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All content copyright Veritas, 2005. The character of Tejin Owansi is based on inspiration provided by Terry Sender and is used with permission. Any resemblance to other persons or situations, real or fictional, is purely coincidental. Those offended by anthropomorphic, male, homosexual sex need not read on. Blah, blah, blah.

Personal Touch

The time was right.

Drevin Targe gazed into the dark sphere that was his tactical display. A collection of red blips - enemy bombers and their fighter escort - was approaching the debris field in which Drevin's wing waited, clamped to especially large pieces of scrap. Tau Wing's flight of interceptors was arranged somewhat more visibly, a cluster of green dots around a large, mostly-intact hulk that had been rigged to look like a Star Lane Authority refuelling post.

That mock-up installation was the bait. Not one but three flights of Varilyn Hierarchy bombers had just taken a bite of it.

"Tau-Green One to friendly units," came the voice of the interceptors' flight leader. "We've got company in the debris field. Stand by to engage."

What that really meant, in this case, was that all the enemy ships were inside the perimeter of hidden assault fighters.

Drevin touched his console. "Psi-Red One to all wingmen," the ferret began. He took a deep breath, gripped his flight stick in one hand and his throttle in the other, and concluded, "Engage at will."

Six assault fighters kicked off from their cover and began converging. The Eagles were not fast fighters, but they were tough, and boasted no less than six heavy guns, in addition to a substantial load of missiles. They were more than enough to deal with the Hierarchy fighter escort of twenty-four light fighters.

That left Drevin himself, concealed within the mock-up refuelling post. His was no fighter, but a Condor-class light corvette - five times the mass of a bomber, with engines powerful enough to run one down and enough fire-power to ensure a long pursuit would never be necessary.

Another touch to his console sent a coded signal, and a set of explosive charges detonated. A sizeable chunk of the "station's" hull ripped away, the air within rushing out in a glittering cloud. Mindful of the tight space, Drevin eased the throttle toward himself, and the enginesrumbled to life, nudging the Condor through that dispersing shimmer and into open space.

Once again, he adjusted his transmitter. "Approaching vessels," he stated, "this is Lieutenant Commander Targe of the SLASH Third Fleet. The Hierarchy is implicated in crimes in fifteen star systems and is under SLASH investigation. You are hereby ordered to stand down and prepare to be taken into custody."

Forty seconds before the enemy was in combat range. What he'd stated was a pretty standard disclosure. SLASH officers were essentially the police of the Saurok Hegemony; as such, they were to attempt a non-violent approach where possible. But now, as many times in the past, the aggressors did not heed the warning - their tight strike formation spread out, turning into something more suited for skirmishing, and they accelerated.

Drevin yanked his throttle open, and thrust shoved him back against his seat. Thirty seconds. He switched to the SLASH command channel. "Command, this is Psi-Red One. Targets are maintaining hostile posture. Preparing to engage."

"Psi-Red One, this is Keller Station Command," came a swift reply. After that introduction, though, there was a pause, as of a careful breath being drawn, a moment of hesitation. Then, "You are authorised to respond with lethal force."

Wait, what? That hadn't been in the mission profile. "Command, Psi-Red One. Please confirm authorisation for lethal force."

"Psi-Red One, confirmation from Commodore Blake, Karrey System Command. SLASH losses heavy in combat with Hierarchy forces. We must ensure that risk to SLASH lives is minimised. You are to use any means necessary to put enemies out of commission. Command confirms lethal force authorised."

Drevin shook his head. He liked a good dogfight as much as any, but those dogfights were to test skill, nothing more. These bombers, numerous though they were, were going to be shredded. "Lethal force, aye." He tapped an instruction to his engineer to bring weapons to full power, and switched to broadcast on both the public frequency and that of his operation. "Approaching bombers, this is your final warning. We are weapons-free and you can expect no mercy." His console buzzed - his engineer, who only had internal coms and wasn't tapped into the main network, wanting to confirm the power increase. A quick tap reiterated his request, and he concluded, "Stand down immediately or you will be destroyed."

Ten seconds to combat range. A beep confirmed that his weapons had full power waiting. He started the cannons charging, and began assigning target priorities. First the enemy flight leaders, of course - destroy the leaders and disrupt command, and the remaining craft would be disorganised, easier pickings.

This particular task wasn't one he was used to doing - he'd had a copilot for a long time, and identifying targets was the copilot's main task. But he'd done it in the past, and aside from the realisation that he as actually doing it again, it all went smoothly, automatically. When his missile warning blared, he didn't miss a moment in slewing to one side, gunning the engines, and dropping a decoy.

The real core of his missile defence, though, was a quartet of laser turrets arranged more or less equally around the corvette's hull. They weren't flashy - in a vacuum their effect wasn't even directly visible. They took time to focus on a target, and were much to weak to be of use against a shielded craft. But of the missiles that followed him after his dodge-and-decoy, each exploded, one by one, before getting close enough to send more than a fine spray of metal dust over his shields.

And now the SLASH wings were all within combat range.

"Fire at will," Drevin ordered. "Knock them out fast - we need to get their numbers down in a hurry. Weapons free."

Drevin's own volley was the SLASH opening shot. Streams of plasma, focused to the point of fusion, speared the two lead bombers, smashing against their shields with more ferocity in a two-second blast than most fighters could deliver in five times that long.

Bombers had energy shields that were strong enough to fend off the first blow - but they'd still be feeling the pain.

And to keep the other bombers on their toes, he launched a swarmer missile. It was a large, ungainly package, swooping toward the enemy formation on a broad, meandering curve. Ten seconds before impact, it burst - twenty smaller warheads instead streaked forth, jinking this way and that en route to their targets.

Swarmers were remote-guided. The only way to jam them would be to jam Drevin's transmissions - a much more difficult task than spoofing the disposable sensor suite on a typical missile. Their random-walk, tiny size, and sheer numbers made it hard for point-defence systems - if the bombers had had any - to hit them; the fact that Drevin's computer was feeding them targeting data meant they could even change targets on the fly.

They didn't individually do much damage, but if they were to converge on one or a few targets, they would collectively pose a serious threat; the bombers were forced to scatter, trying to limit the damage to glancing blows. This they largely did, but the dangerous precision of their formation was lost.

Drevin's corvette plowed through the space they had just vacated. His fusion cannons charged and fired again, this time both striking the same target - thelead ship of the first bomber wing. Already punished by the first cannon blast and struck by no fewer than three of the swarmers, it simply did not have the wherewithal to take that much punishment. Its shields were a momentary flicker before they died; the rest of the blast burned right into the hull and bored into it.

The double strike had struck just right. There was a momentary flash, a flurry of bright sparks, and then it was gone.

Fighters swooped and whirled, and the bombers struggled to recover their formation and retaliate. The communication channels buzzed with activity, but none of it pertained to either Drevin or the bombers; he tuned it out and kept his lumbering craft in the midst of the fighting, his side and rear turrets taking shots of opportunity against the lighter enemy fighters.

The bombers rallied with commendable speed, abandoning their unified flight in favour of four pairs and a triad. It was, Drevin had to admit, the best thing they could possibly have done.

In fact, he just might be in a bit of trouble. That was, after all, his job, but all the same, he wouldn't exactly have complained if the opposing pilots had made it a little less perilous.

Time to keep on his toes. He made the most of his powerful engines, dropping the throttle, spinning, yanking it toward him again halfway through his turn, in general making his movements as unpredictable as possible. Gun blasts and even occasional missiles splashed against his shields, but not enough to do major damage - and with his engineer dumping more power to the shields during the low-throttle times, or while his guns were charged but hadn't fired, those shields were recharging in good order.

As that dance continued, his attention turned more and more to the interceptors. He'd noticed them flitting about the battle, darting in to make a nuisance of themselves before veering out of the line of fire, but some of them were picking just the right time to present that nuisance. Weakly-armed though they were, none of the enemy pilots, fighter or bomber, could afford to just plow through their lines of fire - and a few of their pilots knew just how to take full advantage of their mobility, to make sure those lines of fire were covering the gaps in those of the heavier craft.

When a third bomber had been boxed in to present Drevin with a perfect firing solution for a missile, Drevin knew he was working with someone remarkable. He spared a glance at the tac readout to get that interceptor's designation. Tau-Green Five - not even an element leader, but whoever it was, was able to make that spindly little interceptor turn in ways that would make even some experienced pilots motion-sick.

A klaxon shrilled in Drevin's ear, dragging his attention away from that segment of the tac display. Drevin swore. That was a torpedo warning - and one of the bombers had just caught him in a turn, slowing down.

That was trouble. A single torpedo probably wouldn't kill him, but it would leave him rather severely weakened - definitely down to hull metal, and beneath the shields, the Condor could only take so much punishment. And the damn things were shielded - his point defence wouldn't even scratch its paint.

He shifted his turn, trying to cut past the incoming torpedo, to make the massive warhead brush against his aft shields rather than plowing into his belly.

And just like that, a now-familiar Peregrine interceptor swooped by, so close he could see the Tau insignia on its flared wing, and blasted the torpedo with a volley of well-aimed plasma bolts. The explosion was suitably impressive - but, by the time the Peregrine charged through it, utterly harmless.

Drevin glanced at his tac and swore. Green Five again. He wondered if Keller Station would strongly object to him press-ganging one of their pilots on his way back to the Bond of Unity.

The battle started to turn soon after that, with the destruction of two more bombers and the sixth of their support craft, and not a single SLASH casualty. The numbers had already been in favour of SLASH victory; now it was inexorably turning into a rout.The debris field didn't even give them any room to run - if they tried to outrun the SLASH group, they'd be battered to pieces by collisions with the trash instead.

As the enemy numbers dwindled, the SLASH fighters were able to loosely surround them, a shifting, whirling sphere; even the damaged SLASH fighters, previously forced to peel off from the main fight, were able to take shots of opportunity. The enemy position, with just a bomber and three fighters remaining while Drevin's corvette bore down on them, was beyond untenable.

Drevin, however, held his fire. It was time to end this. Fortunately, the declaration of open hostility actually gave him a clear bargaining chip - one which the remaining pilots might better appreciate in such a situation.

"Hierarchy fighters," he stated, "stand down. This is your final chance. Surrender and you will be treated not as criminals, but with all the protections due prisoners of war. Persist and you will be destroyed."

Basically, it was an acknowledgement - or at least a trust, an assumption - that they hadn't been fighting of their own will. They'd be detained, but not deprived; interrogated, but not tried.

It evidently worked. The fighters had been accelerating for a last-ditch attempt to break through; now they spun around, veering back into tight formation in the center of the SLASH globe.

Tense seconds passed. Drevin dialled the force down on his main guns, and issued orders to the SLASH wings to halt, and hold fire unless the Hierarchy vessels made a break for it.

Then, a response, a tight-beam communication to Drevin's craft lone. "Lieutenant Commander Targe," said a weary male voice, "this is Lieutenant Scond Class Rico Montel. You win. On behalf of myself and my escorts - we surrender."

Drevin sank back into his seat and let out a sigh of relief.

"You were under orders to apply lethal force, Targe."

Drevin couldn't believe this. He'd won. Nobody with any sense could have considered this operation a failure. And here he was being chewed out - by someone of his own rank, at that - for not killing every single target? Trying to put his thoughts together, Drevin stalled for time by tapping the lieutenant commander's insignia patch on the shoulder of his flight suit.

It was not proper for an equal in rank to address him that way under any circumstances; the wolf new that, and dipped his head in apology. "Lieutenant Commander Targe," he corrected, more meekly.

Drevin could hardly care less about the title, but it served as the first part of his reminder on when it was and was not appropriate to chastise. He took a breath and delivered the next part.

"I used plenty of lethal force," he replied. "There are - let's see, eleven bombers at two crew apiece, and twenty-one fighters - forty-three people who you aren't able to ask how much lethal force was applied. These five were only brought in after they ceased presenting themselves as a threat.

"Furthermore, this is a Fleet operation, not an in-system one. We used some of your resources, and they allowed things to go along quite nicely - but my orders come from Admiral Erol Surin. If Commodore Blake has a problem with them, I advise him to look over the Authority's standard operating procedure before calling Fleet HQ to complain." There; that was his acknowledgement that the man in front of him was just the messenger. On a personal note, he finished, "We're police, Lieutenant Commander. I know we've lost a lot of people lately, and I would be sad but not surprised to learn some of them are the Commodore's family, but our goal here is to restore peace, not exact revenge."

Their eyes - the wolf's amber, Drevin's black - locked for a few more seconds, then the Station officer looked down for a moment and shook his head. "Very well, Commander. I will pass along your reply. I don't know what we'll do with them, though." He gestured toward the quintet of red-garbed captives just now being marched off the flight deck.

"If there isn't room on station to keep them under proper house arrest, or you don't have people trained in POW interrogation, I'll ferry them back to the Bond of Unity myself. After all," he permitted himself a wry grimace, "this is a Fleet operation. And since I haven't filed my report yet, it's not done."

They shared a chuckle. Drevin was Fleet and this unnamed wolf was in the system garrison, but they both knew what it was like to shift from the lower, more active ranks to the rarefied reaches of command.

"I'm sure we can spare a shuttle. But I'd best let you get to the report, then," the wolf said; Drevin nodded. They exchanged salutes, and Drevin started his march off the flight deck, while the wolf moved on to the repair deck.

Not in charge of the pilots themselves, then. Drevin wasn't surprised; though he hadn't been all that obnoxious, just delivering someone else's orders, still he lacked a certain polish that came of leading other commissioned officers. It wasn't just that officers, even cadets, were all entitled to a certain degree of respect; but with ranks that close, it might not be too long - especially in troubled times - before that section of the command chain flipped around.

Drevin put such thoughts behind him and caught up to the troupe of guards. "A word with you," he glanced at the leader's rank mark, "Chief." The chief petty officer drew breath and lifted a hand, ready to halt her column, but Drevin cut in, "I'll keep pace."

"Belay that," the chief called to her troops, and Drevin fell in beside her.

"These people," Drevin jerked his chin toward the five manacled captives in red, "were brought in under my operation. As such, I need to know - where exactly are they being taken?"

"Brig, sir," the fox replied. "Each to his own cell."

So protocol was being followed as much as the circumstances would allow. Good. "Ensure they are kept ready for relocation. The brig is not the place to keep POWs for any length of time. Also, if anything is to be done with them - being moved, transferred, questioned, even having their meal arrangements altered - I want to know about it before it happens."

A salute. "Yes, sir, Commander Targe."

Drevin stepped to the side, and let the column ease past him a little. "Lieutenant Montel."

The mouse at the front of the party looked over. "Commander?"

"Once we've had a little time to get everything squared away, you and your crew will be under better conditions than this. But for transit, I'm sure you understand that we have to be careful."

Montel's chin jerked upward for a moment. "It's what I'd do, Commander."

"Very good. Carry on, chief." Drevin executed a drill-perfect about-face and started for his guest quarters.

The operation had been fairly straightforward, it actually took longer for him to collate the flight records, comm logs, and quartermasters' reports as appendices than to write the meat of his report. The only part that took him any great effort was his synopsis - the part where he actually had an opportunity to leave remarks on his team's respective permanent files.

Thankfully, he'd found nothing that warranted formal censure; he noted the few criticisms he'd had and already brought up with their objects, but didn't flag them to actually appear on their files. Commendations, though much more pleasant to work with, took longer; he actually needed to consult the files in question. Even that, for the most part, was fairly straightforward.

Then he was left only with the real star of the show, in this mission designated Tau-Green Five. He drew a breath, and called up that pilot's file.

Ensign Tejin Owansi had been flying interceptor duty steadily since being assigned to Tau Squadron's Green wing as a freshly-trained pilot some months back. His file was clean of official censure; the closest thing Drevin could find to a negative remark was that he could cause personnel issues - namely, jealousy. Intrigued, Drevin read on, and called up a picture of the pilot beside the text.

Immediately he sucked in his breath. Well, that helped to explain the jealousy, right there.

Owansi was drop-dead gorgeous. Despite the intense physical regimen of a SLASH officer, he'd managed to retain more of a ferret's slender build than, say, Drevin himself. He was also pure white - not even the inky tip of the tail that ermine had in their winter coats. Dark, nearly black eyes stood out in striking contrast. Combine that with a face that looked youthful, yet experienced and confident, and it made for a very attractive picture indeed.

If people weren't jealous of his sheer good looks, they probably would be of the attention he deserved because of them.

And, sure enough, that was it - a note was there for any prospective commanders that Owansi should be kept separate from anyone who had a tendency toward territorial pair-bonding.

Drevin smirked, and sat up a little to adjust his trousers. No territorialism among his own squadron, that was for sure. And "pair-bonding" just didn't cut it. Such a pity that despite having a higher concentration than normal of alternative sexualities, most members of SLASH were straight just like most members of the general populace.

At any rate - for a young pilot, Tejin had certainly collected his share of commendations. He'd probably be due for a promotion fairly soon; it had been a while since he graduated, and Drevin's was going to be yet another sterling commendation.

The console beeped at him, notifying him that a Commander Gerold Treyes wished to speak with him. Drevin saved a draft of his report and sat up a little straighter to answer the call.

Treyes was a stocky-looking canine, the broad-shouldered sort that was the despair of quartermasters because his uniforms would all have to be manufactured one-off. A dire wolf, by the shape of his jaw; a rare enough breed made all the more distinct by his having pitch-black fur. He was also well-decorated, with a number of Fleet tour ribbons in addition to the more recent marks for garrison duty; his duty insignia marked him as currently the commander of a flight group - specifically, this was the man in charge of Keller Station's pilots collectively.

They exchanged salutes. "Lieutenant Commander Targe," the wolf greeted formally. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything urgent?"

"Not at all," Drevin assured him. "Just putting the finishing touches on my report."

"I see. Well, while you've got my pilots fresh on your mind, there is something I'd like to discuss with you."

Drevin parsed that remark. "If it's about personnel, and it's not something that needs my report, wouldn't either you or Commander Sahl be more apt to make the decisions?" Erik Sahl was Drevin's own boss, commander of the Bond of Unity's flight group.

"I just got a message back from Commander Sahl in the latest batch of mail," Treyes replied. "I'll forward it to you; it's something you deserve to see. In short, though, Sahl believes you, more than himself or any of his other squadron commanders, have a... very close bond with your pilots." One of the dire wolf's brows lifted momentarily, and Drevin wondered just how blunt the very forthright Sahl had been in that message. "As such, he figures you're better positioned to know your pilots, and has officially delegated this decision to you." A tight smile. "Sending you here in a corvette, putting you in charge of a deep field op, entrusting personnel issues to you - I'd say someone in Fleet Command has plans for you, Targe."

"That worries me," said Drevin, who'd come to the same conclusion himself. "But that's not the meat of this personnel issue, is it, sir?"

"No, indeed." Treyes sat up a little straighter, back in official mode. "I understand the Third Fleet will be finishing its tour in the region shortly - I wouldn't doubt if it's either to track down the Hierarchy or to get you out of that campaign entirely, but I couldn't say which. Anyway, some of my pilots have been on garrison duty for a while now. I'm sure you know that team spirit is a wonderful thing, but we also have to keep some fluidity between the branches of service, to keep them from forgetting that we all serve the same flag."

Thinking of some of the attitudes he'd heard expressed about garrison pilots, Drevin had to suppress a wince. "I know exactly what you mean, sir."

"I'm sure you do. However, I'm sure you also know that unmanaged reassignment can be a disaster. So, in order to gently remind people from both Fleet and In-sys that the other branch is made of people too, it's been decided to use the Bond of Unity and Keller Station as test grounds for an officer exchange program. Some of your people will serve a tour with In-System Security, while some of ours will go on a mobile tour with the Fleet. It won't be permanent - for some positions, it just wouldn't work - but for the pilots, at least, it might give them options to think about for their next transfer requests."

Drevin sucked in his breath.

There were a number of people in his squadron that weren't too fond of the insular life a Fleet officer led; people who, he figured now, might well be much happier with a chance to put down roots for a while. "A full tour, sir?" he inquired.

"One tour," Treyes replied, answering the other side of his question.

One tour of duty. That was long enough to try it out, yet not so long that someone who wound up not liking it would think himself stuck. In fact, this was the best idea he'd heard from High Command in quite a while.

"So let's talk people," the dire wolf went on. "Commander Sahl was kind enough to forward a roster for your squadron, so I have your pilots and mine available for reading; what I need to know is what the files don't show."

Drevin thought fast. He started with the most obvious of his recommendations - someone who actually was hoping for a transfer to garrison duty, but stymied by the paperwork and by a flight record that was less than sterling. He pointed out the person's strengths, some points in her psychological profile that might be clashing with Fleet duty, his own observations of her, and how the exchange might be perfect for her; Treyes mulled it over, then nodded, accepting his suggestion and making a note.

Well, that was easy.

They talked back and forth for a little, with Drevin browsing the station's roster as he did so. Each of them made suggestions from each side; some were accepted, some decided against. As they were winding down, the last pilot to be transferred from the station seemed to be a question that perplexed the senior officer.

"What about this one?" Drevin offered, linking to one particular pilot's file, one whose latest operation details were still listed as Pending.

The wolf's brows lifted. "Tejin? I thought you were a heavy assault squadron, Targe. His marks in that class of vessel weren't particularly high..."

"Fast attack. And the last time he was evaluated was fresh out of academy," Drevin pointed out. "The Eagle is a tricky thing for a novice to fly. The Talon even more so. But today's operation proved to me that even the heaviest assault we're likely to spring has some use for light cover. There are some pilots in my ranks with good marks on interceptors; I'm thinking of requisitioning some Swifts or Peregrines and putting that background to use. As for Ensign Owansi - even his file shows that he's progressed amazingly since his assignment. Personally, I don't think his file does justice to the sort of flying I witnessed today. He's a natural."

Treyes frowned. "Well, that certainly does address the question of skill. I'm still concerned about the psych profile, though..."

"I doubt that'll be a problem with my group," Drevin assured him. Frustration over the unattainable might happen in Psi Wing, but jealousy? Not too likely.

Treyes spread his hands. "Tell you what - meet with him personally; he's probably going to get a Star over this op anyway, based on what you've said about his flying, so he might as well get at least your commendation in person. Talk with him, see how he feels about it; if both of you want to go ahead with it, I'll defer to your judgement of your team. If not, you know how to get in touch with me."

For a moment, Drevin wondered if there might be a conflict of interest there. But, he reminded himself, so long as he kept official and personal separate, everything should be fine. "Sounds good, Commander."

"Excellent. I'll let his squadron leader know to send him to you. When?"

"Whenever," Drevin shrugged, then rethought that. "Actually... make it at least half an hour from now. That'll give both him and myself some time to freshen up. Apart from that, though, he doesn't have to show up at a specific time."

"Very good. It's been a pleasure working with you, Targe." Treyes snapped a salute. Drevin returned it, and cut the com.

It only took him a few moments to finish the wording on his report, and a couple minutes to look over the whole thing, making sure it was all in the right order and free of linguistic error; then he sent it, and its associated commendations, on its way. Washing up was not something he took very long to do, at least not on his own; he was done, dry, and in duty uniform with five minutes to spare, and no indication that his guest had arrived early.

He took advantage of the time to find out just what Commander Sahl had said about him.

Cmdr Treyes,

Discussions of this sort are best handled face-to-face, or at least in a situation with little communication lag. On the other hand, it would be far more fair to these pilots to give them a few days to pack - not the few hours that the Bond of Unity will be in system at the end of our tour.

However, you have available to you a far better resource for information on the pilots aboard this carrier than myself. Promoting Drevin Targe to a command position is a decision that I have never had call to regret. He's reached this position not because of any limitation on his combat abilities - in fact, removing him from the front was the biggest downside to the decision. He thinks fast, and reaches good decisions with just a little information, and no need for lengthy analysis.

Besides, he knows his pilots. I've unfortunately been something of a distant figure to them; I spend more time closeted with the flag staff of the Unity's battlegroup than in briefing or debriefing with the squadron leaders, and very little indeed with the line pilots. There are some who probably wouldn't even know me by sight if I didn't have my tags on.

Then there's Targe, who, from what I gather, is much the opposite. He's been used to working closely with people for his entire career - he's got a bond with his usual copilot, Vreeshka Farkhar, that is nothing short of uncanny. However, that doesn't keep him from getting on good terms with others. The little tuberat gets so much action that I almost wish I had some sexual interest in other males; though he and his squadron are discreet, word still gets around, and I do know some of these pilots, including Targe and Farkhar, well enough to make some conclusions. At any rate, there'll be no standoffish or cliquish behaviour from his people, which makes them the best possible place for putting pilots on exchange, and also the most likely candidates to adapt to being transplanted themselves; and Drevin probably knows a good half of them not just personally, but intimately. Even those he's not quite so close to still accord him respect.

Don't worry about them being overly friendly, though. I've had reports of behaviour bordering on harrassment involving some pilots aboard, so people are willing to bring such reports to me, but not one of them has ever involved anyone currently in Psi Squadron, nor have any of their prior commanders had need to make such a note.

In short, Targe is, both as an officer and as a person, very well suited to making this sort of decision. As his squadron is the best option for any exchange anyway, I not only encourage you to make use of him, I've attached to this message an official delegation of authority in this matter.

The ball's in his court now, Erik. Do be sure to tell me how he handles it.

Drevin finished his reading and leaned back, just in time to hear the door chime.

A bit early - no, wait, a half hour on the dot from when he and Treyes had finished talking. Hopefully the younger pilot hadn't shorted himself. He pushed the intercom control. "Enter," he said, unlocking the door.

Tejin Owansi looked, somehow, even better in person than in his picture; a side effect, perhaps, of not needing to hold a pose for the recorder. He strode - not quite marched, just walked - up to a point just in front of Drevin's desk, and Drevin rose to meet him. The usual exchange of salutes, then, "Ensign Owansi reporting as ordered, sir."

"At ease. Sit down, in fact." The pilot might have been tipped off that Drevin wasn't too big on ceremony; only the most rabid drill instructor would have found fault with his salute or his attention stance, but it lacked some of that absurdly-polished feel that made Drevin feel frankly silly to be on the receiving end. Still, he could only bear so much at a time - and it was the person, not the officer, that Drevin needed to know about.

As he, too, settled in his seat, he decided to get right to business. "Have you been told why you're here?"

"No," Owansi replied. "But I figured it has something to do with that mission."

"You figured right." Drevin leaned over his desk, letting a smile spread over his face. "Ensign, I've seen five-year veterans who can't handle a Peregrine as well as you did today. You must drive bombers crazy."

"I haven't run into them much, sir," Owansi demurred. "I mean, it was part of my training, but mostly what we get out here are light skiffs that just won't stop when told."

"So do you want to move on to something bigger?"

The white ferret blinked. "Sir?"

"After your performance today - for which, by the way, I've requested you get a commendation - your name came up as a candidate for an exchange program. A number of people - including a handful of pilots - from Keller Station and a like number from the Bond of Unity will be swapping places for a tour. My wing normally handles assault missions, but for the heavier ones, it'd be nice to field interceptor cover within the squadron. I think you'd make a fine addition to that wing - if the Fleet life is the life for you.

"To know if that's the case, I need to know what you're like - and you need to know what we're like. So let's talk. Ask me questions, or tell me about yourself. And," Drevin reached up and tugged the rank patch from its place on his shoulder, setting it aside, "until we're done, this conversation is off the record. Speak freely."

So they talked. Owansi - Tejin; he preferred the familiarity of given names - was a bright officer, ambitious for a challenge, the sort of person that the usually-dull routine of In-Sys wasn't likely to satisfy. He also wasn't particularly attached to anybody here, and would certainly like the chance to see some different surroundings.

"And meeting some new people wouldn't hurt," Tejin mused. "The people here - well, they're not bad people," he rushed to say. "But they can be a little..."

"Traditional?" Drevin offered.

Tejin nodded. "I've had to be careful, here. A lot of people just can't grasp the notion that I can like them and someone else at the same time."

Oh, yes, this would be interesting. "Well, I can assure you that you won't have any such problem in my squadron. We've got a dynamic that's almost communal - though if you ever need privacy, you'll get it; I'll even loan you my office, if need be, I tend to bunk with the rest of the pilots anyway." He caught a ghost of a grin flickering over the other ferret's face. "So - you sound good to me. Does this all sound good to you?"

A nod; another grin, a bit less clandestine this time.

"Great. I'll just send this off, here..." He typed out a quick note to Commander Treyes, stating that Ensign Owansi was an acceptable candidate, and to go ahead and get the paperwork in motion. "You like the personal touch, I gather?"

A nod. "The Commander's very good that way."

"Lieutenant Commander Dera Samir?" Drevin hadn't yet met Tejin's squadron leader, though the ermine was, by all accounts, a good officer; certainly she'd assigned just the right people to this joint operation.

But Tejin shook his head. "Well - she tries," he admitted. "But I meant Ger - uh, Commander Treyes." Tejin didn't quite manage to avoid biting his lip, his round ears flushing a bit.

So they were on a first-name basis, but it was something they kept quiet. How very interesting. You never let on you swung that way, wolf. Maybe I can find a reason to hang around until the Unity gets back. "So he likes to stay in touch with people a few steps down the chain of command?" Intriguing notion, that.

Tejin nodded again, his expression carefully schooled. "He says an off-duty evening with one or two pilots lets him make sure we know we can talk to him if there's a problem."

One or two, huh? This was getting better and better. "Well, I like to stay on close terms with my people, too." A sudden thought entered his mind unbidden, of a certain broad-shouldered snow leopard, of a warm body, strong hands, the rough rasp of a tongue... He managed not to shiver. "Very close," he concluded.

"Then it must be hard, to be away from them this long."

Damn Vree anyway, for spoiling him rotten like this. Two days hadn't been a long time for abstinence back before his academy days. "Quite so," he admitted.

"How do you cope, sir?"

Drevin didn't answer right away. He slid sideways off his chair, getting his tail out from under the back, and stood. Intimacy was, after all, more than merely physical. And the main disadvantage of a tight-knit group such as his squadron, and his pairing with Vree Farkhar in particular, was that it made separation all that more lonely.

But there were ways.

He abruptly realised he'd been pacing, and stopped. "There are ways," he repeated aloud. He looked over and down at Tejin, who was still seated, watching him intently; and he grinned. "Especially if there are some understanding sorts wherever I happen to be, hmm?"

He set a hand on Tejin's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. The smaller ferret smiled up at him - an understanding smile, an inviting smile. Drevin reached over and hit the button to lock the door, looking down at the console to make sure he'd hit the right one. Next he brought the lights down a little lower - and in that period while eyes were still adjusting, was pleasantly surprised to feel slim fingers already at his belt, tugging it open.

Uniform fabric was delightfully tough, impervious to wrinkles, and on ship or station, there was hardly ever any dust to be found; Drevin just shrugged out of his shirt and let it fall as Tejin worked his pants open. Those slim fingers reached in, then, curling around Drevin's flaccid shaft, their gentle touch sending a surge of blood downward and a frisson of pleasure back up.

He was no longer surprised, but still quite pleased, when he felt warm breath wash over his stiffening flesh, soon followed by the stroke of a warm, moist, and slightly rough tongue. To someone used to a feline's rasp, it was... still an incredible rush, to be honest; a sensation that, thankfully, he never quite grew accustomed to. It drew a groan from his muzzle, the first vocal sound in what already felt like forever.

Gentle fingers stroked along his shaft, gliding from base to tip, as though coaxing more blood to flow into the swelling organ. But Tejin didn't wait to see it full grown; his muzzle moved inward, lips sealing just behind the flare of Drevin's glans.

The time for talking was done; their quick consensus had proven that. So Drevin did not reply with any words, only with a stroke of his fingers over the fur of Tejin's cheek, a gentle touch to express his complete approval for what the younger ferret was doing, and how. Similarly, Tejin did not thank him for that tacit approval, save by pressing his muzzle down a little lower, his tongue pressing against the underside of Drevin's aching and, by now, quite full erection, curling lengthwise against it.

Drevin shifted to lean back against his desk, wriggling out of his pants while Tejin went to work. The junior pilot had a lot of practise, amazing talent, or, quite likely, both, coupled with an eagerness that was refreshing; he pushed deeper and deeper, and even when Drevin's length and girth briefly proved troublesome, he didn't pull back entirely - just enough to catch his breath before trying again, sinking, this time, until his snout was pressed against Drevin's belly.

Despite that obvious skill, though, something about Tejin just felt so innocent. Maybe it was the pure white of his pelt, gleaming in the semi-dark, so much more visible than the cream, brown, and sable of Drevin's own black-footed markings. Maybe it was the way the younger ferret was so incredibly slender; maybe it was the very recognition of that youth, coupled with forgetting what Drevin's own hedonistic past had been like. Maybe it was the rapid puff of breath - or, wait, was that Drevin's instead?

He didn't want to finish in Tejin's mouth, though - not today. So before the other ferret could get too thoroughly at home, he leaned back, pushed gently on Tejin's shoulder; that brief nudge was enough to get the point across, and Tejin lifted off with one last, slow slurp. Even in the dim light, Drevin could see his bare skin shining with saliva.

He could also see the bulge in Tejin's trousers, and the musk he smelled in the air was not only his own.

Tejin stood at the indication of his touch, and allowed Drevin to strip him down. As soon as his shirt was out of the way, Drevin leaned in against his back, pressing his snout into the smaller ferret's neck and inhaling a deep draught of his scent. Tejin arched against him as his fingers caressed the younger male's chest; he bucked forward, drawing his breath with a sharp hiss, when Drevin's other hand stroked over that tent of fabric.

Intellectually, Drevin was sure that Tejin was no stranger to sex - but the way he moved, he made it seem like every motion, every touch, was something new and extraordinary. Quite flattering - quite invigorating - and altogether too much for Drevin to resist.

He got Tejin stripped the rest of the way, and by a similar unspoken consensus as had started things moving in the first place, wound up leaning over the smaller male, bearing him face-down across his borrowed desk. He not only didn't protest, but actually pushed into it, when Drevin moved to set his glans beneath the younger ferret's tail, even though he knew full well that the only lubrication Drevin had was his own saliva.

Well, if he was on good terms with a dire wolf, perhaps that was unsurprising. Mmm, a piece like that could stretch anyone out...

Drevin put such thoughts aside, let his mind focus on the feel and smell of the warm body beneath him, the hoarse sounds of their breathing, the warmth and tension against his glans as he leaned forward - and then, smooth as silk, that ring of muscle opening for him, soft warmth enfolding his tip, then, inch by inch, the rest of his thick, aching shaft.

He sank to the hilt in one smooth motion, and still Tejin arched beneath him, pushing back, eager for more.

His head drooped, a sigh washing out over Tejin's neck. Damn, this guy felt so good... He gripped the desk to either side of Tejin's waist and pushed himself back, then let his own weight pull him in once again. A soft gasp and a shiver around his length let him know he'd touched something nice; he tried to make it a little nicer, leaning farther forward, aiming a little downward as he drove back in.

Soon Tejin was doing half the work for him; he just churned his hips, faster and faster, chest heaving. One arm wrapped around Tejin's chest; the other slipped lower, taking hold of Tejin's own hefty shaft, stroking from the tip down to make the most of the slickness that emerged from his tip. Tejin cried out for a moment, when Drevin first squeezed around his length; then he fell silent again, save for his breathing and the noises of their bodies pressing together time and again.

Drevin's need grew with each plunge into Tejin's warm, welcoming body. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinned his ears against his skull, focusing instead on the hot, silken feel of Tejin's body around his shaft, interspersed with the coolness of the outside air each time he drew back. That chilly shock was, he found, not so pleasant, and he shortened his thrusts, but quickened them, jackhammering an inch or two back and forth. His hand kept moving up and down, but as the pressure built inside him, he could hardly feel the hot flesh under his fingers.

Ecstasy seized him, shoving him forward, drawing from him a sharp grunt. He felt his shaft pulsing inside Tejin's body, which in turn clenched and released around him - and then the first real wave of pleasure hit, pure ecstasy flooding him, holding him in place as jet after jet of his seed shot into the warm, willing body beneath him.

Feeling returned gradually, as he practically lay atop the other ferret, his fevered breathing starting to slow. He unclenched his hand, and felt stickiness on his fingers, the smell of spilled semen striking his nose an instant later. As his urgency receded, the rational part of him couldn't help but be gratified that Tejin had found his pleasure as well.

With that came the realisation that if he stayed there much longer, one or both of them might find their separation rather uncomfortable. He braced his clean hand against the edge of the desk and drew his hips back, staying close enough to support Tejin, should he need it; but the smaller ferret was practically draped over the desk anyway. He groaned as Drevin pulled free - a low, satisfied sound, just a few steps away from a purr.

Drevin leaned in, touched his muzzle to the ferret's cheek in a soft kiss and proceeded to lick his fingers clean. Even indirectly, the taste was exquisite; Drevin could hardly wait for an opportunity to experience it more directly.

Still without speaking a word, Tejin slipped into the head to tidy up; Drevin, who, aside from his hand, hadn't got nearly so mussed, tugged on his almost-fresh duty uniform, reminding himself to have a good wash before getting to sleep, but after Trevin had departed. When the white ferret emerged, back in uniform, their eyes met; again without speaking a word, they both knew that this particular interlude had come to a conclusion.

"I look forward to working with you, Ensign," Drevin finally said. "And I'm sure the rest of my squadron will like you as well."

"I look forward to it, and them," Tejin replied, with another of those deceptively innocent smiles. They exchanged salutes, and the younger ferret departed.

It had been a busy day, Drevin reflected. He might as well turn in early.

This time, alone or no, he took his time getting clean. Besides, if he closed his eyes, he could just imagine it was someone else's slender, gentle hands upon him.

And imagination, sometimes, was all that he needed.

All the same, though, he was quite glad of that personal touch.