Private Secrets in the Stratosphere

[Agent Vigilant]

Lyra Ventor

Onboard an Imperial orbital station, above Coruscant

Plainclothes were nothing knew to Vigilant, after years of deep cover ops on the glittering jewel that shined from the viewport, but wearing a suit felt strange. He was used to streetwear, or militia gear. He'd been involved in arming partisans before the Core Wars, but he'd never posed as a businessman. Until today. Briefcase in hand he made his way to the hanger of the tradestation, boarding a privately chartered flight to the far Outer Rim that was imminently and stealthily departing amidst the heavy traffic.

His cover identity was business magnate and venture capitalist Jorian Jerjerrod, ostensibly flying to the gas giant world of Kril'dor to meet with refiners of valuable Tibanna gas, and perhaps make an angel investment. In reality, he was going to steal valuable research data for the Office of Imperial Sciences. The ISB had hired a complete unknown, a commercial pilot he presumed, to make the transit. He knew nothing about them, and the Bureau wanted it that way. The less likelihood of this being traced to the ISB, the better. Kril'dor had until recently been an Alliance world, and was now under the watchful protection of the Chiss Republics, which long burned for a hatred of The Emperor after he destroyed Csilla. His hope was that they'd be in and out quickly and without issue.

He came to the ship and showed the protocal droid his ticket. The droid ushered him on, and he boarded the ramp of the small luxury transport. He tipped his hat to the pilot, a young blonde. Pretty. He was expecting someone more...

...grizzled, for an outbound flight to the edge of the galaxy.

"Hello, are you Miss Ventor? How are the hyperlines looking for our journey?"

 

[Lyra Ventor]

Lyra was tightening a panel on the overhead conduit when the boarding ramp vibrated beneath her boots. She stepped back from the console just as the protocol droid ushered the passenger into the cabin—a well-dressed man with a briefcase and the kind of posture that didn't match most people who hired small transports to the Outer Rim.

She wiped a faint streak of coolant from her fingertips onto her trouser seam and straightened as he approached.

"That's me," she said with a short, professional nod. "Lyra Ventor."

Her voice was steady, clipped at the edges, the tone of someone used to working alone and speaking only when it mattered. At his question, she reached over to tap the nav-board. Hyperlane projections flickered in soft blue.

"Hyperlines are clear," she replied. "Kril'dor's sitting in a quiet corridor right now. No ion storms, no Republic patrol choke points. Should be a smooth run."

She stepped back, giving him space to enter fully.

"You can stow your briefcase in the compartment by your seat," she added, motioning toward the passenger row. "We'll depart as soon as traffic control clears our window."

The ship's engines thrummed under her hand as she flipped another diagnostic switch. Everything was stable—for now.

"And just so you're aware," she said without looking up, "I fly fast. Not reckless—just efficient."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, a faint, pragmatic spark in her eyes.

"If that's an issue, now's the moment to say so."

She doubted it would be. People who chartered private runs to the Outer Rim usually wanted one thing: a pilot who got them there quickly. And she was very, very good at that.

Agent Vigilant

 

[Agent Vigilant]

Lyra Ventor

"I would say that the company hired the right pilot, then." he remarked, placing his briefcase in the designated compartment and taking a seat. He straightened out his suit and took off his brimmed hat, matching black. Underneath his hair was slicked back, the very image of a young hotshot businessman, one carefully crafted. If the ISB had hired a human pilot than they must have expected that she would be totally ignorant.

"I was half expecting a droid for a pilot. I see you don't even have one, or do you have an onboard shipbrain?" he inquired, seemingly as small talk, but his eyes surveyed her flying instruments. He needed to know who or what was going to be recording information about the flight. He figured perhaps a human pilot was better. Easier to dispose of. There was no telling whether a droid was going to back up its internal data to some corporate cloud, or hide it beneath layers of software protection and then pass it on the highest bidder. Plus it was harder to get a droid to lie about where your ship was coming from...

 

[Lyra Ventor]

Lyra eased herself into the pilot's chair, fingers moving over the Starling's startup cycle with an easy, instinctive fluency. The engines responded with a soft, rising hum—clean, well-tuned, the sound of a ship that was used to being flown hard and maintained with care.

"At least someone thinks so," she said lightly, glancing over her shoulder just long enough to acknowledge him before turning back to her controls. "Most companies don't bother looking past the résumé. Nice to know this one did."

She caught the flick of his eyes across her instrumentation—sharp, evaluating, the kind of look she'd seen from officers, smugglers, and corporate types alike. All of them wanted to know what kind of ship they were entrusting their lives to. Or what kind of pilot? Or both.

When he mentioned expecting a droid, she huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

"Oh, I have one. Just not the kind that sits in the pilot's seat."

She tapped a switch on the overhead panel, and a soft chime answered from somewhere behind the cockpit. A small holopanel lit up with a diagnostic line scrolling across it—ship integrity, system pressure, fuel ratios—far more precise than the standard transport offered.

"R0-V7," she said, nodding toward the indicator as it pulsed. "Rovie, if you prefer the short version. He's integrated into the Starling's systems. Handles long-range nav, hazard prediction, and keeps an eye on the engines when I'm too busy keeping us alive."

Her tone was dry, matter-of-fact, neither bragging nor apologizing.

"He's new. Scout-model astromech, built for ships like this. Doesn't override my controls, doesn't record anything unless I tell him to, and doesn't interface with any external cloud."

A faint smirk touched her mouth as she added,
"Which I'm guessing is what you were really asking."

The Starling's console lit fully, the soft thrum underfoot settling into its regular pulse. Lyra rested one hand on the throttle, steady, confident.

"Don't worry," she said, glancing back at him with an easy, professional calm. "Between the two of us, the Starling runs clean and quiet. No unnecessary data trails, no nosy systems, no surprises. Just a ship that does its job and a pilot who does hers."

She toggled the comm to request departure clearance.

"So unless you wanted a chatterbox droid," she added with a hint of dry amusement, "you're in good hands."

Agent Vigilant

 

[Agent Vigilant]

Lyra Ventor

"So it would seem. Clean and quiet is all I could ever ask for, Ms. Ventor."

Vigilant nestled into his seat for the journey, putting one heel up on his knee and leaning back, reaching into his briefcase for two items: a travel mug of caf, and a datapad. He sipped slowly, thoughtfully, as he engaged himself in his notes. If all went well, he would be in and out in a few hours. He didn't say much else to Lyra for the rest of the ride, engrossed in whatever it was he was reading.

When they arrived on Kril'dor, he simply told her to wait patiently, that he would return quickly. He disembarked the ship to the welcoming handshakes of a greeting party, variably made up of Humans and Chiss. Perhaps their smiles were genuine, for they believed they were in the presence of an angel investor. His smiles were always a fabrication. After a few minutes of introductory pleasantries, the group ushered who they though to be Jorian Jerjerrod into the facility, disappearing from Lyra's view.

After two hours of peace and quiet, all hell broke loose. Alarms began to blare, emergency lights flashed, and Vigilant came sprinting out onto the landing platform clutching a small black datadisk in his hand.

Rushing onboard the Starling, he was panting for breathe entering the cockpit.

"Ms. Ventor, how fast can you fly this thing?" he asked in a composed tone that very much belied his demeanor, and everything about the situation that Lyra would be able to see.

Out on the platform, Chiss security guards began to pelt the ship with maser fire, shouting something in Cheunh. Over a louspeaker on the side of the facility, a booming voice revealed the situation.

"There is an Imperial spy in the facility. Muster starfighters, ensure that he does not escape with the research data!"

 

[Lyra Ventor]

Lyra didn't so much as flinch when the alarms tore through the stillness of the platform. Two hours of quiet hadn't softened her instincts; if anything, they'd wound her tighter. She'd been in this line of work long enough to know peace was just the breath before the storm—and the storm finally arrived in the form of Vigilant sprinting up the ramp, clutching a datadisk and a lie about composure.

He barely made it three steps into the cockpit before she was already moving, fingers gliding over the controls of her ship with the kind of fluid precision that only came from living in the pilot's seat as if it were an extension of her own body. The Starling hummed under her hands, as if waking up with the same irritated awareness she felt.

"How fast can I fly it?" Lyra echoed, not looking back as she slapped the hatch controls and sealed them inside with a metallic thud. "Fast enough."

Blue maser bolts streaked past the canopy in vicious, electric arcs, lighting Vigilant's face like a man caught between panic and stubborn calm. She didn't bother meeting his eyes—she could feel the tension rolling off him, sharp and metallic, but she didn't need his steadiness to ground her.

This was her ship. Her skies. Her fight.

"Strap in," she ordered, voice clipped, "and hope The Maker's in a generous mood today."

The repulsors roared beneath them as the Starling lifted in a violent climb. Maser fire slammed into the aft shielding—the whole ship shuddered, warning lights flaring to angry life across the dashboard. Lyra ignored the chorus of protests, angling the ship into a blistering roll that skimmed the edge of the landing platform and sent debris scattering like sparks.

She muttered under her breath, "Of course they've got gunnery teams armed to the teeth. The moment you walk in the door, things go sideways."

Another volley of fire lashed out from below, closer this time—too close. Lyra yanked the yoke to the left, teeth gritted, coaxing the Starling into a narrow escape vector.

"You didn't mention the 'Imperial spy' part when you hired me," she said sharply over her shoulder. "Or that half of the planet would try to vaporize us once you pocketed whatever that thing is."

But there was no fear in her tone. No uncertainty. Just raw, sharpened focus—the kind that came alive only when death was close enough to taste.

Lyra killed the auxiliary stabilizers, letting the Starling dip for half a breath before surging forward again. The maneuver slingshotted them upward with a burst of speed that rattled the hull but punched them through the worst of the ground fire. The sky above shifted from storm-gray to the darker promise of orbit.

"There," she murmured to herself as the atmosphere thinned. "Just need to—"

A shrill alarm cut through the cockpit. Three Nssis-class Chiss starfighters broke from the ridge behind them like silent predators, engines glowing faintly blue in the darkening sky.

Lyra's hands tightened around the yoke. She didn't turn toward Vigilant. Didn't need his reaction. Didn't want it. "You asked how fast I can fly?" She shoved the throttle forward so hard the Starling groaned in protest. "Fast enough to make them question their life choices."

And then, softer — not for Vigilant, not even for The Starling—but for the one presence she always whispered to when death circled close: "The Maker guide my hands."

Agent Vigilant