People ponder their fate
far more than they command it
yet even in that lies their noblest merit.
(folk saying).
***
In one of the many offices of the Joint Command Headquarters of the Twelfth Sectoral Army, several people gathered around a small table to discuss their next moves.
Rear Admiral Lewis Surabaya glanced at those assembled: General Jeremy Klapka, commander of the Lantilles ground forces; Captain Roy Fokker, commander of the heavy cruiser Dreadnaught named Artzainen; Colonel Gregory El Johnson, commander of the Brave Boys regiment; and his deputy, Major Elizabeth Marie-Noir. They all knew each other well, having often crossed paths in the line of duty, so the atmosphere was, as they said, "no formalities."
The Lantilles armed forces differed slightly from those of other planets, whether mercenary regiments from Trandosha and Gossam or the "parquet" army of Naboo. There was no place here for the pursuit of loot or glory, nor for lofty slogans and false ideals. People here understood perfectly well what they were fighting for.
Located in the Mid Rim, Lantilles had risen over several millennia from a mossy colony to a thriving technogenic world. And naturally, not everyone was pleased with that. Warlike neighbors—the Skakoan cartels from the factory world of Metallorn, the Techno Union dealers, the Hutt syndicates, the pirates and smugglers of Mitanor, Trandoshan bounty hunters, and the Trade Federation formed three hundred and fifty years ago—all of them, in one way or another, had set their sights on Lantilles, whose growing importance could no longer be ignored. The natives of Lantilles had themselves become colonizers, settling several planets, including Avenel—a flourishing resort planet that had become home to many wealthy citizens of Lantilles and Randon—and Uyter, an independent agricultural world whose products were distributed throughout the region.
In such conditions, Lantilles had to keep pace. It possessed an impressive fleet by regional standards, consisting of hundreds of ships—cruisers, frigates, and corvettes—and a well-equipped army composed solely of Lantilles citizens. Naturally, they were well paid, but… they were not mercenaries. Each one of them knew that if they lost, if they yielded to persuasion, the old order would crumble. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but the alternative was far worse.
"Gentlemen, your appointment was somewhat hasty, but—"
"Ha, that's not the word, Lewis, that's not the word. I understand this is temporary, of course, but what kind of gzhazh im turnuk have you subjected us to, Jedi?" Fokker muttered.
Meanwhile, Klapka listened to his subordinates.
"Hey, old man, have you lost your mind?" Elizabeth jabbed her superior in the shoulder. "Why are they sending us to the ass-end of Hutt space? Donovia is such a hole—somewhere on the border with the Mid Rim, if I'm not mistaken."
Marie-Noir and El Johnson were both seasoned officers. Johnson had taken part in several "misunderstandings" (read: armed conflicts) with the Techno Union's mercenaries, while Elizabeth had earned several scars on her face neutralizing pirate "roosts." Their opinions were not to be dismissed lightly.
Surabaya jokingly wagged a finger. "What are you thinking, criticizing your superiors…" Then, leaning on the table and steepling his fingers, he continued, "But seriously, it's necessary. The Jedi's sitting at a strategic point—managed to wrest a fuel plant from the Federates in that system—and he's holding it like an owl on a branch, regularly supplying us with fuel. According to intelligence reports, the CIS planned to invade the Core Worlds using fuel from that remote facility, and this 'general' ruined all their plans. And you know full well our reserves will last ten months at most—a year, if we stretch it—and then that's it, game over! His plant refuels half the fleet, which has grown significantly, and your ship, Roy, is now part of the Sectoral Army's supply chain. Not to mention that we get all of it completely free of charge!"
"And still—"
"Come on, Fokker. No one's sending you to chase anyone down. If the Jedi isn't a cocky idiot—and he doesn't seem like one—he won't run your 'iron' around like a mangy bantha. He'll use it to cover his planet. You can think of it as a vacation." Lewis glanced at the infantry officers. "Palm trees, sun, beach…"
"Drinks, girls—hell no!" El Johnson snapped. "I don't like this, I don't like it one bit."
"There's nothing I can do. The decision's already been approved up there." Surabaya pointed upward.
"Okay, Lewis, okay. But don't expect me to kiss up to this 'general,'" Fokker grumbled.
After the guests left the office, Surabaya leaned back in his chair with a groan. "Damn war, damn separatists, damn Jedi… damn them all. I'm too old for all this poodoo."
***
The morning began… badly. I was literally torn from my sleep by a wave of anxiety. I woke up standing on the cabin floor with my lightsaber ignited in my hand. My eyes were still closed—the dream hadn't completely faded yet. Forcing them open, I made sure there was no immediate threat nearby. Damn, my nerves are really starting to play tricks on me. Not good. Not good at all.
I automatically began recalling yesterday. I dragged myself to the ship around midnight, with Ahsoka laughing at my drunkenly staggering carcass, and then collapsed in my cabin. I'd definitely overdone it—a mix of fatigue, lack of practice, and this new body… damn taste-tester. I could already imagine Snips making jokes about it.
Then the cabin filled with the unpleasant buzz of the ship's internal comm system. Approaching the console, I hit the right button. It was a call from Captain Ragnos.
"Yes, Captain?"
"General, urgent call to headquarters!"
Here we go… What could possibly be so interesting that they're calling me this early? And this damn thing too?
"What happened?"
"No idea, sir. They just said it was urgent."
"When?" I asked.
"Now, General. Now." The zabrak smiled. "The speeder's waiting by the gangway."
Damn it…
"I'll be there in five minutes."
Reaching the bathroom, I quickly stuck my head under the tap. Good. After freshening up, I made my way through the ship's corridors toward the speeder, chewing on a nutrition bar and washing it down with some local headache remedy I'd found in the first aid kit.
Something about these 'visions' of mine bothers me. No, it's not a bad thing—it's like seeing the future—and my so-called 'knowledge' could easily be attributed to that. But, damn it, does my head have to split in two every time it happens?
After making myself at least somewhat presentable, I felt a bit more human, my thoughts finally clearing. Now a little fresh air and I'd be back to normal.
As I exited the ship, a four-seater speeder of unfamiliar make was waiting for me, driven by a clone trooper from the local garrison. Zabrak had already taken his seat in this "taxi."
The clone saluted.
"General, I have orders to take you to headquarters!"
"What happened?"
"I don't know, sir. But everyone at headquarters is moving fast. Sir."
I don't understand… what is he talking about?!