The Sins of the Father
Posted: Fri Apr 22, 2016 2:08 pm
Village of the Setti tribe, Orto Plutonia
"You useless pile of hail."
The words, spoken in Modig's native tongue of Talzzi, would have sounded like a series of guttural grunts to a human ear, some drawn out, some stopped short. To Modig Falla, it was the frequent curse of his wretched father. Onyr Falla was not his tribe's leader; he was not even well-respected in the tribe as a warrior or a hunter. When the tribe, called the Setti, hunted, riding their tamed narglatches against wild ones, or against the large troppus, a herd animal native to Orto Plutonia, Onyr chased behind on foot. He was the mockery of the Setti, ridiculed and despised.
At home, every gram of disrespect he received, he earned.
Modig bristled at the insult. His thick white fur rose on his back, and he clenched his fists; his claws dug into his flesh, but the wounds in his body could not match the wounds that his repressed rage cut into his soul. His large eyes were shut tight, protected from the glare of Orto Plutonia's white-blue sun, shining through the clouds above and reflecting off the walls of the icy canyon in which the Setti lived. His smaller eyes were like chips of stone, cold and unforgiving.
Onyr twisted his proboscis aside and scowled. "Do you have something to say, or are you going to keep sitting there like a stupid boulder?"
Modig stood. He towered above his father--Onyr was the runt of his mother's litter, but Modig, barely an adult, was taller than any other Setti. Some of the older Talz, who had traveled far and wide across their world, had commented that they'd never seen a Talz his size anywhere on Orto Plutonia. He was easily the strongest, the fastest, and the toughest. He had been pinned by a wild narglatch and walked away with a month's meat and barely a scratch. Some said that he was destined to become the ruler of the Setti, but the tribal elders swore that no child of Onyr the Wretch could be a leader.
But as brave and as strong as Modig was, every time he looked at his father, he felt again like the little boy standing by his mother's grave. "This is your fault, Modig," Onyr had said then. "Your mother and your sisters would still be alive if not for you. You led the narglatches here. From now on, you will do everything I say, or I will make you truly regret your part in this."
Looking down at his father, who quivered with impatience, Modig bowed his head and stepped out of the hut. Onyr, tired of being shunned by the Setti, no longer hunted for his own food according to the Talz way, but forced Modig to provide for them both. Onyr twisted his responsibilities into demands; once, he should have hunted for Modig, but now, he made Modig hunt for him. The tremendous young Talz resented it, but he still viscerally feared his father's wrath.
Modig approached the gathered hunters. Twenty Talz, each on his own narglatch--except Modig. Like Onyr, he was forced to walk, but unlike the squat, impotent creature that repulsed and repressed him, Modig was strong. He could not keep up with the six-meter narglatches at a full sprint, but when stalking prey, he was more than quick enough to stay with the pack. Shrugging his shoulders to stretch, he returned the glare of Fohr-Ten, leader of the Setti. Fohr-Ten had called for the abandonment of Modig and Onyr, but Reti Evavar, high priest of the tribe, had stayed his hand. Modig did not know why Reti was kind to him, but the ancient Talz was said to have abilities beyond any mortal Talz--abilities that only priests could have--abilities to see the future, to capture and direct the minds of others, to protect themselves from harm. Perhaps the gods had told Reti to protect Modig, but the young Talz could not imagine why.
Once Modig arrived, the hunt was ready to begin. The narglatches took off at a steady lope; Modig pounded just behind them down the canyon. Fohr-Ten led them down the rock formation for kilometers; usually, they turned off and searched the plains above for a troppus herd, but today, they pressed on, deeper into the ravine. "Fohr-Ten!" Reti called out. "We are coming very near to the wild narglatch lair where two hunters were killed last cycle."
"Then we shall have to be more careful!" Fohr-Ten replied. "Modig! Come to the front of the pack."
The colossal Talz obeyed. When he stood beside Fohr-Ten's narglatch, the tribal chieftain gestured with one claw. "Lead us into the lair of the enemy, and bring us to victory, and I will let you live in a hut with the rest of the village, instead of exiled to the canyon."
Modig nodded. Reti reached out and laid his claws on the young brute's shoulder. "Young Falla," he said, "you do not need to do this."
The deep snarl that followed came from deep within Modig's chest, pouring through his heart and out his proboscis into the cold world. "I will do whatever I must." He bowed to Fohr-Ten and proceeded, leading the pack into the perilous gorge.
Then he saw a narglatch, but not on the path before him. He saw it in a flash, as far off as the stars, but close enough to touch. It was lying in wait, ready to pounce. It peered over a ledge with a peculiar oblong shape, looking down--on the Talz! It sprang its trap, and others along the canyon followed suit. The hunting party would be cut to shreds!
Modig spun, ready to fight. Fohr-Ten reared back on his narglatch, gargling angrily. "What are you doing, you fat fool?" he demanded.
There were no wild narglatches to be seen. Modig furrowed both brows, daring to squint open his larger eyes, as if they might provide some proof that he had not imagined the danger. He sighed; he had been so sure. Had he only imagined it? He looked up at Fohr-Ten; the chieftain waited impatiently for a response. Modig was surprised to find his inquirer expecting an answer; his father never needed one before the punishment began. He hefted his spear. "The narglatches know that we have come."
Fohr-Ten was livid. Reti looked amused, like he knew something that no one else did. The priest interrupted before the chieftain could respond. "Suppose he is right. What should we do next?"
Fohr-Ten glanced at the priest, then at Modig. "We came for a narglatch; whether it knows we have come or not, here we stand--let us hunt it and take both food and trophies!" He spurred his mount forward.
Modig felt an intense urge to act. He had to stop the massacre of his people. Without aiming, without even waiting to see the enemy, he hurled his spear past Fohr-Ten's back, up toward a familiar oblong ledge. He snatched a second spear from a nearby hunter, using his narglatch as a spring to launch himself high into the air. He hurled the spear forward and down.
By the time he landed, two wild narglatches were dead, slain as soon they leapt from their hiding places--but the canyon was rapidly filling with more. "Fohr-Ten!" cried Reti, "There are too many! We must retreat!" Narglatches were solitary hunters most of the time; the only ones Modig had heard of in a pack were the ones tamed by the Talz. To find a whole nest, where a pack of narglatches lived together, was unheard of.
Fohr-Ten snarled, but agreed. "Fall back! Retreat!"
The order was obeyed post-haste. Tamed narglatches and proud hunters turned tail and ran from superior numbers and superior strength. They made their way back toward home empty-handed; but the hunt would continue, in another place, until all the families of the tribe were fed. That was the Talz way--press on until the hunt was done. But the retreat had left one Talz standing alone against the multitude.
One Talz who had no spears left.
Modig raised his claws. He was afraid, deathly afraid, but he channeled that fear. He poured it into a mold of anger, which he forged into a weapon. If he turned and ran, without a mount of his own, he would die with his face in the snow; he refused to come to that end. If he was to die today, he would take some of the sacred beasts with him.
The narglatches were more than willing to oblige him. They began to charge, trying to circle him. He backed up to a narrower point in the canyon, so that the huge predators could not surround him effectively. But the narglatches did not wait for a tactical advantage; their strength in numbers ensured their victory. The first to attack came at Modig's left; he rolled away from its pounce, then planted his feet and launched himself into its side. He wrapped his arms around its neck, and his claws dug deep into its soft underbelly. He gripped and tore; gore spewed onto the ground and the beast roared in its death throes.
The next narglatch acted quickly. It struck out with its paw, knocking Modig from the back of his dying foe. Sensing its end, the bleeding beast dragged itself to the edge of the canyon, out of the way of its pack.
Meanwhile, Modig was beset again. He tried to repeat his earlier tactic, but the second narglatch saw it coming and spun, headbutting the falling Talz in the chest. Modig fell, pinned by heavy claws for the second time in his life. He remembered what he had done before, and attempted it again: he brought his claws up sharply into the beast's neck, shredding its throat. The blood gushed into the Talz' face and the narglatch crumpled atop him.
With a great growl, Modig pushed the body away. He stood, eyeing the sacred creatures that menaced him. His white fur was now soaked red, his claws splaying a spotted pattern across the snow as he advanced a pace. The narglatches seemed reluctant now, stepping away from him--they were unwilling to let him proceed further, and did not seem to want him to retreat, but none was ready to attack next.
Suddenly, the pack divided, opening to allow one narglatch passage into the clearing formed in fear of Modig. The beast was bigger than the others, seven meters from head to tailtip, and two meters tall at the shoulder--only a little shorter than Modig at his full height. Its fur was brown, but mottled with a blue powder, probably from a nearby cave. Its mane of quills bristled as it walked, and scars on its face tightened as it advanced against its prey. At last Modig realized why there was a whole pack of narglatches here--they were still young. Somehow, a whole group had become beholden to this one tremendous beast, relying on each other for protection and hunting. If the pack were a family, this was the patriarch.
The patriarch did not slow as it advanced. It snarled, circling Modig. It feinted left, then lunged right, catching Modig as he tried to dodge away. It slammed its head into his chin, knocking him fully prone, arms outstretched. It planted its forepaw on his chest and pressed down, then gaped its maw and went for his neck. He barely got his hands in place to catch the falling jaws. The two of them stayed there, wrestling fiercely. The weight of the narglatch bore down on Modig, crushing the air from his lungs; he knew that he did not have long. He thought of his father, of Fohr-Ten, of all the Setti tribe and their hatred of him, their disgust; he thought of the fear he felt in his father's presence, the fear he felt standing before the swarm of narglatch, about to die. This was his last chance to escape, his last chance to survive; as he had done so many times before by accident, he did now on purpose: he wielded his emotions like a weapon, giving strength to his hands and ferocity to his heart. With great effort, he closed the roaring jaws of the narglatch patriarch.
Their eyes met. Ferocity met ferocity, and power met power. They struggled, brought to a standstill. An unstoppable force had met an immovable object, and what remained was such intensity as Modig had never felt. It was as though an understanding passed between them, in that moment, trapped in each other's claws, like two savages discovering civilization for the first time. At long last, they stopped struggling, and the narglatch patriarch backed down.
From his position on the ground, Modig got a better look at the beast, and corrected himself: the narglatch matriarch. He sat up, then stood. The narglatch pack did not move. The matriarch snapped at them, and they retreated to their lair. Modig reached out a cautious hand, stroking the slender mane-quills of the sacred beast. It allowed him, then stepped closer. Reaching up, he took hold of her quills and pulled himself onto her back. He expected her to throw him off, but she did not even complain. He pointed up the canyon, toward his home, and she agreed.
* * * * *
First Order Human Resources Office, Gane, Unknown Regions
"Tell me, Tiiona, what one characteristic do you believe qualifies you to serve as a Special Operations Officer on board a frigate for the First Order?"
Tiiona Cato nodded once. Of what use were interview questions for a position like this? Did it actually matter what her five greatest weaknesses were? Or that she did not have an anecdote about her greatest success? This position would mean traveling the Galaxy again, seeing other worlds, other species. Only the most trusted First Order officers were granted that chance. She set her slender jaw, pushed an errant brown hair over her ear, and tried not to smile. "Life experience." She kept her brown eyes as hard and cold as durasteel. She wanted this duty; she always had.
"Oh?" The friendly gray-suited officer behind the desk smiled broadly. He glanced down at her application. "Two years as a naval lieutenant and four years as an analyst prepares you for psychologically intense field work?"
She shook her head slightly. "No, sir, I suspect not. I was referring to my experiences prior to joining the Navy."
His eyebrows went up. "Your life as a civilian?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Is the daughter of an Imperial Security Bureau commander ever really a civilian?"
The commander frowned. He glanced at her application again. "Who was your--" He checked his console and failed to close his mouth appropriately. "Your father is Commander Cale Qualto?"
She smiled now, unable to contain the pride she felt at seeing others fear her father's name. "He is. After twelve years working for COMPNOR, he joined the First Order as a true believer in the ideals held by the old Empire. He instilled those beliefs in me. He also taught me everything he knows."
He smiled. He almost stammered, which would probably be a first for a recruitment officer. "I guess that explains your test scores. Even natural talent doesn't account for outstripping your classmates by that much." He glanced at his console again, then smiled. "It looks like Cato is your mother's maiden name. Why not keep the Qualto?"
She set her jaw again. She liked smiling, but a woman who smiles doesn't get promotions in the First Order. "I didn't want any favors."
He twisted his smile smugly. "And mentioning your father's name now is...?"
"Stating facts, sir." She did not back down from his gaze. "I'm not riding his coattails--I'm pointing out that living under his roof prepared me for far more than navigating new hyperroutes and studying reports from the other side of the galaxy."
The commander nodded. "There will be a severe training regimen. Commander Qualto may have given you some pointers, but this will be the most intense training of your life. Included are some of the techniques taught to the Knights of Ren. Special Operations Officers must be the most resolute, the most stalwart of all military officers. No one will hold back, not even if your father himself told them to."
She straightened her back just a tiny bit more, though it was almost impossible. "I wouldn't have it any other way, sir."
He nodded again. "If you don't wash out of the training program--most applicants do--you will receive a promotion to commander and be assigned to a First Order vessel, either patrolling the Unknown Regions or the Outer Rim." He raised an eyebrow at her again. "It is very likely you will never return to Gane after your departure. Do you understand?"
She let a smile of victory crease her faintly freckled cheeks. "Yes, sir."
He nodded again. "You leave for the Punisher to begin your training in one local week." He smiled; his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Good luck."
"You useless pile of hail."
The words, spoken in Modig's native tongue of Talzzi, would have sounded like a series of guttural grunts to a human ear, some drawn out, some stopped short. To Modig Falla, it was the frequent curse of his wretched father. Onyr Falla was not his tribe's leader; he was not even well-respected in the tribe as a warrior or a hunter. When the tribe, called the Setti, hunted, riding their tamed narglatches against wild ones, or against the large troppus, a herd animal native to Orto Plutonia, Onyr chased behind on foot. He was the mockery of the Setti, ridiculed and despised.
At home, every gram of disrespect he received, he earned.
Modig bristled at the insult. His thick white fur rose on his back, and he clenched his fists; his claws dug into his flesh, but the wounds in his body could not match the wounds that his repressed rage cut into his soul. His large eyes were shut tight, protected from the glare of Orto Plutonia's white-blue sun, shining through the clouds above and reflecting off the walls of the icy canyon in which the Setti lived. His smaller eyes were like chips of stone, cold and unforgiving.
Onyr twisted his proboscis aside and scowled. "Do you have something to say, or are you going to keep sitting there like a stupid boulder?"
Modig stood. He towered above his father--Onyr was the runt of his mother's litter, but Modig, barely an adult, was taller than any other Setti. Some of the older Talz, who had traveled far and wide across their world, had commented that they'd never seen a Talz his size anywhere on Orto Plutonia. He was easily the strongest, the fastest, and the toughest. He had been pinned by a wild narglatch and walked away with a month's meat and barely a scratch. Some said that he was destined to become the ruler of the Setti, but the tribal elders swore that no child of Onyr the Wretch could be a leader.
But as brave and as strong as Modig was, every time he looked at his father, he felt again like the little boy standing by his mother's grave. "This is your fault, Modig," Onyr had said then. "Your mother and your sisters would still be alive if not for you. You led the narglatches here. From now on, you will do everything I say, or I will make you truly regret your part in this."
Looking down at his father, who quivered with impatience, Modig bowed his head and stepped out of the hut. Onyr, tired of being shunned by the Setti, no longer hunted for his own food according to the Talz way, but forced Modig to provide for them both. Onyr twisted his responsibilities into demands; once, he should have hunted for Modig, but now, he made Modig hunt for him. The tremendous young Talz resented it, but he still viscerally feared his father's wrath.
Modig approached the gathered hunters. Twenty Talz, each on his own narglatch--except Modig. Like Onyr, he was forced to walk, but unlike the squat, impotent creature that repulsed and repressed him, Modig was strong. He could not keep up with the six-meter narglatches at a full sprint, but when stalking prey, he was more than quick enough to stay with the pack. Shrugging his shoulders to stretch, he returned the glare of Fohr-Ten, leader of the Setti. Fohr-Ten had called for the abandonment of Modig and Onyr, but Reti Evavar, high priest of the tribe, had stayed his hand. Modig did not know why Reti was kind to him, but the ancient Talz was said to have abilities beyond any mortal Talz--abilities that only priests could have--abilities to see the future, to capture and direct the minds of others, to protect themselves from harm. Perhaps the gods had told Reti to protect Modig, but the young Talz could not imagine why.
Once Modig arrived, the hunt was ready to begin. The narglatches took off at a steady lope; Modig pounded just behind them down the canyon. Fohr-Ten led them down the rock formation for kilometers; usually, they turned off and searched the plains above for a troppus herd, but today, they pressed on, deeper into the ravine. "Fohr-Ten!" Reti called out. "We are coming very near to the wild narglatch lair where two hunters were killed last cycle."
"Then we shall have to be more careful!" Fohr-Ten replied. "Modig! Come to the front of the pack."
The colossal Talz obeyed. When he stood beside Fohr-Ten's narglatch, the tribal chieftain gestured with one claw. "Lead us into the lair of the enemy, and bring us to victory, and I will let you live in a hut with the rest of the village, instead of exiled to the canyon."
Modig nodded. Reti reached out and laid his claws on the young brute's shoulder. "Young Falla," he said, "you do not need to do this."
The deep snarl that followed came from deep within Modig's chest, pouring through his heart and out his proboscis into the cold world. "I will do whatever I must." He bowed to Fohr-Ten and proceeded, leading the pack into the perilous gorge.
Then he saw a narglatch, but not on the path before him. He saw it in a flash, as far off as the stars, but close enough to touch. It was lying in wait, ready to pounce. It peered over a ledge with a peculiar oblong shape, looking down--on the Talz! It sprang its trap, and others along the canyon followed suit. The hunting party would be cut to shreds!
Modig spun, ready to fight. Fohr-Ten reared back on his narglatch, gargling angrily. "What are you doing, you fat fool?" he demanded.
There were no wild narglatches to be seen. Modig furrowed both brows, daring to squint open his larger eyes, as if they might provide some proof that he had not imagined the danger. He sighed; he had been so sure. Had he only imagined it? He looked up at Fohr-Ten; the chieftain waited impatiently for a response. Modig was surprised to find his inquirer expecting an answer; his father never needed one before the punishment began. He hefted his spear. "The narglatches know that we have come."
Fohr-Ten was livid. Reti looked amused, like he knew something that no one else did. The priest interrupted before the chieftain could respond. "Suppose he is right. What should we do next?"
Fohr-Ten glanced at the priest, then at Modig. "We came for a narglatch; whether it knows we have come or not, here we stand--let us hunt it and take both food and trophies!" He spurred his mount forward.
Modig felt an intense urge to act. He had to stop the massacre of his people. Without aiming, without even waiting to see the enemy, he hurled his spear past Fohr-Ten's back, up toward a familiar oblong ledge. He snatched a second spear from a nearby hunter, using his narglatch as a spring to launch himself high into the air. He hurled the spear forward and down.
By the time he landed, two wild narglatches were dead, slain as soon they leapt from their hiding places--but the canyon was rapidly filling with more. "Fohr-Ten!" cried Reti, "There are too many! We must retreat!" Narglatches were solitary hunters most of the time; the only ones Modig had heard of in a pack were the ones tamed by the Talz. To find a whole nest, where a pack of narglatches lived together, was unheard of.
Fohr-Ten snarled, but agreed. "Fall back! Retreat!"
The order was obeyed post-haste. Tamed narglatches and proud hunters turned tail and ran from superior numbers and superior strength. They made their way back toward home empty-handed; but the hunt would continue, in another place, until all the families of the tribe were fed. That was the Talz way--press on until the hunt was done. But the retreat had left one Talz standing alone against the multitude.
One Talz who had no spears left.
Modig raised his claws. He was afraid, deathly afraid, but he channeled that fear. He poured it into a mold of anger, which he forged into a weapon. If he turned and ran, without a mount of his own, he would die with his face in the snow; he refused to come to that end. If he was to die today, he would take some of the sacred beasts with him.
The narglatches were more than willing to oblige him. They began to charge, trying to circle him. He backed up to a narrower point in the canyon, so that the huge predators could not surround him effectively. But the narglatches did not wait for a tactical advantage; their strength in numbers ensured their victory. The first to attack came at Modig's left; he rolled away from its pounce, then planted his feet and launched himself into its side. He wrapped his arms around its neck, and his claws dug deep into its soft underbelly. He gripped and tore; gore spewed onto the ground and the beast roared in its death throes.
The next narglatch acted quickly. It struck out with its paw, knocking Modig from the back of his dying foe. Sensing its end, the bleeding beast dragged itself to the edge of the canyon, out of the way of its pack.
Meanwhile, Modig was beset again. He tried to repeat his earlier tactic, but the second narglatch saw it coming and spun, headbutting the falling Talz in the chest. Modig fell, pinned by heavy claws for the second time in his life. He remembered what he had done before, and attempted it again: he brought his claws up sharply into the beast's neck, shredding its throat. The blood gushed into the Talz' face and the narglatch crumpled atop him.
With a great growl, Modig pushed the body away. He stood, eyeing the sacred creatures that menaced him. His white fur was now soaked red, his claws splaying a spotted pattern across the snow as he advanced a pace. The narglatches seemed reluctant now, stepping away from him--they were unwilling to let him proceed further, and did not seem to want him to retreat, but none was ready to attack next.
Suddenly, the pack divided, opening to allow one narglatch passage into the clearing formed in fear of Modig. The beast was bigger than the others, seven meters from head to tailtip, and two meters tall at the shoulder--only a little shorter than Modig at his full height. Its fur was brown, but mottled with a blue powder, probably from a nearby cave. Its mane of quills bristled as it walked, and scars on its face tightened as it advanced against its prey. At last Modig realized why there was a whole pack of narglatches here--they were still young. Somehow, a whole group had become beholden to this one tremendous beast, relying on each other for protection and hunting. If the pack were a family, this was the patriarch.
The patriarch did not slow as it advanced. It snarled, circling Modig. It feinted left, then lunged right, catching Modig as he tried to dodge away. It slammed its head into his chin, knocking him fully prone, arms outstretched. It planted its forepaw on his chest and pressed down, then gaped its maw and went for his neck. He barely got his hands in place to catch the falling jaws. The two of them stayed there, wrestling fiercely. The weight of the narglatch bore down on Modig, crushing the air from his lungs; he knew that he did not have long. He thought of his father, of Fohr-Ten, of all the Setti tribe and their hatred of him, their disgust; he thought of the fear he felt in his father's presence, the fear he felt standing before the swarm of narglatch, about to die. This was his last chance to escape, his last chance to survive; as he had done so many times before by accident, he did now on purpose: he wielded his emotions like a weapon, giving strength to his hands and ferocity to his heart. With great effort, he closed the roaring jaws of the narglatch patriarch.
Their eyes met. Ferocity met ferocity, and power met power. They struggled, brought to a standstill. An unstoppable force had met an immovable object, and what remained was such intensity as Modig had never felt. It was as though an understanding passed between them, in that moment, trapped in each other's claws, like two savages discovering civilization for the first time. At long last, they stopped struggling, and the narglatch patriarch backed down.
From his position on the ground, Modig got a better look at the beast, and corrected himself: the narglatch matriarch. He sat up, then stood. The narglatch pack did not move. The matriarch snapped at them, and they retreated to their lair. Modig reached out a cautious hand, stroking the slender mane-quills of the sacred beast. It allowed him, then stepped closer. Reaching up, he took hold of her quills and pulled himself onto her back. He expected her to throw him off, but she did not even complain. He pointed up the canyon, toward his home, and she agreed.
* * * * *
First Order Human Resources Office, Gane, Unknown Regions
"Tell me, Tiiona, what one characteristic do you believe qualifies you to serve as a Special Operations Officer on board a frigate for the First Order?"
Tiiona Cato nodded once. Of what use were interview questions for a position like this? Did it actually matter what her five greatest weaknesses were? Or that she did not have an anecdote about her greatest success? This position would mean traveling the Galaxy again, seeing other worlds, other species. Only the most trusted First Order officers were granted that chance. She set her slender jaw, pushed an errant brown hair over her ear, and tried not to smile. "Life experience." She kept her brown eyes as hard and cold as durasteel. She wanted this duty; she always had.
"Oh?" The friendly gray-suited officer behind the desk smiled broadly. He glanced down at her application. "Two years as a naval lieutenant and four years as an analyst prepares you for psychologically intense field work?"
She shook her head slightly. "No, sir, I suspect not. I was referring to my experiences prior to joining the Navy."
His eyebrows went up. "Your life as a civilian?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Is the daughter of an Imperial Security Bureau commander ever really a civilian?"
The commander frowned. He glanced at her application again. "Who was your--" He checked his console and failed to close his mouth appropriately. "Your father is Commander Cale Qualto?"
She smiled now, unable to contain the pride she felt at seeing others fear her father's name. "He is. After twelve years working for COMPNOR, he joined the First Order as a true believer in the ideals held by the old Empire. He instilled those beliefs in me. He also taught me everything he knows."
He smiled. He almost stammered, which would probably be a first for a recruitment officer. "I guess that explains your test scores. Even natural talent doesn't account for outstripping your classmates by that much." He glanced at his console again, then smiled. "It looks like Cato is your mother's maiden name. Why not keep the Qualto?"
She set her jaw again. She liked smiling, but a woman who smiles doesn't get promotions in the First Order. "I didn't want any favors."
He twisted his smile smugly. "And mentioning your father's name now is...?"
"Stating facts, sir." She did not back down from his gaze. "I'm not riding his coattails--I'm pointing out that living under his roof prepared me for far more than navigating new hyperroutes and studying reports from the other side of the galaxy."
The commander nodded. "There will be a severe training regimen. Commander Qualto may have given you some pointers, but this will be the most intense training of your life. Included are some of the techniques taught to the Knights of Ren. Special Operations Officers must be the most resolute, the most stalwart of all military officers. No one will hold back, not even if your father himself told them to."
She straightened her back just a tiny bit more, though it was almost impossible. "I wouldn't have it any other way, sir."
He nodded again. "If you don't wash out of the training program--most applicants do--you will receive a promotion to commander and be assigned to a First Order vessel, either patrolling the Unknown Regions or the Outer Rim." He raised an eyebrow at her again. "It is very likely you will never return to Gane after your departure. Do you understand?"
She let a smile of victory crease her faintly freckled cheeks. "Yes, sir."
He nodded again. "You leave for the Punisher to begin your training in one local week." He smiled; his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Good luck."