Chapter 3
The starfighter appeared almost raptor like in its shape, streamlined, with only slight disturbances along its shell. The fighter used old technology, more suited for atmosphere than space, but with an experienced pilot behind the stick, she could handle as well as any modern fighter. In this case, Hoset "Gambler" Veradun thought to himself, she would have to; TIEs were on the cutting edge of technology, even if they had no shields.
This particular TIE had already taken out Veradun's wingman as they attempted to guard the colony. The pilot inside it was obviously good, but he was not the best; if he had been, Veradun knew he would already be dead. Trying to evade the hostile, bring it into his own gun range, Veradun pulled a series of maneuvers he absolutely knew would work. His fighter spun hard right, responding to the pilot's every movement, every slight press on the etheric rudders, every miniscule tug on the stick. His opponent clung to him hard, attempting to match his every move. With a sudden dip and pull he sent his fighter into a tight spin, pulling back hard on the thrusters, bringing her up and over into a Split S. Suddenly, the enemy fighter was in his sights, having overshot just barely. A pull of the trigger, and the fighter's 20mm twin mass driver cannons opened up on the TIE, ripping through its engines, blowing apart its fuselage.
Ammo based technology was ancient, but it could still be used effectively when the situation demanded it. Veradun pulled his fighter in a gradual turn and scanned his sensors for the status on the Alliance transports his wing was supposed to be protecting. Veradun swore to himself; there were only three left, plus the carrier, though she was showing signs of heavy damage. Three out of a dozen transports... the Imps had broken through their screen. This battle was already lost, regardless of what he did now. What was more, his wing had been devastated; only a few of the fighters were left from each squadron. They barely made up a squadron in strength. He'd known this battle was lost from the beginning; his commander had basically ordered them into veritable suicide. The worst thing was that he didn't feel himself caring about the lives lost. Checking the data stream, it was obvious that they'd failed to check the TIE flanking movement he had alerted them to. They had made a mistake, so now they were dead. It was time to get out of here himself.
That was when his board started lighting up; weapons lock. Two TIEs had gotten behind him during his reverie. He pulled hard up, found another lock nailing him. A hail of bolts flashed by his cockpit as he pulled his fighter into a series of insane spins and loops, desperately trying to break out. That was when one of the bolts slammed into his fighter, ripping it in half, sending him spinning towards nothingness...
Veradun shuddered and sat up straight from his repose. He looked around, expecting to be in space, in the remnants of his fighter at Grenadine, but saw only his cabin. In his fist was gripped a nearly empty bottle of wine, left over from his celebration with Jorser the night before. Veradun chuckled and shook his head. "Bad booze," he mumbled.
Veradun saw that his uniform was in bad need of cleaning; his tunic lay on the floor; his pants remained on him, and carried various alcohol stains. His bed was ravaged, the sheets torn from it. The rest of the room was in a relative state of clarity: he didn't have many belongings that would clutter it up, really. Most of what he had carried with him had gone up when his carrier had been hit at Grenadine before being able to jump into hyperspace. The only really personal item which remained was an image of his wife and child on his dresser.
After three years with the Rebellion, Veradun figured that he had gotten used to loss, used to going up against an enemy that seemed to have every conceivable advantage. The only problem was that he was beginning to realize that that was exactly the problem. He was used to it. He didn't like seeing his men die and he did not like losing, but to his surprise, he did not really care emotionally anymore. He felt as if the war had finally desensitized him to horror. Fighting for the galaxy's freedom was no longer something he was emotionally invested in. He felt like a small piece of machinery in some huge juggernaut, just doing the job that it had been built for. He stared at the near empty bottle of booze for a few minutes, pondering that.
Veradun had been wondering for a long time what it was that was gnawing him about the battle of Grenadine. Now he finally realized what it was: he felt no sorrow whatsoever. In realizing he was a number, he realized that everyone else was a number. It made feeling sorry for them when they made a mistake that much harder, but made fighting that much easier to do. This epiphany of sorts had not turned him into a mechanical soldier, and it wouldn't make him care any less about the people fighting for him. He could still enjoy himself in the Officers Club, could still function like a normal human being. Veradun had just gotten rid of something that had been weighing him down, and that would let him function as a better soldier. Still, he wondered at this development. Sure, it made him a better piece of the juggernaut, a more effective cog in the machine. But on the other hand, he felt this inability to feel sorrow was somehow horrible, as horrible as it was wonderful.
Veradun considered that losing a part of oneself was not as traumatic as the holos made it out to be. Lose an arm and you felt a sharp pain, then a dull sense of the inability to feel a part of oneself anymore. Lose a feeling, you felt that same sharp pain, then that same dull sense as you wonder what could be missing. That first sharp pain had to have hit him a while ago, for he'd had this sense for a while now. The feeling had surfaced before Grenadine, and perhaps even some time before that. He guessed that he must have just lost track of it among all the other shots of pain that had hit him over the past several years. It was getting hard to keep track.
The pilot flopped back on his bed, letting go of the bottle he still gripped. It bounced to the floor, rolling away to rest against the door. The Major was tired of having to give up parts of himself, but they needed him again. This operation was going to fill up the daily casualty reports, that much he was sure of. Still, it was necessary, and as a soldier and a loyal cog in the machine, he would do his best to make sure that everything went as planned. The Alliance needed victories, ones that went beyond Death Stars. You did what you had to do for your cause.
Staring up at his ceiling, Veradun sighed. He missed his wife, somewhere in Wild Space on some Safe World. He hadn't seen her for over a year now, and even though he knew she understood, he couldn't help but feel that he was losing another part of himself, if it wasn't already gone.
In another cabin, on another part of the ship, one could almost smell the anticipation mixing with the cigarra smoke. Colonel Trell Jorser had finally been handed the mission he had been asking for. This mission that would prove the Alliance was capable of a sustained offensive against overwhelming enemy force, on its own terms. He chuckled to himself as he contemplated the coming job he had to do. They would be moving in fast and hard against the Imperials, not giving them a chance to fight the battle in a regular stand up fashion. Lightning guerilla warfare, neutralizing main enemy positions before they even had a chance to roll out the big guns, the technology that could rip the Alliance forces apart. The Colonel inhaled deeply on his cigarra, wondering if the Imperials even had an idea of what was coming.
The Colonel had developed into something of a cynical being over the years; it was a survival mechanism. He had once trusted the orders of his superiors above everything, because they were Alliance commanders. There was no way, he had once thought, that they could possibly go wrong. Incompetence in the upper ranks was something that only the Imperials had to deal with. He had quickly learned the error of that judgment in some of the early battles he had fought in, back when he was merely a Sergeant. Those errors in judgment lead to massive casualties, and casualties led to promotion for those who were smart enough to survive. Jorser had gone from Sergeant to Captain in just a year, and from that position to Colonel in only two years. The Colonel had learned to trust in the guerilla tactics of the Alliance. He knew without a doubt that frontal warfare was suicide for the Alliance, and was therefore naturally suspicious of any movement that went against regular Alliance Military doctrine.
This particular campaign had sent off warning beacons in his brain immediately. An assault against a heavily guarded Imperial system that relied primarily on ground forces just sounded like the kind of tactics which had gotten so many beings killed in the early years. After General Madine's briefing, the Colonel was still cautious. He was absolutely sure this was going to get a significant portion of his men killed. But it would work. It would be costly, but it would be even more costly for the enemy, if it went on schedule. Of course, he was absolutely sure it would not go as planned. No plan that the Colonel had ever laid out or followed had ever gone as it was supposed to. It was schedules that made or killed an offensive.
The only thing which threatened to ruin the Colonel's good mood was the feeling that he had been chalked up as expendable for the powers that be. At forty-two, he was about middle age for a Mon Cal; their life spans ran about the same as humans on average, if not longer. He was an old man compared to many of the commanders, looked at as a liability of sorts. Puffing on his cigarra, he reflected that he had never been entirely liked by the brass, though in the Alliance it had not been because of his species. The Colonel knew that he was looked at as more dangerous than the Imperials: he often broke standing orders so that he would be able to bring his people to a more effective combat position. This had endeared him to General Madine, a great believer in unorthodox tactics and the art of freeform tactical combat, but had gained him a great deal of enemies in High Command.
It was almost certain that this is what had gained him the dubious honor of Point Recon. The Rancor's Teeth Battalion was going in first, five days ahead of the rest of the fleet, to neutralize several enemy hard points and set up landing fields, forward bases and ammo dumps for the main invasion force. They were the whipping boys: everything that hit them would be recorded by intelligence spy-ships and transmitted back to Fleet. By the time the main invasion force dropped in, they would know the Imperial forces on the outermost planet and its moons better than the Imperials knew themselves. The only problem was that this meant almost certain heavy casualties for the three companies under the Colonel's command.
Had his years of refusing to just follow his orders doomed this entire battalion's contingent of young people? Jorser shook that thought away; he had saved countless lives by his actions in the past. Besides, someone had to go on Point Recon, and if it had to be the Rancor's Teeth, then it had to be them. Still, it seemed that a battalion with a large veteran contingent would have made more sense in the long run. Or maybe, just maybe, they actually trusted him. The Colonel refused to give that theory much credence; he didn't even trust himself that much. Still, they had basically trusted the success of this mission with his unit. Maybe someone had signed him up for an early retirement, but if they had, Madine would have had to approve it. That meant that there was a chance, however unlikely, that Madine thought that Jorser had a chance of bringing this off, without massive casualties. The general never wasted men, and that one thought gave Jorser an assurance he had not felt for a long time.
Then again, maybe he was just overthinking this. His job was to go down there and kill the Imperials. Beings would die, but they would die for a reason. Some historian could say whether that reason was any good a few decades down the line, Jorser decided. This was all academic anyway, until he hit the field of battle. He would construct his overall plans, then drop in and take it from there. At the very least, Point Recon gave him almost complete freedom to improvise.
What was truly bothering the Mon Calamari was his friend, Major Veradun. It seemed that they had taken different paths in dealing with the overwhelming losses their commands had suffered over the course of the past year. Veradun seemed to be experiencing something that most soldiers experienced at one point or another. They called it combat fatigue, but it really was a complete desensitization to the horrors of warfare. It had hit Jorser early on in his career; it tended to prey on the infantry more aggressively than it did on those more removed from the violence of war. It could almost be seen as a survival mechanism that the mind had developed to prevent some kind of an overload. The only problem was that it proved self-destructive over the long term; one stopped being able to function outside of a combat environment. Not that that was a horrible thing, Jorser reflected, grinning. In fact, he was almost certain that several generals he knew would pay millions of credits to find a way to synthesize the effects of combat fatigue.
But the inability to exist after war was a price that he was unwilling to pay, and he knew that Veradun would find himself paying in full if he did not change. The man had both a wife and a child; if Veradun continued down the path he seemed to be treading, he would come home a man changed almost to the point of being unrecognizable. It was not Jorser's job to discourage him, however: the Colonel did not believe in meddling in such things, even in the case of his few friends. If one did not come upon renewal and salvation through ones own efforts, then that salvation would be bittersweet, and the renewal only temporary. That was the way the Colonel had always gone about his life, and he bore both the scars and the rewards that had come from it. Besides, the Colonel was an opportunist when it came to these situations. Veradun could be of assistance in this offensive, especially in this new state. Maybe the Fates would decree that some event during this campaign would change Veradun for the better. "Heh... the Fates," Jorser mumbled, inhaling the last bit of his cigar,
"Well... stranger things have happened."
The colonel moved to put the cigar out and got up from his seat, shaking off the remnants of his hangover. He'd always wondered about the miracles of Mon Calamari metabolism, its joys and its curses. It took an ocean of drinks to cause the Colonel to become even slightly drunk, but the headaches he suffered afterwards... even industrial strength painkillers did not quell them. Perhaps some higher power just didn't want Mon Calamari drunk, and therefore had made it so that it was nearly impossible for them to do so. As he stepped into the refresher, let its systems clean off the remnants of alcohol on his body and readied himself for the day ahead, he reflected on the joys of drinking, and how most of his young soldiers had recently discovered them. The MPs would be having the time of their lives prying the soldiers of the Alliance out of every cheap hotel, booze joint and alley on that planet.
Then there would be the fabled last call, and every being down there wearing the Alliance insignia would be rushing for the last few shuttles back to the Fleet. Ah, to be young again... well, regret was for the dead, and Jorser did not intend on being dead for a bit longer. Not until he discovered a way to get rid of these damn headaches, patented it, and got rich off of a drink emporium/drugstore somewhere on his homeworld.
Jorser switched off the refresher and stepped back into his cabin, feeling rejuvenated. A new day was coming, and he was ready for what it would require of him. Well, never ready; nobody was ever really truly ready for anything. Thinking differently was fooling oneself, and the Colonel did not have time for self-illusion. Rather, he felt he had a chance, however slim, of being able to handle the problems that were going to start piling up the second he stepped out of this room and started talking to his company commanders. Starting with getting his soldiers cleaned and assembled in less than a day, then ready for the assault in less than a week, he had a busy schedule to attend to.
The Mon Cal slipped on his uniform with the ease of second nature, then stopped for a second in front of the mirror above his dresser. Stunningly handsome, he thought, if growing a bit old. He often marveled that humans could consider him ugly, but then again, he marveled that he hadn't been elected to replace Mon Mothma as Chairbeing of the Rebel Alliance High Council yet.
As he stepped out of his cabin and into the ship's hallway, he reflected that wonders might never cease.
The Twi'lek lieutenant awoke rather groggily as a beam of sunlight broke through the cheap blinds of the motel to settle on her face. She moaned unhappily, not wanting to get up; she had definitely drunk too much the previous night, and had the headache to show for it. Not to mention that her uniform was probably a mess now, after she had just paid to have it cleaned a few days ago. Derai Mol'shik rolled over to the side to get out of the sunlight... right into the other occupant of the bed. Her eyes widened to find that her pilot was still there, sleeping soundly next to her. She had thought that part of the night was a dream of some sort, and that her friends had just carried her here to let her sleep off her intoxication.
Her mind raced furiously as she stared at his face, still blissfully unaware of the morning. This kind of thing didn't happen to her! She was always, always in control; it was the only thing that gave her any certainty in life. Derai Mol'shik had a plan for her life, and it certainly did not involve sleeping with random pilots she met. If she slept with men, she wanted it to be for a reason, not just because they were there. Even if they were handsome, she admitted; that was at least one thing. Still, this was wrong; she did not have time for a relationship right now and she did not have time for the problems that would arise even if she did not end up in a relationship with this pilot. This was all Visha's fault for forcing her to have fun.
Derai stopped herself and just smiled. That last thought had sounded silly even to her in her frantic state. This was her fault for getting drunk and not knowing how to handle it. Well, it was the pilot's fault too, and she'd have to beat the crap out of him for taking advantage of her in her weakened state. Or at least make him feel as guilty as humanly possible. That sounded good.
As she lay there staring at him, she wondered if she really had done this for no reason, if this whole situation really was all the results of too much to drink. She knew that she had had the ability to think last night, and had had the ability to reason up to a point. She had definitely had all her reason about her when Visha came up to her with that drink. Derai knew that she could have said no, could have just sat there at the bar nursing her drink while everyone else got stinking drunk. She could almost hear Visha's admonishment about that one... that just wouldn't be any fun. Though Derai had to wonder if this really could be defined as fun. She had felt happy in some strange way the previous night, but did not know if that had been actual happiness, or just the absence of loneliness.
Derai had long felt alone, even in the packed confines of the various ships she had been stationed on as SpecForce Marine personnel. She had friends, she had people surrounding her all the time, but she felt as if no one was actually with her. Derai was just 19 years old, scarcely older than the men and women under her command. She often wondered if it made sense to put her in charge. She was not anymore experienced than the soldiers under her command, and she could not think of anything that made her more qualified than they were. She had spent some time at a University, had shown some leadership skills in basic training, and that had made some superior think that she had what it took for Officer Candidacy School. The only problem was that she was now separated from the rest of her unit by some invisible line that only soldiers could see.
These were people who she could have been a friend with out in the real world, the outside. Here, she had been taught that things were different, and they were different for a reason. If she went out and drank with the beings under her command, if she became friends with them, then she would be unable to distance herself from them during combat. If that happened, then sending them off to die would be that much harder. Of course, this policy that had existed in militaries for eons caused a natural rift between officers and enlisted. The enlisted men and women looked at her and all her kind as hostile in some way, as people who would never understand what it was like to be a grunt. Derai did not know if that was true, but it did not really matter to her. She did what she was supposed to do, and tried her best to serve competently. But the position left her cut off from people who could be her friends, if she just did not wear a little rank insignia on her shoulder. So she found friends wherever she could in the officer corps, and ended up with people who were not necessarily anything at all like her.
Derai just missed having people to talk to, having friends who were in some way like her. Visha and some of the other girls were nice, but seemed more concerned with having fun than in talking about anything of real importance. But Derai had discovered that having any friends, any companionship at all, was preferable to being alone. Alone was a place she didn't need to be during a conflict where losing her life was a very real possibility. If she was hit, if she was wounded and spent a few weeks in the hospital fading in and out of consciousness, she wanted to wake up to friendly faces. She did not care whose faces they were; she just did not want the only other thing in the room to be a medical droid. After a mission, she wanted to be able to talk to someone, even if she never mentioned what she had really felt during the mission. Just the very act of being able to speak to another person made her feel more at ease in her position.
So, in trying to allay her fears and loneliness, she had ended up in this bed with a pilot she barely knew. She wanted to feel angry, but she knew that they had both come here with the same purpose; there was a very good chance that this fighter pilot, this Wes Janson, was just as afraid as she was. He would never admit it, just like she would never admit to why she had done this, but all the soldiers on this planet, regardless of rank or branch of service, were very similar beings in the way they thought. They all were far from home, in an unfamiliar territory laden with minefields. They were a generation that needed guidance, guidance that their elders could not give any more, as they were just as lost as the young people who they were leading.
A tear streaked down Derai's face as she continued to stare at the pilot's face. The age of innocence had ended when the Old Republic died. They were now in a new age, an age of loneliness. She supposed she would see that term in some history pamphlet thirty years from now, if she lived till then. You found the warmth of another being when you could, and you lived without until those brief moments of contentment. In a sense, they were fighting to survive long enough to experience as many of those brief moments as they possibly could. Derai wondered if that was what made her generation unique from others, if that was their signature trait. They all seemed to be on an almost frantic search for others in the same state. The people of her generation had found a purpose. Now they just needed someone to tell them that everything would be ok, and everyone would go back to normal when this was all over.
After making sure her face was clear of any tears, Derai resolved to wake her companion. A gentle shove from her hand was enough to stir the pilot from his slumber. Janson's eyes slowly opened, then widened as they came to rest on her face. He blinked once in surprise, wondering if he was still dreaming. Derai just grinned at him, deciding that she might as well be graceful about it.
"You're still here?!?" he asked surprised.
"That's a nice way to greet me, flyboy," Derai stated simply
"I'm sorry, I guess I just didn't expect you to still be here... you are SpecForce after all," he replied, still a little surprised.
Derai hand came around to contact with his cheek, quickly waking him up, as well as knocking out any more stupid comments.
"Ok, I deserved that. Let me try that again: I guess I kind of thought I was being used; I barely remember all of last night," Janson tried again.
"Welcome to the club, Wes. I think we kind of used each other... do you even remember my name?" Derai asked, sitting up in the bed, having discovered that she was still wearing her undergarments.
"I barely remember my own name. But yeah, Derai; I'm not a hotshot flyboy who jumps from woman to woman," he replied.
"Wait a second... did you think I was some Marine with a man in every port or something?" the lieutenant questioned, surprised.
"The answer to this better not get me slapped," Janson stated, smiling sheepishly.
"It won't... probably," she assured him.
"Well, the thought had crossed my mind. Maybe we both kind of stereotyped each other. You just seemed so sure of yourself," the pilot explained.
"Wait a second... let me see something," she mused, then tossed the sheets back.
"Hey, don't... wha... we're still wearing our clothes... well, most of them," Janson observed, surprised.
"Do you actually remember us sleeping together last night?"
"Well, we did sleep with each other, unless you're just a hallucination, and I'm dead," the pilot replied.
"Save the snappy comebacks for another time, flyboy: I don't remember sleeping with you. I remember coming in here, I remember foreplay... and then it's just blank," Derai stated.
"That's strange... same here. Don't tell me I got a beautiful woman into a cheap hotel, and then passed out!" Janson exclaimed.
"What, this was some kind of goal?"
"No, but the moment this little misadventure gets out, I'm never gonna hear the end of it from Wedge, Hobbie and Scotian."
"You think I'm gonna brag about this? Visha would love this. I don't want to spend the next operation hearing references to this on the radio every time I have to call B for Besh Company," Derai replied.
"So we just get our shirts on, and walk away, never mentioning this again, right?" Wes asked.
"Well, you could call me if we're ever stationed together, and we could go out for a drink sometime, you know," she replied, mock offended.
"Heh, sorry, I'm just shooting out stupid comments like proton torpedoes... we can switch off contact addresses. Of course, the chances of us ever seeing each other are slim...," he began.
"Hey, you had your chance last night. If that becomes a 'we better make the most of our time together' line, I'm going to slug you," Derai pointed out.
"No, no, no! I was just going to say that the chances for a relationship aren't the greatest in the Alliance. I don't even know if we have anything in common," Wes explained.
"Hey, I'm not asking to get engaged, flyboy. I just thought we could grab coffee sometime. I think I'll avoid booze around you, though."
"Tell me about it. Alright, it's a date. Next time I get some leave time and you're in the area, I'll give you a call."
"Good enough, Janson. I did have a nice night, though, when I wasn't throwing up."
"Wait, you were throwing up too? I just thought you had some kind of crazy tolerance with alcohol," the pilot stated, surprised.
"Again with the gross stereotypes... of course, I was thinking the same about you. If you want a girl who can hold her liquor, talk to Visha, that Wroonian lieutenant who broke your friends heart," Derai suggested.
"No, I think I'll stick with women who can't outdrink me. Now, who gets to shower first? I'm thinking they'll want us at the ship ASAP, and I'd rather not miss the last shuttle out of here," Janson asked.
"Haven't you ever heard of ladies first?"
"Yeah, but I wasn't sure how it applied to this situation, Derai."
"Oh, it applies in every situation, silly," she stated, then kissed him gently on the forehead and got up to go to the bathroom, "No peeking though; like I said before, you had your chance last night."
"I thought this was supposed to be a gender-neutral society! We're not supposed to care about being naked in front of each other," Janson tried.
"No dice, flyboy. See you in fifteen."
Derai winked at him, suddenly much happier as she closed the door to the bathroom. It seemed like this was an easy out, but she figured she had one coming to her. He was right, she probably would never see him again, but she kind of hoped she would. The guy did seem nice enough, had a good sense of humor, and he was pretty handsome. Short though, but that was not surprising as far as pilots went. Just as long as she had a choice in the matter, though, she would have been happy even if he were some multi-tentacle alien. She grinned, wondering what he was thinking about her, as she turned on the shower. It would be nice to enjoy some real water, rather than the sonic waves of the shipboard refreshers.
Waking up in the city detention center was a tried and true ritual among soldiers, dating back for eons. When Vaeisto awoke that morning to find Reifi passed out on top of him, and a dozen other Alliance soldiers and locals in similar situations, he was not incredibly surprised. He did know, however, that this would not look exactly spectacular on his record. Not that it mattered entirely much; the Alliance made some allowances as for the rambunctious behavior of its troopers. This kind of event was almost expected, if officially discouraged. Vaeisto just wished that this hadn't happened before shipping out. He did not feel he needed the aggravation of a dressing down from his platoon officer before going off to whatever piece of floob world they were going to land on.
Reifi groaned, signaling that she had finally broken into consciousness. He was surprised she had recovered as quickly as he had; she'd gone down hard when that magistrate brought a stun baton to her head. Not to mention the added effects of the massive quantities of booze the two had sucked down. Vaeisto idly wondered if it was possible that he might still be intoxicated. The fact of the matter was that after that adventure last night, he had expected to be drunk for the next couple weeks, at the very least. His savings were gone now, as well, turned into liquid form over the course of the night. That had been planned, however; he did not want to have a few hundred credits left in his safe when he died. They would not be of any assistance to anyone if he died, so he figured they might as well be of assistance to him while he lived. His parents had more than enough money, his sister was doing well off at some University in the Tion Hegemony, and he didn't feel like contributing to the vices of any living squadmates. A savings account did not exactly seem like the greatest of ideas either, because he did not know if he even had a future where savings would be needed
So, the few credits the Alliance paid him went to entertainment purposes before shipping off to the various exotic locales that he got to 'vacation' on in the course of his tenure with the SpecForce Marines. People always wondered why soldiers were so poor, despite making a steady income deriving from a government of some time. Vaeisto could easily explain why now: a singular philosophy seemed to attach itself to all of them, at least the ones he knew. If you were going to die, you might as well live life to the fullest before dropping out. Fatalistic, yes, but being realistic about the odds of life and death was the only way one could stop from going insane or worrying to the point of being a coward.
"Ugh... where am I?" Reifi questioned, blinking, staring up.
"One of the most beautiful resorts on the planet, darling. We'll hit the shockball courts in a few minutes, after the steward fetches us breakfast," Vaeisto replied.
"Wonderful. Tell him to bring me less of a wiseguy of a dining companion," Reifi shot back, still not removing herself from on top of him.
"Wish I could, since that would mean I could leave this wonderful accomadations. You ok? You took a pretty bad couple of hits last night," Vaeisto checked, then continued, "Uh, mind getting off me?"
"Your concern is touching, Mik. Yeah, give me a second. I think any movement is going to cause my head to cave in on me," she answered, collecting herself for her movement.
"Eh, it's ok; the half of my body you're lying on is numb anyway; you can just stay if you like," Vaeisto assured her.
"Well, the MPs should be along to grab us in a few minutes anyway, I'm guessing. So, sure, if you don't mind," Reifi accepted.
"Uh-huh. I kind of wish we hadn't picked that fight with those Gotal techs; that one threw a mean left hook," Vaeisto mused.
"Yeah; though we could've taken 'em if that magistrate van hadn't pulled up. I don't think they really needed to be that prejudicial with the stun batons."
"True. I wonder if they've ever heard the term excessive force applied to them."
"Probably not. Whoever wanted to say it to them was probably already unconscious before he could get the words out," Reifi said, paused, then went on, "You know, this is your fault."
"What?!?" Mik questioned, rather loudly. He momentarily regretted that exclamation, as his head reached new levels of throbbing. The chorus of groans from around him proved that he wasn't the only one.
"If you weren't so noble, we wouldn't be waking up here," Reifi pointed out.
"You know us miner boys; we just can't help but be courteous, and try to get to know a girl before we sleep with her. It's a tragic flaw," Vaeisto admitted, a sarcastic drawl entering his voice.
"I guess that's what happens when you grow up on a backwater, hick planet."
"Maybe. Maybe it's conditioning. All the girls in my town wanted to get married first. Including the girl I ran away from."
A bark of laughter issued from Reifi, who quickly realized her mistake, grasping her head in pain. Still, she continued with the inquiry she was about to make. "What, they were gonna force you to marry her at blasterpoint or something? Got her pregnant after a roll in the hay, then ran off to join the Rebellion?" Reifi questioned, a grin on her face.
"No; actually, she was the very definition of waiting until marriage: much to my dismay, I couldn't even get under her sweater. No, we went out for a while, but then one day she started mentioning how all our friends were getting married, and how she couldn't wait till she was married. Then she started dropping more obvious hints. I ignored them as best I could. Then one day, she out and out asks me why I haven't asked her to marry me yet. I stammer for a few minutes, and then I propose. She of course accepted... and the next day I was on the first shuttle out," Mik explained.
"You just left her hanging like that, probably planning with her friends what she was going to wear to the wedding? That's horrible!" Reifi exclaimed, quietly this time, though a grin couldn't help but sneak onto her face.
"It's not like I didn't like her. It's just that she represented life on that planet. I'd be living there for the rest of my life, have the same friends my entire life, never going more than a few hundred meters away from the town, unless a new mine opened up somewhere. It's a little silly, I'll admit, when you look at what other people are here for, but it's a reason," Vaeisto admitted.
"Yeah, some people had their families burned down, some are fighting because the Empire destroyed their planet, others are fighting for the greater good of the universe. Mik Vaeisto fights for freedom... from some poor miners daughter who is probably still crying about him running away from her," Reifi contemplated, grinning widely.
"Well, my sister got away on a scholarship to some university; I didn't see why she should have all the luck. And I didn't want to join the Imperial Army; my parents had always taught me they were bad for anyone who wanted even the slightest degree of independence. My parents weren't the most enlightened people in the world, but they didn't like the idea of being told what to do by anyone, especially some faceless government. So here I am," Vaeisto finished, shrugging.
"You ever going back?" Reifi asked absently, staring up at the gray, duracrete ceiling.
"Maybe. After I muster out, either after the war, or in four years, whichever comes first, I might visit them. The way the war's going, I'm guessing the four years will come first," Vaeisto replied.
"You think you'll get married to your miner's daughter girlfriend after returning a triumphant hero who's seen the galaxy. Then get a job at the mine, raise fat, healthy babies and live the rest of your life telling enormously exaggerated stories about your tour of duty with the SpecForce Marines?" Reifi pondered.
"I doubt she'll wait for me that long. There are a few other boys the village who I'm sure would be happy to take my place. As for settling down... no, I don't think I'll be able to do that. I may have discovered that this might have been the wrong way to see the galaxy, but I still want to stay out here. I might just reenlist with the Alliance, in a non-combat position of some sort. After a tour of duty with the Marines is on my record, I doubt they'd refuse the request."
"Warrior tourists...," Reifi murmured.
"Huh? What did you just say?"
"Oh, just a sudden thought.... I guess I just kind of see us as a bunch of warrior tourists. A bunch of people who wanted to fight for a cause and see the galaxy piece by piece at the same time. So we go around with a blaster rifle in one arm and a holorecorder in the other, so that we can say we did something in our lives, and then tell our kids about it in a few decades."
"Heh, guess I never really saw it that way. Though you're right, I've got a picture of every place I've been stationed at so far. Intelligence always makes sure that none of the pictures contain sensitive data, of course, but still... it's almost kind of perverse. Like we're taking advantage of the chaos so we can finally see some excitement."
"Don't feel too bad, kid. You're not the only one. I'm the same way; it was why I was with that militia before I joined the Rebellion; when the Alliance offered to take us on, since our little force didn't have much of a chance against the Imperials, I just followed along. I've at least resisted the urge to collect souviniers from battlezones."
"Reifi, I gotta tell you, I don't particularly relish the idea of giving my life up because I wanted to get out on my own," Mik stated.
"It's ok, kid, I feel the same way. Probably the rest of the Alliance does too. Well, just remember what my Drill Instructor once told me."
"And what was that?"
"Remember your training, and you will make it back alive. I figure that if I hold to that little piece of advice, I at least have a seventy five percent chance of surviving this. Or an artillery shell could randomly slam into me, proving me wrong. Either way, at least I died thinking I had a chance, and that's really all the officers can hope for as far as morale goes."
"Sounds like a good idea to me. Ignorance is bliss kind of thing, I guess."
"Maybe not his original intent, but close enough. You know, kid, you aren't as stupid as you act. I might end up liking you."
"Wow, if you didn't like me yesterday, I can't wait to see what it's like when you like me."
"Much less exciting, I'm afraid. You'd actually have to work in order to go out with me."
"Well, that would be a problem if I were interested in you romantically. Sadly, that's not the case. I actually agreed with what you said yesterday, about not getting involved with your squadmates. It's like incest or something."
"What, I remind you of your sister?" Reifi reproached him.
"No, not at all... it's just that you were right. Relationships are inherently dangerous on the battlefield. Look me up when I'm out of this company."
"Great, I had to meet a guy who actually agreed with me. Well, now you won't have anyone to kiss you in your dying moments if you get hit on the battlefield and are lying there bleeding on the ground."
"I'm sure Te'chun will oblige me. Otherwise, I'll just have to take the risk."
"Your loss, kid; I just hope the MPs come and pick us up soon...," Reifi wished absently.
The sound of Alliance issue combat boots on the duracrete floor seemed to immediately grant Reifi's hope. Vaeisto grinned and pushed himself up after Reifi pulled herself to a standing position. Soon the entire cell was erect, except for the one or two locals who remained in their prone positions. A moment later an Alliance lieutenant in the uniform of the military police walked into the detention area with two enlisted guards behind him. A local magistrate officer accompanied him, smiling slightly. The government of the colony was making a tidy sum off of the reparations that Alliance was making, and the officer knew it. The Alliance MP officer rubbed his temples, wishing that this duty hadn't fallen to him; he hated having to speak to these smug locals who refused to take a part in the galactic struggle, but who were more than happy to take the Alliance's money. The worst part was that there was still quite a bit of mopping up to do over the course of the day.
"Alright, soldiers, I'm gonna make this short, because there are quite a few more detention centers to hit before my job is complete. You're all docked a week's pay, and will receive reprimands on your permanent records. Of course, I doubt it really matters to any of you, since most of us don't plan on making a Rebellion our permanent career. Still, said reprimand will most likely affect your requests for transfer and leave over the course of your career here, until you can get it removed. Since the reason I'm down here rounding you up instead of leaving you in a prison on this planet while the fleet leaves is that there's an op planned. You'll get plenty of chances to clean your records then. That's all I'm authorized to tell you. Now, since we've paid the locals for the damages caused, plus some, you're all free to go... into the shuttles that are leaving in a half hour. The launch pads are about four klicks from here, but if you hurry you should make it. That is all," the officer stated, and then motioned to the magistrate officer.
The local moved to the detention cell's barred door and opened it with a swipe of a key. The Alliance members detained within filed out as respectably as they could, then made a beeline for the detention center's exit. They had to make those shuttles, as they did not want to be stuck on this planet, or force the Alliance to make a second trip. Either occasion would not bode well for them, so they had decided immediately upon hearing the officer's words to not doubt them for a second. There was always a chance it was a lie to convince them to run four kilometers in their debilitated state, but the soldiers had long ago learned not to take chances as far as MPs were concerned.
Reifi winked at Vaeisto as she ran, only occasionally wincing from a new onset of headaches. The exercise was at the very least allowing them to slightly recover from the night's exercise in debauchery.
"Twenty credits says I can beat you to the shuttles," Reifi stated as she ran next to Vaeisto.
"Since I'm forfeiting my pay on your account, I'll need the money. You're on," Vaeisto replied, grinning.
"Hey, I thought we were of the understanding that this was your fault, and yours alone, kid," she replied, then broke off into a flat sprint. Vaeisto hurried after, putting all the energy he could into his legs. They tried their best to focus on anything that didn't involve the mission they would soon be set upon. Mindless exercise is another great friend of the soldier.
Paperwork, and lots of it, the bane of every First Sergeant, had piled high since Sergeant "Saber" Helteran had walked into his office on the Frigate Tribulation that morning. First came the paperwork dealing with the fifteen or so new recruits assigned to C for Cresh Company, who had just arrived on a troop ship from some Alliance training world this morning. Then came even more paperwork dealing with the various reprimands handed out to half the enlisted beings in the company for various minor offenses the night before. Drunk and disorderlies... a few minor assaults... of course the requisite solicitations of prostitutes... defamation of private and public property... public urination... yeah, that sounded about right for most of these troops first leave before a huge op went down. The only problem was that their night of trying to convince themselves they were the best and the bravest meant an excessive amount of paperwork for their First Sergeant.
Nobody ever seemed to think of Helteran, though, until he chewed them out the following day for loading him up with work when he had more important things to take care of. This was always true, of course; a First Sergeant's work, as far as paper is concerned, is never, ever done. But with only a week to go before the op launched... weapons requisition request forms, supply requisition request forms, veteran troop request forms, every conceivable form of bureaucratic red tape piled up on Helteran's desk. Not to say that the man was purely possessed of a desk job, of course. If the officers were the brains of C for Cresh Company, Helteran was the heart. Not that he loved his job, or loved his company, but he kept everything flowing in order, as a good heart does. A good First Sergeant was what kept a company running, was what kept it from collapsing under its own weight. Helteran had enough experience in combat and non-combat duties to basically advise the officers as to what to do in any contingency, and to manipulate the system so that C for Cresh got the best gear and grub that it was possible to obtain.
This was not going to be an easy hop, for quite a few reasons. First, he had just learned this morning that he would have only one week to prepare, rather than the two weeks that he had originally been informed of. It went to figure, really; the day after he had organized everything to fall perfectly into the two-week deadline, they saddled him up with new instructions. The officers did not have any clue as to what went on behind the scenes when they made a deadline change like that; of course, it wasn't their job to know. Their job was to lead, to present the face of authority to the enlisted punks, to look good in their uniforms, while Helteran and the rest of the sergeants took care of making sure that everything didn't collapse under the officer's feet. Helteran wasn't resentful of this fact, though, because he knew that it was the way it had to be. He wouldn't have it any other way, in fact. He liked doing his job, liked the absolute reliance the officers and soldiers had on him. If he ever stopped doing his job, chaos would break loose, and the company would cease to function as a cohesive unit, or any unit for that matter.
The Sergeant wondered if he'd even be able to survive after the war, or whenever he was discharged from the SpecForce Marines. Sure, he'd probably make a good bureaucrat, or some corporate stooge working on spreadsheets and datapoints all day. But it would drive Helteran insane, he was sure of it. He was a soldier, and the one thing that offered him was constant change, constant new obstacles to overcome. In some corporate office or government cubicle, he would be facing the same things day in and day out, the same drudgery, with no conceivable change. The same fear faced him even if he didn't get a job after the war; if he just spent thirty years in the Marines, then retired with a pension, he did not know if he could handle just sitting around in the old soldier's home. He figured that the day he retired, he might as well just put a blaster into his mouth and pull the trigger. The Marines were Helteran's lifeline; the day he was cut off from it, he might as well have been dead.
The second problem the Sergeant faced was getting the soldiers ready in any fashion for the coming operation. They were mostly new recruits, fresh out of boot. He had no idea how they'd handle under battle conditions, or how they would react to having to survive in conditions far from any bases. Helteran's battalion was going in alone, and he did not know whether the soldiers could handle that. The third problem was the gear he had been issued. He needed cold weather gear, cold weather tents and gear to cut out a forward base from the ground in deep snow and ice conditions. He had so far been issued a fraction of the equipment his company needed, and it would take all his expertise to get enough new gear for the company to survive in the somewhat adverse conditions they were about to go into. Helteran sighed; it was time to go out and start scrounging.
The sergeant got up from his desk and grabbed his cover, then headed for the door. He nodded to his clerk, a Givin Corporal named Cray, and ordered, "I'll be out for an hour or so, four at the max; I want those reprimand papers filled out, the permanent records changed accordingly, and the papers for the supplies done by the time I get back. Got that?"
The Givin groaned at that; it was more adept at working numbers than this requisitions nonsense. Still, it replied with a "Yes Sergeant" and got back to work; chances were that it wouldn't be able to get all the work done in time, but it could at least try.
An inexperienced NCO would have made his way to the supply officer on board, and try and reason with him or her for what he needed. Helteran was far from inexperienced; he knew he'd get the same song and dance he'd been getting all day; a few dozen more requisitions forms to fill out, and a reprimand about trying to go around the proper channels. Rather, Helteran made a beeline for the Tribulation's hangar bay. He needed a dozen industrial strength fusion cutters, plus energy shielding so that they wouldn't act as huge "here we are!" beacons every time the soldiers of C company used them. He needed them fast, and he didn't feel like waiting the week or two that had been described to him by the supply officer. As he walked he placed a quick call on his comlink to the C for Cresh Company supply room on the ship; he figured that he might as well be prepared for the coming exchange.
Entering the hangar, Helteran immediately noticed the Crew Chief, a no-nonsense human female from Chandrila. Her reddish brown hair was curled up in a bun, pressed underneath a Starfighter Command uniform cap. She looked as harried as Helteran felt, constantly shouting out orders to her technicians to get the fighters aboard the frigate ready. The operation was affecting everybody, apparently, but Helteran only cared about how it affected his company. "Hey, Quinla! Don't you still owe me a few hundred off that sabacc game from a month ago?" Helteran shouted in greeting, a huge predatory smile springing across his face.
The Crew Chief was already rubbing her temples before she even turned around. "Can't you see I'm busy here, Arny? I've gotta get these fighters in some kind of shape in less than two weeks, and their pilots have been putting them through more battle damage than I even want to think about. How bout you go bother someone else for a change?" she questioned, narrowing her eyes.
"Hey, it's hard all over, Quin. It just so happens I only have a week to get my people ready. You know how they kind of expect the Marines to actually be ready before an operation, while it's ok for you Starfighter command pukes to be ready after it's over," Arny replied.
"I feel for you, really I do; if you came to ask a favor, that was the wrong way to start, Arny," Quin replied, then broke off, "Tune that fusial axis thruster to twenty five percent, Garrison, thirty five! I don't want to spend an hour fixing what you repair!"
"Yes, Chief!" replied the tech, returning to his work, carefully retuning the part.
"I appreciate what you're doing, really I do, Quin; in fact, I appreciate it so much that I'm willing to transfer you a half dozen fine tune, light grade fusion welders. I know how hard those things are to get, how you really need those to patch up the holes the flyboys blow in your fighters and how you're kind of short on them recently," Helteran offered.
"Yeah, sure, Arny; it just so happens that we had a half dozen light grades coming to us, but they were mysteriously transferred to C for Cresh Company, 275th Battalion. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Quinla asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Nah, Quinla, I figure it's just administrative error. Now, while I would love to just give you those light grades... we're kind of short ourselves in a certain department," Helteran broached, still grinning unapologetically.
"Oh, of course, you're just stopped from your philanthropic ways because you love your company too much. Whaddya want, Saber?" the chief conceded, shaking her head sadly, wishing she didn't have to give in to the Sergeant.
"Oh, just twenty industrial grade fusion cutters; it's not like you need 'em anyway: your job is to fix these babies up, not break 'em apart, right?" Helteran reasoned, slapping one of the X-Wings affectionately.
"TWENTY?!? Are you out of your flargin' mind?!? I need those things to break up hull plate armor to patch onto the fighter's hulls! That's half my supply!" she exclaimed, her brown eyes growing wide.
"Yeah, but from what I hear you don't have any welders at all, and you have a good forty industrial fusion cutters," the Sergeant replied, leaning against the nearby X-Wing.
"You heard wrong; I've only got thirty; I could spare you eight, but that's it. Twenty is insane: we'd never get our work done."
"Eight? I can't go back to the company with that. How bout fifteen? I'd be willing to throw in a couple TX-10 power coils... I think we've got a few extra lying around."
"That you probably stole from me, Helteran. You have those welders and those power coils here in an hour, you can have a dozen of the Fusion cutters, and I'll resist the urge to punch you in the face. That's it, you bloodsucker," Quinla fumed, her eyes betraying her urge to murder the First Sergeant. Helteran just grinned and winked, pulling out his comlink.
"An hour won't be necessary," he started, then flipped on the comlink, "Bring 'em in, boys."
Two repulsor trucks rolled in, one carrying the six fusion welders and two power coils, the other empty, accompanied by four Marines from C for Cresh Company. Helteran did nothing but grin, leaning against the X-Wing as his men came in and offloaded the equipment in the bay. The Starfighter Command Crew Chief just stood there, growing redder and redder as Helteran's bearing became more and more insufferable. Her eyes looked like she was consciously willing them to burn holes in Helteran's chest. Realization had instantly dawned on her as the carts came rolling in: she'd managed to bargain Helteran 'down' to exactly what he wanted.
"You... played... me," she managed to get out, trying to compose herself.
"No, I arranged an equitable business arrangement, which you accepted. Mind if those Marines grab the Fusion cutters? We'll just wheel 'em out, and you can go back to tending to your fighters," Helteran replied easily.
"OUT! Get those damn cutters and get out NOW!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs, pointing to the exit of the hangar.
"Much obliged; you're a beautiful young woman, Quin, but you're gonna pop a vein in your forehead if you don't take it easier," the First Sergeant advised, gave her a slight bow, and then exited, the grin seemingly plastered to his face.
Now all that was needed was some cold weather habitats and gear... Arny remembered that the 122nd with the local SecForce had been doing some arctic fighting recently... Arny placed a call to his Givin clerk, "Hey, Cray, get me the name of the ship the 122nd, with SecForce, is berthing on. Then call transport and get me a shuttle over to that ship. And toss the requisitions papers for the fusion cutters: its been taken care of."
"Yessir," came the reply, "You want anything else with that?"
"How bout a clerk who realizes he's never gonna make Sergeant if he mouths off to me?"
"Sir, yes sir!" came the sharper reply this time.
"That's better. Call back with the info in five minutes; I should be in the shuttle bay by then," Arny ordered, then headed back towards the hangar. He had a feeling that Chief Quinla wouldn't be entirely happy to see him, but that was just as well. The Sergeant hadn't gotten in a good shouting match for a long, long time.
The starfighter appeared almost raptor like in its shape, streamlined, with only slight disturbances along its shell. The fighter used old technology, more suited for atmosphere than space, but with an experienced pilot behind the stick, she could handle as well as any modern fighter. In this case, Hoset "Gambler" Veradun thought to himself, she would have to; TIEs were on the cutting edge of technology, even if they had no shields.
This particular TIE had already taken out Veradun's wingman as they attempted to guard the colony. The pilot inside it was obviously good, but he was not the best; if he had been, Veradun knew he would already be dead. Trying to evade the hostile, bring it into his own gun range, Veradun pulled a series of maneuvers he absolutely knew would work. His fighter spun hard right, responding to the pilot's every movement, every slight press on the etheric rudders, every miniscule tug on the stick. His opponent clung to him hard, attempting to match his every move. With a sudden dip and pull he sent his fighter into a tight spin, pulling back hard on the thrusters, bringing her up and over into a Split S. Suddenly, the enemy fighter was in his sights, having overshot just barely. A pull of the trigger, and the fighter's 20mm twin mass driver cannons opened up on the TIE, ripping through its engines, blowing apart its fuselage.
Ammo based technology was ancient, but it could still be used effectively when the situation demanded it. Veradun pulled his fighter in a gradual turn and scanned his sensors for the status on the Alliance transports his wing was supposed to be protecting. Veradun swore to himself; there were only three left, plus the carrier, though she was showing signs of heavy damage. Three out of a dozen transports... the Imps had broken through their screen. This battle was already lost, regardless of what he did now. What was more, his wing had been devastated; only a few of the fighters were left from each squadron. They barely made up a squadron in strength. He'd known this battle was lost from the beginning; his commander had basically ordered them into veritable suicide. The worst thing was that he didn't feel himself caring about the lives lost. Checking the data stream, it was obvious that they'd failed to check the TIE flanking movement he had alerted them to. They had made a mistake, so now they were dead. It was time to get out of here himself.
That was when his board started lighting up; weapons lock. Two TIEs had gotten behind him during his reverie. He pulled hard up, found another lock nailing him. A hail of bolts flashed by his cockpit as he pulled his fighter into a series of insane spins and loops, desperately trying to break out. That was when one of the bolts slammed into his fighter, ripping it in half, sending him spinning towards nothingness...
Veradun shuddered and sat up straight from his repose. He looked around, expecting to be in space, in the remnants of his fighter at Grenadine, but saw only his cabin. In his fist was gripped a nearly empty bottle of wine, left over from his celebration with Jorser the night before. Veradun chuckled and shook his head. "Bad booze," he mumbled.
Veradun saw that his uniform was in bad need of cleaning; his tunic lay on the floor; his pants remained on him, and carried various alcohol stains. His bed was ravaged, the sheets torn from it. The rest of the room was in a relative state of clarity: he didn't have many belongings that would clutter it up, really. Most of what he had carried with him had gone up when his carrier had been hit at Grenadine before being able to jump into hyperspace. The only really personal item which remained was an image of his wife and child on his dresser.
After three years with the Rebellion, Veradun figured that he had gotten used to loss, used to going up against an enemy that seemed to have every conceivable advantage. The only problem was that he was beginning to realize that that was exactly the problem. He was used to it. He didn't like seeing his men die and he did not like losing, but to his surprise, he did not really care emotionally anymore. He felt as if the war had finally desensitized him to horror. Fighting for the galaxy's freedom was no longer something he was emotionally invested in. He felt like a small piece of machinery in some huge juggernaut, just doing the job that it had been built for. He stared at the near empty bottle of booze for a few minutes, pondering that.
Veradun had been wondering for a long time what it was that was gnawing him about the battle of Grenadine. Now he finally realized what it was: he felt no sorrow whatsoever. In realizing he was a number, he realized that everyone else was a number. It made feeling sorry for them when they made a mistake that much harder, but made fighting that much easier to do. This epiphany of sorts had not turned him into a mechanical soldier, and it wouldn't make him care any less about the people fighting for him. He could still enjoy himself in the Officers Club, could still function like a normal human being. Veradun had just gotten rid of something that had been weighing him down, and that would let him function as a better soldier. Still, he wondered at this development. Sure, it made him a better piece of the juggernaut, a more effective cog in the machine. But on the other hand, he felt this inability to feel sorrow was somehow horrible, as horrible as it was wonderful.
Veradun considered that losing a part of oneself was not as traumatic as the holos made it out to be. Lose an arm and you felt a sharp pain, then a dull sense of the inability to feel a part of oneself anymore. Lose a feeling, you felt that same sharp pain, then that same dull sense as you wonder what could be missing. That first sharp pain had to have hit him a while ago, for he'd had this sense for a while now. The feeling had surfaced before Grenadine, and perhaps even some time before that. He guessed that he must have just lost track of it among all the other shots of pain that had hit him over the past several years. It was getting hard to keep track.
The pilot flopped back on his bed, letting go of the bottle he still gripped. It bounced to the floor, rolling away to rest against the door. The Major was tired of having to give up parts of himself, but they needed him again. This operation was going to fill up the daily casualty reports, that much he was sure of. Still, it was necessary, and as a soldier and a loyal cog in the machine, he would do his best to make sure that everything went as planned. The Alliance needed victories, ones that went beyond Death Stars. You did what you had to do for your cause.
Staring up at his ceiling, Veradun sighed. He missed his wife, somewhere in Wild Space on some Safe World. He hadn't seen her for over a year now, and even though he knew she understood, he couldn't help but feel that he was losing another part of himself, if it wasn't already gone.
In another cabin, on another part of the ship, one could almost smell the anticipation mixing with the cigarra smoke. Colonel Trell Jorser had finally been handed the mission he had been asking for. This mission that would prove the Alliance was capable of a sustained offensive against overwhelming enemy force, on its own terms. He chuckled to himself as he contemplated the coming job he had to do. They would be moving in fast and hard against the Imperials, not giving them a chance to fight the battle in a regular stand up fashion. Lightning guerilla warfare, neutralizing main enemy positions before they even had a chance to roll out the big guns, the technology that could rip the Alliance forces apart. The Colonel inhaled deeply on his cigarra, wondering if the Imperials even had an idea of what was coming.
The Colonel had developed into something of a cynical being over the years; it was a survival mechanism. He had once trusted the orders of his superiors above everything, because they were Alliance commanders. There was no way, he had once thought, that they could possibly go wrong. Incompetence in the upper ranks was something that only the Imperials had to deal with. He had quickly learned the error of that judgment in some of the early battles he had fought in, back when he was merely a Sergeant. Those errors in judgment lead to massive casualties, and casualties led to promotion for those who were smart enough to survive. Jorser had gone from Sergeant to Captain in just a year, and from that position to Colonel in only two years. The Colonel had learned to trust in the guerilla tactics of the Alliance. He knew without a doubt that frontal warfare was suicide for the Alliance, and was therefore naturally suspicious of any movement that went against regular Alliance Military doctrine.
This particular campaign had sent off warning beacons in his brain immediately. An assault against a heavily guarded Imperial system that relied primarily on ground forces just sounded like the kind of tactics which had gotten so many beings killed in the early years. After General Madine's briefing, the Colonel was still cautious. He was absolutely sure this was going to get a significant portion of his men killed. But it would work. It would be costly, but it would be even more costly for the enemy, if it went on schedule. Of course, he was absolutely sure it would not go as planned. No plan that the Colonel had ever laid out or followed had ever gone as it was supposed to. It was schedules that made or killed an offensive.
The only thing which threatened to ruin the Colonel's good mood was the feeling that he had been chalked up as expendable for the powers that be. At forty-two, he was about middle age for a Mon Cal; their life spans ran about the same as humans on average, if not longer. He was an old man compared to many of the commanders, looked at as a liability of sorts. Puffing on his cigarra, he reflected that he had never been entirely liked by the brass, though in the Alliance it had not been because of his species. The Colonel knew that he was looked at as more dangerous than the Imperials: he often broke standing orders so that he would be able to bring his people to a more effective combat position. This had endeared him to General Madine, a great believer in unorthodox tactics and the art of freeform tactical combat, but had gained him a great deal of enemies in High Command.
It was almost certain that this is what had gained him the dubious honor of Point Recon. The Rancor's Teeth Battalion was going in first, five days ahead of the rest of the fleet, to neutralize several enemy hard points and set up landing fields, forward bases and ammo dumps for the main invasion force. They were the whipping boys: everything that hit them would be recorded by intelligence spy-ships and transmitted back to Fleet. By the time the main invasion force dropped in, they would know the Imperial forces on the outermost planet and its moons better than the Imperials knew themselves. The only problem was that this meant almost certain heavy casualties for the three companies under the Colonel's command.
Had his years of refusing to just follow his orders doomed this entire battalion's contingent of young people? Jorser shook that thought away; he had saved countless lives by his actions in the past. Besides, someone had to go on Point Recon, and if it had to be the Rancor's Teeth, then it had to be them. Still, it seemed that a battalion with a large veteran contingent would have made more sense in the long run. Or maybe, just maybe, they actually trusted him. The Colonel refused to give that theory much credence; he didn't even trust himself that much. Still, they had basically trusted the success of this mission with his unit. Maybe someone had signed him up for an early retirement, but if they had, Madine would have had to approve it. That meant that there was a chance, however unlikely, that Madine thought that Jorser had a chance of bringing this off, without massive casualties. The general never wasted men, and that one thought gave Jorser an assurance he had not felt for a long time.
Then again, maybe he was just overthinking this. His job was to go down there and kill the Imperials. Beings would die, but they would die for a reason. Some historian could say whether that reason was any good a few decades down the line, Jorser decided. This was all academic anyway, until he hit the field of battle. He would construct his overall plans, then drop in and take it from there. At the very least, Point Recon gave him almost complete freedom to improvise.
What was truly bothering the Mon Calamari was his friend, Major Veradun. It seemed that they had taken different paths in dealing with the overwhelming losses their commands had suffered over the course of the past year. Veradun seemed to be experiencing something that most soldiers experienced at one point or another. They called it combat fatigue, but it really was a complete desensitization to the horrors of warfare. It had hit Jorser early on in his career; it tended to prey on the infantry more aggressively than it did on those more removed from the violence of war. It could almost be seen as a survival mechanism that the mind had developed to prevent some kind of an overload. The only problem was that it proved self-destructive over the long term; one stopped being able to function outside of a combat environment. Not that that was a horrible thing, Jorser reflected, grinning. In fact, he was almost certain that several generals he knew would pay millions of credits to find a way to synthesize the effects of combat fatigue.
But the inability to exist after war was a price that he was unwilling to pay, and he knew that Veradun would find himself paying in full if he did not change. The man had both a wife and a child; if Veradun continued down the path he seemed to be treading, he would come home a man changed almost to the point of being unrecognizable. It was not Jorser's job to discourage him, however: the Colonel did not believe in meddling in such things, even in the case of his few friends. If one did not come upon renewal and salvation through ones own efforts, then that salvation would be bittersweet, and the renewal only temporary. That was the way the Colonel had always gone about his life, and he bore both the scars and the rewards that had come from it. Besides, the Colonel was an opportunist when it came to these situations. Veradun could be of assistance in this offensive, especially in this new state. Maybe the Fates would decree that some event during this campaign would change Veradun for the better. "Heh... the Fates," Jorser mumbled, inhaling the last bit of his cigar,
"Well... stranger things have happened."
The colonel moved to put the cigar out and got up from his seat, shaking off the remnants of his hangover. He'd always wondered about the miracles of Mon Calamari metabolism, its joys and its curses. It took an ocean of drinks to cause the Colonel to become even slightly drunk, but the headaches he suffered afterwards... even industrial strength painkillers did not quell them. Perhaps some higher power just didn't want Mon Calamari drunk, and therefore had made it so that it was nearly impossible for them to do so. As he stepped into the refresher, let its systems clean off the remnants of alcohol on his body and readied himself for the day ahead, he reflected on the joys of drinking, and how most of his young soldiers had recently discovered them. The MPs would be having the time of their lives prying the soldiers of the Alliance out of every cheap hotel, booze joint and alley on that planet.
Then there would be the fabled last call, and every being down there wearing the Alliance insignia would be rushing for the last few shuttles back to the Fleet. Ah, to be young again... well, regret was for the dead, and Jorser did not intend on being dead for a bit longer. Not until he discovered a way to get rid of these damn headaches, patented it, and got rich off of a drink emporium/drugstore somewhere on his homeworld.
Jorser switched off the refresher and stepped back into his cabin, feeling rejuvenated. A new day was coming, and he was ready for what it would require of him. Well, never ready; nobody was ever really truly ready for anything. Thinking differently was fooling oneself, and the Colonel did not have time for self-illusion. Rather, he felt he had a chance, however slim, of being able to handle the problems that were going to start piling up the second he stepped out of this room and started talking to his company commanders. Starting with getting his soldiers cleaned and assembled in less than a day, then ready for the assault in less than a week, he had a busy schedule to attend to.
The Mon Cal slipped on his uniform with the ease of second nature, then stopped for a second in front of the mirror above his dresser. Stunningly handsome, he thought, if growing a bit old. He often marveled that humans could consider him ugly, but then again, he marveled that he hadn't been elected to replace Mon Mothma as Chairbeing of the Rebel Alliance High Council yet.
As he stepped out of his cabin and into the ship's hallway, he reflected that wonders might never cease.
The Twi'lek lieutenant awoke rather groggily as a beam of sunlight broke through the cheap blinds of the motel to settle on her face. She moaned unhappily, not wanting to get up; she had definitely drunk too much the previous night, and had the headache to show for it. Not to mention that her uniform was probably a mess now, after she had just paid to have it cleaned a few days ago. Derai Mol'shik rolled over to the side to get out of the sunlight... right into the other occupant of the bed. Her eyes widened to find that her pilot was still there, sleeping soundly next to her. She had thought that part of the night was a dream of some sort, and that her friends had just carried her here to let her sleep off her intoxication.
Her mind raced furiously as she stared at his face, still blissfully unaware of the morning. This kind of thing didn't happen to her! She was always, always in control; it was the only thing that gave her any certainty in life. Derai Mol'shik had a plan for her life, and it certainly did not involve sleeping with random pilots she met. If she slept with men, she wanted it to be for a reason, not just because they were there. Even if they were handsome, she admitted; that was at least one thing. Still, this was wrong; she did not have time for a relationship right now and she did not have time for the problems that would arise even if she did not end up in a relationship with this pilot. This was all Visha's fault for forcing her to have fun.
Derai stopped herself and just smiled. That last thought had sounded silly even to her in her frantic state. This was her fault for getting drunk and not knowing how to handle it. Well, it was the pilot's fault too, and she'd have to beat the crap out of him for taking advantage of her in her weakened state. Or at least make him feel as guilty as humanly possible. That sounded good.
As she lay there staring at him, she wondered if she really had done this for no reason, if this whole situation really was all the results of too much to drink. She knew that she had had the ability to think last night, and had had the ability to reason up to a point. She had definitely had all her reason about her when Visha came up to her with that drink. Derai knew that she could have said no, could have just sat there at the bar nursing her drink while everyone else got stinking drunk. She could almost hear Visha's admonishment about that one... that just wouldn't be any fun. Though Derai had to wonder if this really could be defined as fun. She had felt happy in some strange way the previous night, but did not know if that had been actual happiness, or just the absence of loneliness.
Derai had long felt alone, even in the packed confines of the various ships she had been stationed on as SpecForce Marine personnel. She had friends, she had people surrounding her all the time, but she felt as if no one was actually with her. Derai was just 19 years old, scarcely older than the men and women under her command. She often wondered if it made sense to put her in charge. She was not anymore experienced than the soldiers under her command, and she could not think of anything that made her more qualified than they were. She had spent some time at a University, had shown some leadership skills in basic training, and that had made some superior think that she had what it took for Officer Candidacy School. The only problem was that she was now separated from the rest of her unit by some invisible line that only soldiers could see.
These were people who she could have been a friend with out in the real world, the outside. Here, she had been taught that things were different, and they were different for a reason. If she went out and drank with the beings under her command, if she became friends with them, then she would be unable to distance herself from them during combat. If that happened, then sending them off to die would be that much harder. Of course, this policy that had existed in militaries for eons caused a natural rift between officers and enlisted. The enlisted men and women looked at her and all her kind as hostile in some way, as people who would never understand what it was like to be a grunt. Derai did not know if that was true, but it did not really matter to her. She did what she was supposed to do, and tried her best to serve competently. But the position left her cut off from people who could be her friends, if she just did not wear a little rank insignia on her shoulder. So she found friends wherever she could in the officer corps, and ended up with people who were not necessarily anything at all like her.
Derai just missed having people to talk to, having friends who were in some way like her. Visha and some of the other girls were nice, but seemed more concerned with having fun than in talking about anything of real importance. But Derai had discovered that having any friends, any companionship at all, was preferable to being alone. Alone was a place she didn't need to be during a conflict where losing her life was a very real possibility. If she was hit, if she was wounded and spent a few weeks in the hospital fading in and out of consciousness, she wanted to wake up to friendly faces. She did not care whose faces they were; she just did not want the only other thing in the room to be a medical droid. After a mission, she wanted to be able to talk to someone, even if she never mentioned what she had really felt during the mission. Just the very act of being able to speak to another person made her feel more at ease in her position.
So, in trying to allay her fears and loneliness, she had ended up in this bed with a pilot she barely knew. She wanted to feel angry, but she knew that they had both come here with the same purpose; there was a very good chance that this fighter pilot, this Wes Janson, was just as afraid as she was. He would never admit it, just like she would never admit to why she had done this, but all the soldiers on this planet, regardless of rank or branch of service, were very similar beings in the way they thought. They all were far from home, in an unfamiliar territory laden with minefields. They were a generation that needed guidance, guidance that their elders could not give any more, as they were just as lost as the young people who they were leading.
A tear streaked down Derai's face as she continued to stare at the pilot's face. The age of innocence had ended when the Old Republic died. They were now in a new age, an age of loneliness. She supposed she would see that term in some history pamphlet thirty years from now, if she lived till then. You found the warmth of another being when you could, and you lived without until those brief moments of contentment. In a sense, they were fighting to survive long enough to experience as many of those brief moments as they possibly could. Derai wondered if that was what made her generation unique from others, if that was their signature trait. They all seemed to be on an almost frantic search for others in the same state. The people of her generation had found a purpose. Now they just needed someone to tell them that everything would be ok, and everyone would go back to normal when this was all over.
After making sure her face was clear of any tears, Derai resolved to wake her companion. A gentle shove from her hand was enough to stir the pilot from his slumber. Janson's eyes slowly opened, then widened as they came to rest on her face. He blinked once in surprise, wondering if he was still dreaming. Derai just grinned at him, deciding that she might as well be graceful about it.
"You're still here?!?" he asked surprised.
"That's a nice way to greet me, flyboy," Derai stated simply
"I'm sorry, I guess I just didn't expect you to still be here... you are SpecForce after all," he replied, still a little surprised.
Derai hand came around to contact with his cheek, quickly waking him up, as well as knocking out any more stupid comments.
"Ok, I deserved that. Let me try that again: I guess I kind of thought I was being used; I barely remember all of last night," Janson tried again.
"Welcome to the club, Wes. I think we kind of used each other... do you even remember my name?" Derai asked, sitting up in the bed, having discovered that she was still wearing her undergarments.
"I barely remember my own name. But yeah, Derai; I'm not a hotshot flyboy who jumps from woman to woman," he replied.
"Wait a second... did you think I was some Marine with a man in every port or something?" the lieutenant questioned, surprised.
"The answer to this better not get me slapped," Janson stated, smiling sheepishly.
"It won't... probably," she assured him.
"Well, the thought had crossed my mind. Maybe we both kind of stereotyped each other. You just seemed so sure of yourself," the pilot explained.
"Wait a second... let me see something," she mused, then tossed the sheets back.
"Hey, don't... wha... we're still wearing our clothes... well, most of them," Janson observed, surprised.
"Do you actually remember us sleeping together last night?"
"Well, we did sleep with each other, unless you're just a hallucination, and I'm dead," the pilot replied.
"Save the snappy comebacks for another time, flyboy: I don't remember sleeping with you. I remember coming in here, I remember foreplay... and then it's just blank," Derai stated.
"That's strange... same here. Don't tell me I got a beautiful woman into a cheap hotel, and then passed out!" Janson exclaimed.
"What, this was some kind of goal?"
"No, but the moment this little misadventure gets out, I'm never gonna hear the end of it from Wedge, Hobbie and Scotian."
"You think I'm gonna brag about this? Visha would love this. I don't want to spend the next operation hearing references to this on the radio every time I have to call B for Besh Company," Derai replied.
"So we just get our shirts on, and walk away, never mentioning this again, right?" Wes asked.
"Well, you could call me if we're ever stationed together, and we could go out for a drink sometime, you know," she replied, mock offended.
"Heh, sorry, I'm just shooting out stupid comments like proton torpedoes... we can switch off contact addresses. Of course, the chances of us ever seeing each other are slim...," he began.
"Hey, you had your chance last night. If that becomes a 'we better make the most of our time together' line, I'm going to slug you," Derai pointed out.
"No, no, no! I was just going to say that the chances for a relationship aren't the greatest in the Alliance. I don't even know if we have anything in common," Wes explained.
"Hey, I'm not asking to get engaged, flyboy. I just thought we could grab coffee sometime. I think I'll avoid booze around you, though."
"Tell me about it. Alright, it's a date. Next time I get some leave time and you're in the area, I'll give you a call."
"Good enough, Janson. I did have a nice night, though, when I wasn't throwing up."
"Wait, you were throwing up too? I just thought you had some kind of crazy tolerance with alcohol," the pilot stated, surprised.
"Again with the gross stereotypes... of course, I was thinking the same about you. If you want a girl who can hold her liquor, talk to Visha, that Wroonian lieutenant who broke your friends heart," Derai suggested.
"No, I think I'll stick with women who can't outdrink me. Now, who gets to shower first? I'm thinking they'll want us at the ship ASAP, and I'd rather not miss the last shuttle out of here," Janson asked.
"Haven't you ever heard of ladies first?"
"Yeah, but I wasn't sure how it applied to this situation, Derai."
"Oh, it applies in every situation, silly," she stated, then kissed him gently on the forehead and got up to go to the bathroom, "No peeking though; like I said before, you had your chance last night."
"I thought this was supposed to be a gender-neutral society! We're not supposed to care about being naked in front of each other," Janson tried.
"No dice, flyboy. See you in fifteen."
Derai winked at him, suddenly much happier as she closed the door to the bathroom. It seemed like this was an easy out, but she figured she had one coming to her. He was right, she probably would never see him again, but she kind of hoped she would. The guy did seem nice enough, had a good sense of humor, and he was pretty handsome. Short though, but that was not surprising as far as pilots went. Just as long as she had a choice in the matter, though, she would have been happy even if he were some multi-tentacle alien. She grinned, wondering what he was thinking about her, as she turned on the shower. It would be nice to enjoy some real water, rather than the sonic waves of the shipboard refreshers.
Waking up in the city detention center was a tried and true ritual among soldiers, dating back for eons. When Vaeisto awoke that morning to find Reifi passed out on top of him, and a dozen other Alliance soldiers and locals in similar situations, he was not incredibly surprised. He did know, however, that this would not look exactly spectacular on his record. Not that it mattered entirely much; the Alliance made some allowances as for the rambunctious behavior of its troopers. This kind of event was almost expected, if officially discouraged. Vaeisto just wished that this hadn't happened before shipping out. He did not feel he needed the aggravation of a dressing down from his platoon officer before going off to whatever piece of floob world they were going to land on.
Reifi groaned, signaling that she had finally broken into consciousness. He was surprised she had recovered as quickly as he had; she'd gone down hard when that magistrate brought a stun baton to her head. Not to mention the added effects of the massive quantities of booze the two had sucked down. Vaeisto idly wondered if it was possible that he might still be intoxicated. The fact of the matter was that after that adventure last night, he had expected to be drunk for the next couple weeks, at the very least. His savings were gone now, as well, turned into liquid form over the course of the night. That had been planned, however; he did not want to have a few hundred credits left in his safe when he died. They would not be of any assistance to anyone if he died, so he figured they might as well be of assistance to him while he lived. His parents had more than enough money, his sister was doing well off at some University in the Tion Hegemony, and he didn't feel like contributing to the vices of any living squadmates. A savings account did not exactly seem like the greatest of ideas either, because he did not know if he even had a future where savings would be needed
So, the few credits the Alliance paid him went to entertainment purposes before shipping off to the various exotic locales that he got to 'vacation' on in the course of his tenure with the SpecForce Marines. People always wondered why soldiers were so poor, despite making a steady income deriving from a government of some time. Vaeisto could easily explain why now: a singular philosophy seemed to attach itself to all of them, at least the ones he knew. If you were going to die, you might as well live life to the fullest before dropping out. Fatalistic, yes, but being realistic about the odds of life and death was the only way one could stop from going insane or worrying to the point of being a coward.
"Ugh... where am I?" Reifi questioned, blinking, staring up.
"One of the most beautiful resorts on the planet, darling. We'll hit the shockball courts in a few minutes, after the steward fetches us breakfast," Vaeisto replied.
"Wonderful. Tell him to bring me less of a wiseguy of a dining companion," Reifi shot back, still not removing herself from on top of him.
"Wish I could, since that would mean I could leave this wonderful accomadations. You ok? You took a pretty bad couple of hits last night," Vaeisto checked, then continued, "Uh, mind getting off me?"
"Your concern is touching, Mik. Yeah, give me a second. I think any movement is going to cause my head to cave in on me," she answered, collecting herself for her movement.
"Eh, it's ok; the half of my body you're lying on is numb anyway; you can just stay if you like," Vaeisto assured her.
"Well, the MPs should be along to grab us in a few minutes anyway, I'm guessing. So, sure, if you don't mind," Reifi accepted.
"Uh-huh. I kind of wish we hadn't picked that fight with those Gotal techs; that one threw a mean left hook," Vaeisto mused.
"Yeah; though we could've taken 'em if that magistrate van hadn't pulled up. I don't think they really needed to be that prejudicial with the stun batons."
"True. I wonder if they've ever heard the term excessive force applied to them."
"Probably not. Whoever wanted to say it to them was probably already unconscious before he could get the words out," Reifi said, paused, then went on, "You know, this is your fault."
"What?!?" Mik questioned, rather loudly. He momentarily regretted that exclamation, as his head reached new levels of throbbing. The chorus of groans from around him proved that he wasn't the only one.
"If you weren't so noble, we wouldn't be waking up here," Reifi pointed out.
"You know us miner boys; we just can't help but be courteous, and try to get to know a girl before we sleep with her. It's a tragic flaw," Vaeisto admitted, a sarcastic drawl entering his voice.
"I guess that's what happens when you grow up on a backwater, hick planet."
"Maybe. Maybe it's conditioning. All the girls in my town wanted to get married first. Including the girl I ran away from."
A bark of laughter issued from Reifi, who quickly realized her mistake, grasping her head in pain. Still, she continued with the inquiry she was about to make. "What, they were gonna force you to marry her at blasterpoint or something? Got her pregnant after a roll in the hay, then ran off to join the Rebellion?" Reifi questioned, a grin on her face.
"No; actually, she was the very definition of waiting until marriage: much to my dismay, I couldn't even get under her sweater. No, we went out for a while, but then one day she started mentioning how all our friends were getting married, and how she couldn't wait till she was married. Then she started dropping more obvious hints. I ignored them as best I could. Then one day, she out and out asks me why I haven't asked her to marry me yet. I stammer for a few minutes, and then I propose. She of course accepted... and the next day I was on the first shuttle out," Mik explained.
"You just left her hanging like that, probably planning with her friends what she was going to wear to the wedding? That's horrible!" Reifi exclaimed, quietly this time, though a grin couldn't help but sneak onto her face.
"It's not like I didn't like her. It's just that she represented life on that planet. I'd be living there for the rest of my life, have the same friends my entire life, never going more than a few hundred meters away from the town, unless a new mine opened up somewhere. It's a little silly, I'll admit, when you look at what other people are here for, but it's a reason," Vaeisto admitted.
"Yeah, some people had their families burned down, some are fighting because the Empire destroyed their planet, others are fighting for the greater good of the universe. Mik Vaeisto fights for freedom... from some poor miners daughter who is probably still crying about him running away from her," Reifi contemplated, grinning widely.
"Well, my sister got away on a scholarship to some university; I didn't see why she should have all the luck. And I didn't want to join the Imperial Army; my parents had always taught me they were bad for anyone who wanted even the slightest degree of independence. My parents weren't the most enlightened people in the world, but they didn't like the idea of being told what to do by anyone, especially some faceless government. So here I am," Vaeisto finished, shrugging.
"You ever going back?" Reifi asked absently, staring up at the gray, duracrete ceiling.
"Maybe. After I muster out, either after the war, or in four years, whichever comes first, I might visit them. The way the war's going, I'm guessing the four years will come first," Vaeisto replied.
"You think you'll get married to your miner's daughter girlfriend after returning a triumphant hero who's seen the galaxy. Then get a job at the mine, raise fat, healthy babies and live the rest of your life telling enormously exaggerated stories about your tour of duty with the SpecForce Marines?" Reifi pondered.
"I doubt she'll wait for me that long. There are a few other boys the village who I'm sure would be happy to take my place. As for settling down... no, I don't think I'll be able to do that. I may have discovered that this might have been the wrong way to see the galaxy, but I still want to stay out here. I might just reenlist with the Alliance, in a non-combat position of some sort. After a tour of duty with the Marines is on my record, I doubt they'd refuse the request."
"Warrior tourists...," Reifi murmured.
"Huh? What did you just say?"
"Oh, just a sudden thought.... I guess I just kind of see us as a bunch of warrior tourists. A bunch of people who wanted to fight for a cause and see the galaxy piece by piece at the same time. So we go around with a blaster rifle in one arm and a holorecorder in the other, so that we can say we did something in our lives, and then tell our kids about it in a few decades."
"Heh, guess I never really saw it that way. Though you're right, I've got a picture of every place I've been stationed at so far. Intelligence always makes sure that none of the pictures contain sensitive data, of course, but still... it's almost kind of perverse. Like we're taking advantage of the chaos so we can finally see some excitement."
"Don't feel too bad, kid. You're not the only one. I'm the same way; it was why I was with that militia before I joined the Rebellion; when the Alliance offered to take us on, since our little force didn't have much of a chance against the Imperials, I just followed along. I've at least resisted the urge to collect souviniers from battlezones."
"Reifi, I gotta tell you, I don't particularly relish the idea of giving my life up because I wanted to get out on my own," Mik stated.
"It's ok, kid, I feel the same way. Probably the rest of the Alliance does too. Well, just remember what my Drill Instructor once told me."
"And what was that?"
"Remember your training, and you will make it back alive. I figure that if I hold to that little piece of advice, I at least have a seventy five percent chance of surviving this. Or an artillery shell could randomly slam into me, proving me wrong. Either way, at least I died thinking I had a chance, and that's really all the officers can hope for as far as morale goes."
"Sounds like a good idea to me. Ignorance is bliss kind of thing, I guess."
"Maybe not his original intent, but close enough. You know, kid, you aren't as stupid as you act. I might end up liking you."
"Wow, if you didn't like me yesterday, I can't wait to see what it's like when you like me."
"Much less exciting, I'm afraid. You'd actually have to work in order to go out with me."
"Well, that would be a problem if I were interested in you romantically. Sadly, that's not the case. I actually agreed with what you said yesterday, about not getting involved with your squadmates. It's like incest or something."
"What, I remind you of your sister?" Reifi reproached him.
"No, not at all... it's just that you were right. Relationships are inherently dangerous on the battlefield. Look me up when I'm out of this company."
"Great, I had to meet a guy who actually agreed with me. Well, now you won't have anyone to kiss you in your dying moments if you get hit on the battlefield and are lying there bleeding on the ground."
"I'm sure Te'chun will oblige me. Otherwise, I'll just have to take the risk."
"Your loss, kid; I just hope the MPs come and pick us up soon...," Reifi wished absently.
The sound of Alliance issue combat boots on the duracrete floor seemed to immediately grant Reifi's hope. Vaeisto grinned and pushed himself up after Reifi pulled herself to a standing position. Soon the entire cell was erect, except for the one or two locals who remained in their prone positions. A moment later an Alliance lieutenant in the uniform of the military police walked into the detention area with two enlisted guards behind him. A local magistrate officer accompanied him, smiling slightly. The government of the colony was making a tidy sum off of the reparations that Alliance was making, and the officer knew it. The Alliance MP officer rubbed his temples, wishing that this duty hadn't fallen to him; he hated having to speak to these smug locals who refused to take a part in the galactic struggle, but who were more than happy to take the Alliance's money. The worst part was that there was still quite a bit of mopping up to do over the course of the day.
"Alright, soldiers, I'm gonna make this short, because there are quite a few more detention centers to hit before my job is complete. You're all docked a week's pay, and will receive reprimands on your permanent records. Of course, I doubt it really matters to any of you, since most of us don't plan on making a Rebellion our permanent career. Still, said reprimand will most likely affect your requests for transfer and leave over the course of your career here, until you can get it removed. Since the reason I'm down here rounding you up instead of leaving you in a prison on this planet while the fleet leaves is that there's an op planned. You'll get plenty of chances to clean your records then. That's all I'm authorized to tell you. Now, since we've paid the locals for the damages caused, plus some, you're all free to go... into the shuttles that are leaving in a half hour. The launch pads are about four klicks from here, but if you hurry you should make it. That is all," the officer stated, and then motioned to the magistrate officer.
The local moved to the detention cell's barred door and opened it with a swipe of a key. The Alliance members detained within filed out as respectably as they could, then made a beeline for the detention center's exit. They had to make those shuttles, as they did not want to be stuck on this planet, or force the Alliance to make a second trip. Either occasion would not bode well for them, so they had decided immediately upon hearing the officer's words to not doubt them for a second. There was always a chance it was a lie to convince them to run four kilometers in their debilitated state, but the soldiers had long ago learned not to take chances as far as MPs were concerned.
Reifi winked at Vaeisto as she ran, only occasionally wincing from a new onset of headaches. The exercise was at the very least allowing them to slightly recover from the night's exercise in debauchery.
"Twenty credits says I can beat you to the shuttles," Reifi stated as she ran next to Vaeisto.
"Since I'm forfeiting my pay on your account, I'll need the money. You're on," Vaeisto replied, grinning.
"Hey, I thought we were of the understanding that this was your fault, and yours alone, kid," she replied, then broke off into a flat sprint. Vaeisto hurried after, putting all the energy he could into his legs. They tried their best to focus on anything that didn't involve the mission they would soon be set upon. Mindless exercise is another great friend of the soldier.
Paperwork, and lots of it, the bane of every First Sergeant, had piled high since Sergeant "Saber" Helteran had walked into his office on the Frigate Tribulation that morning. First came the paperwork dealing with the fifteen or so new recruits assigned to C for Cresh Company, who had just arrived on a troop ship from some Alliance training world this morning. Then came even more paperwork dealing with the various reprimands handed out to half the enlisted beings in the company for various minor offenses the night before. Drunk and disorderlies... a few minor assaults... of course the requisite solicitations of prostitutes... defamation of private and public property... public urination... yeah, that sounded about right for most of these troops first leave before a huge op went down. The only problem was that their night of trying to convince themselves they were the best and the bravest meant an excessive amount of paperwork for their First Sergeant.
Nobody ever seemed to think of Helteran, though, until he chewed them out the following day for loading him up with work when he had more important things to take care of. This was always true, of course; a First Sergeant's work, as far as paper is concerned, is never, ever done. But with only a week to go before the op launched... weapons requisition request forms, supply requisition request forms, veteran troop request forms, every conceivable form of bureaucratic red tape piled up on Helteran's desk. Not to say that the man was purely possessed of a desk job, of course. If the officers were the brains of C for Cresh Company, Helteran was the heart. Not that he loved his job, or loved his company, but he kept everything flowing in order, as a good heart does. A good First Sergeant was what kept a company running, was what kept it from collapsing under its own weight. Helteran had enough experience in combat and non-combat duties to basically advise the officers as to what to do in any contingency, and to manipulate the system so that C for Cresh got the best gear and grub that it was possible to obtain.
This was not going to be an easy hop, for quite a few reasons. First, he had just learned this morning that he would have only one week to prepare, rather than the two weeks that he had originally been informed of. It went to figure, really; the day after he had organized everything to fall perfectly into the two-week deadline, they saddled him up with new instructions. The officers did not have any clue as to what went on behind the scenes when they made a deadline change like that; of course, it wasn't their job to know. Their job was to lead, to present the face of authority to the enlisted punks, to look good in their uniforms, while Helteran and the rest of the sergeants took care of making sure that everything didn't collapse under the officer's feet. Helteran wasn't resentful of this fact, though, because he knew that it was the way it had to be. He wouldn't have it any other way, in fact. He liked doing his job, liked the absolute reliance the officers and soldiers had on him. If he ever stopped doing his job, chaos would break loose, and the company would cease to function as a cohesive unit, or any unit for that matter.
The Sergeant wondered if he'd even be able to survive after the war, or whenever he was discharged from the SpecForce Marines. Sure, he'd probably make a good bureaucrat, or some corporate stooge working on spreadsheets and datapoints all day. But it would drive Helteran insane, he was sure of it. He was a soldier, and the one thing that offered him was constant change, constant new obstacles to overcome. In some corporate office or government cubicle, he would be facing the same things day in and day out, the same drudgery, with no conceivable change. The same fear faced him even if he didn't get a job after the war; if he just spent thirty years in the Marines, then retired with a pension, he did not know if he could handle just sitting around in the old soldier's home. He figured that the day he retired, he might as well just put a blaster into his mouth and pull the trigger. The Marines were Helteran's lifeline; the day he was cut off from it, he might as well have been dead.
The second problem the Sergeant faced was getting the soldiers ready in any fashion for the coming operation. They were mostly new recruits, fresh out of boot. He had no idea how they'd handle under battle conditions, or how they would react to having to survive in conditions far from any bases. Helteran's battalion was going in alone, and he did not know whether the soldiers could handle that. The third problem was the gear he had been issued. He needed cold weather gear, cold weather tents and gear to cut out a forward base from the ground in deep snow and ice conditions. He had so far been issued a fraction of the equipment his company needed, and it would take all his expertise to get enough new gear for the company to survive in the somewhat adverse conditions they were about to go into. Helteran sighed; it was time to go out and start scrounging.
The sergeant got up from his desk and grabbed his cover, then headed for the door. He nodded to his clerk, a Givin Corporal named Cray, and ordered, "I'll be out for an hour or so, four at the max; I want those reprimand papers filled out, the permanent records changed accordingly, and the papers for the supplies done by the time I get back. Got that?"
The Givin groaned at that; it was more adept at working numbers than this requisitions nonsense. Still, it replied with a "Yes Sergeant" and got back to work; chances were that it wouldn't be able to get all the work done in time, but it could at least try.
An inexperienced NCO would have made his way to the supply officer on board, and try and reason with him or her for what he needed. Helteran was far from inexperienced; he knew he'd get the same song and dance he'd been getting all day; a few dozen more requisitions forms to fill out, and a reprimand about trying to go around the proper channels. Rather, Helteran made a beeline for the Tribulation's hangar bay. He needed a dozen industrial strength fusion cutters, plus energy shielding so that they wouldn't act as huge "here we are!" beacons every time the soldiers of C company used them. He needed them fast, and he didn't feel like waiting the week or two that had been described to him by the supply officer. As he walked he placed a quick call on his comlink to the C for Cresh Company supply room on the ship; he figured that he might as well be prepared for the coming exchange.
Entering the hangar, Helteran immediately noticed the Crew Chief, a no-nonsense human female from Chandrila. Her reddish brown hair was curled up in a bun, pressed underneath a Starfighter Command uniform cap. She looked as harried as Helteran felt, constantly shouting out orders to her technicians to get the fighters aboard the frigate ready. The operation was affecting everybody, apparently, but Helteran only cared about how it affected his company. "Hey, Quinla! Don't you still owe me a few hundred off that sabacc game from a month ago?" Helteran shouted in greeting, a huge predatory smile springing across his face.
The Crew Chief was already rubbing her temples before she even turned around. "Can't you see I'm busy here, Arny? I've gotta get these fighters in some kind of shape in less than two weeks, and their pilots have been putting them through more battle damage than I even want to think about. How bout you go bother someone else for a change?" she questioned, narrowing her eyes.
"Hey, it's hard all over, Quin. It just so happens I only have a week to get my people ready. You know how they kind of expect the Marines to actually be ready before an operation, while it's ok for you Starfighter command pukes to be ready after it's over," Arny replied.
"I feel for you, really I do; if you came to ask a favor, that was the wrong way to start, Arny," Quin replied, then broke off, "Tune that fusial axis thruster to twenty five percent, Garrison, thirty five! I don't want to spend an hour fixing what you repair!"
"Yes, Chief!" replied the tech, returning to his work, carefully retuning the part.
"I appreciate what you're doing, really I do, Quin; in fact, I appreciate it so much that I'm willing to transfer you a half dozen fine tune, light grade fusion welders. I know how hard those things are to get, how you really need those to patch up the holes the flyboys blow in your fighters and how you're kind of short on them recently," Helteran offered.
"Yeah, sure, Arny; it just so happens that we had a half dozen light grades coming to us, but they were mysteriously transferred to C for Cresh Company, 275th Battalion. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Quinla asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Nah, Quinla, I figure it's just administrative error. Now, while I would love to just give you those light grades... we're kind of short ourselves in a certain department," Helteran broached, still grinning unapologetically.
"Oh, of course, you're just stopped from your philanthropic ways because you love your company too much. Whaddya want, Saber?" the chief conceded, shaking her head sadly, wishing she didn't have to give in to the Sergeant.
"Oh, just twenty industrial grade fusion cutters; it's not like you need 'em anyway: your job is to fix these babies up, not break 'em apart, right?" Helteran reasoned, slapping one of the X-Wings affectionately.
"TWENTY?!? Are you out of your flargin' mind?!? I need those things to break up hull plate armor to patch onto the fighter's hulls! That's half my supply!" she exclaimed, her brown eyes growing wide.
"Yeah, but from what I hear you don't have any welders at all, and you have a good forty industrial fusion cutters," the Sergeant replied, leaning against the nearby X-Wing.
"You heard wrong; I've only got thirty; I could spare you eight, but that's it. Twenty is insane: we'd never get our work done."
"Eight? I can't go back to the company with that. How bout fifteen? I'd be willing to throw in a couple TX-10 power coils... I think we've got a few extra lying around."
"That you probably stole from me, Helteran. You have those welders and those power coils here in an hour, you can have a dozen of the Fusion cutters, and I'll resist the urge to punch you in the face. That's it, you bloodsucker," Quinla fumed, her eyes betraying her urge to murder the First Sergeant. Helteran just grinned and winked, pulling out his comlink.
"An hour won't be necessary," he started, then flipped on the comlink, "Bring 'em in, boys."
Two repulsor trucks rolled in, one carrying the six fusion welders and two power coils, the other empty, accompanied by four Marines from C for Cresh Company. Helteran did nothing but grin, leaning against the X-Wing as his men came in and offloaded the equipment in the bay. The Starfighter Command Crew Chief just stood there, growing redder and redder as Helteran's bearing became more and more insufferable. Her eyes looked like she was consciously willing them to burn holes in Helteran's chest. Realization had instantly dawned on her as the carts came rolling in: she'd managed to bargain Helteran 'down' to exactly what he wanted.
"You... played... me," she managed to get out, trying to compose herself.
"No, I arranged an equitable business arrangement, which you accepted. Mind if those Marines grab the Fusion cutters? We'll just wheel 'em out, and you can go back to tending to your fighters," Helteran replied easily.
"OUT! Get those damn cutters and get out NOW!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs, pointing to the exit of the hangar.
"Much obliged; you're a beautiful young woman, Quin, but you're gonna pop a vein in your forehead if you don't take it easier," the First Sergeant advised, gave her a slight bow, and then exited, the grin seemingly plastered to his face.
Now all that was needed was some cold weather habitats and gear... Arny remembered that the 122nd with the local SecForce had been doing some arctic fighting recently... Arny placed a call to his Givin clerk, "Hey, Cray, get me the name of the ship the 122nd, with SecForce, is berthing on. Then call transport and get me a shuttle over to that ship. And toss the requisitions papers for the fusion cutters: its been taken care of."
"Yessir," came the reply, "You want anything else with that?"
"How bout a clerk who realizes he's never gonna make Sergeant if he mouths off to me?"
"Sir, yes sir!" came the sharper reply this time.
"That's better. Call back with the info in five minutes; I should be in the shuttle bay by then," Arny ordered, then headed back towards the hangar. He had a feeling that Chief Quinla wouldn't be entirely happy to see him, but that was just as well. The Sergeant hadn't gotten in a good shouting match for a long, long time.