**Chapter 383: Friends in High Places**
**Lantilles – High Restaurant, Officer's Suite Bar Area**
The officer's bar on the upper levels of Lantilles' main fleet headquarters was quiet this evening. Soft amber lighting, comfortable leather booths, and a wide viewport overlooking the massive shipyards gave the place an exclusive, almost intimate atmosphere. It was reserved for senior officers and their guests — a place where the pressures of war could be set aside for a few hours with good drinks and better company.
Major Sumeragi Li Noriega leaned back in her seat, nursing a glass of Corellian whiskey. Her signature red hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and her uniform jacket was unbuttoned at the collar. Across from her sat Grace O'Connor, the Zeltron captain whose usual vibrant pink skin looked a little duller tonight.
"Come on, Grace," Sumeragi said gently, "it's not that bad."
Grace swirled the bright blue cocktail in her glass, staring into it like it held answers. "He basically told me not to engage or rescue him. Stay in formation. Protect the convoy. While he took on that massive warship alone."
She set the glass down a little harder than necessary. "I wanted to help. I *could* have helped. Instead, he ordered me back like I was some green lieutenant."
Lichtendal Ceri, seated beside her, offered a calm smile. The Atoan commander had always been the steady one in their group. "Grace, relax. He didn't demote you. He didn't even reprimand you. He simply ordered the fleet back to Lantilles for rest, repair, and… well, relaxation."
Grace let out a short, bitter laugh. "Relaxation. While he's out there at Falleen. At Zygerria. Burning entire planets and freeing hundreds of thousands of slaves, and we're stuck here drinking fancy cocktails and pretending everything's fine."
Christen Mirro, the quietest of the group, leaned forward. "She's too far gone," he said dryly. "Best to do what the General does in times of crisis."
Sumeragi raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly is that?"
Christen stood up with a small grin. "Hugs. Everyone hug Grace."
Before Grace could protest, the four of them converged on her in the booth. Sumeragi wrapped her arms around Grace from one side, Lichtendal from the other, and Christen awkwardly leaned over the table to join in. For a moment, the Zeltron captain was enveloped in a slightly clumsy but sincere group hug.
"Wait… it's not working, guys," Grace muttered, though her voice had already softened. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips as the warmth of her friends — and the subtle, comforting pheromones she unconsciously released — began to ease the tension in her shoulders. "Okay… maybe it's working a little."
They held the hug for a few more seconds before slowly pulling back, laughing quietly. Grace finally picked up her drink again, taking a slower sip this time.
"You know," Sumeragi said, resting her chin on her hand, "we all owe the General our lives. Not just once, but multiple times. Remember togaria? We were fresh out of the Academy, thrown into a meat grinder. If Dagon hadn't arrived with the Ahsoka to convince us during the first month we be all separated or dead."
Lichtendal nodded. "Or worse — captured and turned into droid bait. He didn't just save the battle. He saved us. Gave us promotions, responsibility, and a fleet worth fighting for."
Christen swirled his own drink. "And let's not forget Dentaal. When the *Malevolence* and *Malice* showed up with that entire reinforcement fleet, most commanders would have ordered a retreat. He rammed a Star Destroyer into a dreadnought. While we were all linked in that insane battle meld. I still have headaches thinking about it."
Grace sighed, staring into her glass again. "I know. I know all of that. I'm grateful. Really. But… when I saw him charging straight at that monster alone, something in me just snapped. I wanted to be there. To fight beside him. Not sit back in formation like a good little soldier."
Sumeragi reached over and squeezed her friend's hand. "That's because you care about him. We all do. In different ways, sure, but… he's not just our commanding officer anymore. He's the reason we're still breathing. The reason we've climbed ranks faster than anyone else in this war."
"And the reason we're sitting in a fancy bar on Lantilles instead of floating in pieces around Dentaal," Christen added with a wry smile.
Grace let out a long breath, some of the tension finally leaving her shoulders. "I just hate feeling useless. Especially when he's out there doing the impossible again. Falleen. Zygerria. The man burned an entire slave empire to the ground and rescued over four hundred thousand people in one operation. Meanwhile, I'm here arguing with repair schedules and worrying about supply manifests."
Lichtendal leaned back, looking thoughtful. "That's the burden of command, Grace. Sometimes the hardest order is to stay put and protect what you're given. Dagon trusts us to hold the line here so he can strike where it matters most. He wouldn't have left us behind if he didn't believe we could handle it."
Sumeragi nodded. "Exactly. And let's be honest — after Dentaal, we all needed the downtime. The *Resurgents* took heavy damage. Half the fleet is still undergoing repairs. If we'd pushed straight into another major campaign without rest, we would've been the ones needing rescuing."
Grace finally smiled — a small, genuine one this time. "You're all too reasonable. It's annoying."
"That's why you keep us around," Christen said lightly. "To stop you from charging head-first into every suicidal battle like the General does."
The group laughed softly. The tension in the air had eased considerably. Sumeragi raised her glass.
"To the General — may he keep doing the impossible. And to us — may we keep surviving long enough to see it."
They clinked glasses. Grace took a long drink, then set it down with a decisive nod.
"Fine. I'll stop sulking. But the next time he tries to solo a dreadnought, I'm still going to complain about it."
"Fair enough," Lichtendal said with a chuckle.
The conversation drifted into lighter topics — ship repair timelines, the latest batch of cadets from Anaxes, and wild speculation about what new insane design Dagon would request from Kuat next. For a while, the war felt distant. The bar's warm lighting and the quiet hum of conversation made it easy to forget that thousands of light-years away, entire planets had been reduced to ash.
But Grace's gaze occasionally drifted toward the viewport, where the massive shipyards of Lantilles glittered against the night. Somewhere out there, Dagon was still fighting. Still pushing the boundaries of what one man — and one fleet — could do.
She hoped he was alright.
She hoped they would all be alright.
Because deep down, Grace O'Connor knew the truth they all shared: their lives, their ranks, their very survival — they owed it all to one man.
And whether they liked it or not, they would follow him into whatever fire he decided to walk through next.