to shut down as the droid's panic response is triggered and the ship gives a much less comfortable lurch beneath their feet.

"--fuck."

It isn't centered or balanced, but it's what pops over his lips as Horatio shoves at the cockpit and scrambles to pull the poor astromech free. James will have to be trusted to get the furiously beeping thing down to solid ground, because Horatio's next impulse is to leap clear and begin dragging broken tree limbs toward the apparent muck.

Two shoved hard under the front of the X-wing do seem to stop its movement, but then comes a rather unpleasant slurping sound, and the craft settles decidedly deeper. "--fuck."

"My sentiments exactly," James calls back, from his position balanced on the body of the craft, trying to assist the ever beeping droid. The damn thing may well be sentient, but it has no sense whatsoever, and seems to think it can travel over the curved engine housing. James is trying to get it to move down the slopping wing- towards what seems to be more solid ground.

That's when, despite Horatio's efforts, the ship lurches again and the droid is thrown, unceremoniously, down the wing, rolling and screeching and only coming to a stop when it hits the base of a slime-covered tree. James, however, is not so lucky and is jolted from his rather precarious perch by the movement, sliding into the thick stagnant water and sinking below.

It takes a second for him to surface again, spluttering and cursing, making his way to the bank as best he can.

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