Thanks to DaleJ and wryter501 for beta.
"Move sharply, there!" The lieutenant smiled inwardly when the soldier and his companions hurriedly straightened at her command.
The group of eight were making their way back to the barracks but they were still on duty, still in their uniforms. They should be marching in formation, not slouching along gossiping. It was their honour to wear those uniforms proudly even without anyone on this station but fellow soldiers and droids to see.
That would be one of the biggest changes when she became a civilian for the first time since her adulthood: the clothing. No boots, no cap, no weapon. Even on furloughs she typically wore her army-issue under-tunic and trousers. It simplified packing, and besides, the standard issue felt most comfortable. Civilian clothes would be an adjustment after twenty-three years of service.
Her mother had been an officer and her grandfather before that. From an early age a deep sense of reverence for the uniform and those who wore it had been drilled into her. She admired the people who sacrificed their lives to maintain freedom for everyone in this far-flung collection of galaxies linked by generations of trade and a common commitment to peace and security.
Except a commitment to peace was not so common anymore. Only one standard week ago terrorists attacked a base on Scarif; there were no survivors. She had lost a good friend on that planet.
Her fellow lieutenant had served with her on a tour of duty to one of the most lawless sections of any galaxy. Bors served six months with her and never once had they been free of the swampy stink that clogged even the recycled air of the base or gotten the red muck off their boots or uniforms. But they had brought law and order to that planet, security it had not known since the war began. Bors had saved her life there in the red slime of that backwater sinkhole of a planet and she had saved his, more than once. One mission had been especially tough.
A family of refugees, children, had stumbled onto the base. Outlaws had attacked their homestead, killed their parents along with aunts, uncles, and farmhands, and made off with the service droids and every mobile bit of equipment they could find. With a war on, the black market was thriving. She and Bors assembled their troops, hunted down the outlaws, and ensured they would never harass another homesteader. Or anyone else.
Then she and Bors opened a canister of something he had smuggled onto the base after his last trip home. She raised an eyebrow when he dug it out of his locker because technically he should have logged it and had it stored in the secure facility considering the strength of the intoxicant. He only grinned, took a deep draught himself, and offered the canister to her. She didn't ask what it was. They had celebrated their victory by getting stoned and sharing war stories.
After that assignment, he had been sent to Scarif and she had been seconded to this station when it sent out an urgent call for experienced personnel. The weaponry was not so different from what they used on-planet and the pay raise would bolster her pension.
Her gaze took in the hard polished floors and institutional walls. There was not one piece of decoration on this station; every item mounted on a wall or ceiling or floor had a functional use either for battle or to service its massive contingent of personnel. From the smallest cat-sized droid that scurried by on wheels, darting amongst soldiers' feet, to the two-legged K2SOs that lumbered around, every device had a utilitarian purpose that had little to do with comfort or ascetics. That would also be different in the civilian world where everything was designed for convenience.
"Duty stations," announced a synthesized human voice.
Her squads were assigned to two of the hull-mounted laser cannons. At the announcement, her sergeants would assemble their personnel and run the pre-firing drill, then wait for her to authorize engagement. She contacted each of them via comlink, ensured they would be ready within the fifteen-minute window, then headed at a quick march to her assigned weapons station.
She knew this space station had set course for a major target. There had been no announcement, at least not to anyone below the rank of colonel, but she knew what it meant when leaves were cancelled and communications curtailed. Fortunately, she had sent a holo-vid to her husband just hours before the ban on personal communication. As soon as this battle was complete, she hoped to access his reply and send him an update on when her final tour of duty would be complete.
Prior to this secondment, she had enjoyed two standard weeks at home with her family. It had felt luxurious to sleep past five Galactic Standard Time, to be away from the red slime and stink of her previous assignment, and to have her husband's arms around her again and his warm body beside her in bed. Her daughter, home from school for one entire week, had proudly recounted how well she was doing at the academy and embarrassedly admitted to having a new "friend."
The lieutenant had timed her furlough to coincide with their religious new year holiday. Her family celebrated the annual parade and feast together, even though they did not strictly observe the forty days of fasting that preceded the festival. Few military personnel were devout. It was impossible for the forces to permit observance of the vast array of religious holidays sacred to diverse galaxies and planets from which it had drawn soldiers. Most confined religious practice to off hours in their own quarters and, after three generations of military service, her family rarely did even that. But the holiday was a fun celebration.
After five standard days of the three of them together, she hugged her daughter farewell and then stood with her husband's arm around her waist at the crowded spaceport. Once their daughter returned to school, she and her husband had another five standard days alone.
They made love and talked of their plans after she finished this last tour. He was close to retirement and her pension would support both of them. They could travel a bit, despite the strain on public transportation given the terrorist threat, to one of several vacation spots with secure tourist areas and decent food. It would be a well-earned use of the nest egg they had saved. Afterward they planned to relinquish the tiny rental near his workplace and find a bigger home away from the noisy centre of the city, and begin the rest of their lives together.
The station lights flashed once, dim then bright again, and a klaxon sounded.
"Crews to fighters. Engage in ship-to-ship combat."
Her flash of surprise did not show in her expression. It was suicide to attack this station with individual warships, but fanatics did not care how many lives were lost, including their own. It was not for her to puzzle out their motives.
A dozen steps down the corridor she was knocked off her feet by an explosion. The panel on the right side of the hallway erupted in a fountain of electrical sparks. One of the rebel terrorists must have fired at the outer hull, or better yet, crashed into it.
"Contain this fire," she ordered the nearest soldier.
The trooper grabbed a wall-mount containment kit and quickly sprayed down the damaged circuits while a service droid initiated a bypass sequence. In seconds the toxic smoke had been sucked into the air recycler. Her eyes and the back of her throat burned slightly but the air in the hallway had a reassuring antiseptic cleanliness once again.
It was the most action she had experienced since arriving on this station. It was so large that combat was felt by only a handful of officers and engineers on the bridge who initiated the firing sequence. Already, they had been through two engagements and most of the troops on board were not even aware they had fired their weapon. She only knew of the campaigns because two bridge officers had gossiped about the spectacle: multiple red beams coalescing into a single deadly blast with unheard-of accuracy and power.
Perhaps the terrorists would be dissuaded from continuing their insurgency now that the new station was online, though she doubted it. Fanatics were rarely swayed by logic, even knowing how many lives would be lost in civil war. Two decades, millions of lives lost, civilian and military. It would be a blessing if this station could end the war with one final stroke.
She hastened toward her assigned station, pausing only to snap to attention when a black-clad figure strode past in the corridor, cape billowing behind him. The figure was not an officer – not military personnel at all – and his presence curdled her stomach. The troops and particularly the general resented the presence of this civilian who spoke with the Emperor's authority, but even the Grand Moff had no power to command the imposing black-armoured figure who was reportedly only half human. She stood to attention as he addressed a few of his troops.
"Several fighters have broken off from the main group. Come with me."
At the command of the deep, mechanical voice, two silver-helmeted soldiers turned and followed without question. As soon as the black cape disappeared from sight she let out the breath she had been holding.
By the time she reached her weapons station both her crews were assembled and in battle armour. "We're under attack from individual rebel fighter ships. Is the cannon ready to fire?"
"I initiated the warm-up sequence, Sir."
She nodded and laid her palm on the fail-safe, then spoke the current firing code into the voice pick-up. An indicator above the controls turned from red to green.
"Fire when ready, Sergeant." She stepped back so she had a good view of her crews as well as the monitors and controls, hands clasped behind her back. "Keep a close eye on our own fighters. Priority target to any ship trailing one of our own."
"Yes, Sir."
The controls for the surface canons were located near the weapons on the outer shell of the immense station. Her crews' proximity to the hull exposed them to nearby impacts of enemy fire and shrapnel. Another explosion shook the floor, forcing her to grab hold of a wall brace and knocking two of her crew to their knees. They were on their feet again in moments and back at their stations. She bit back a proud smile at their efficiency and re-clasped her hands behind her back, taking care to stand with feet apart and braced in case there was another impact nearby.
The general's aide strode past them in the direction of the bridge, a worried expression on his sharp features. She spared an instant's thought to be grateful that she had not risen high enough to be stationed near the beak-nosed general. His thin lips were set in a permanent scowl and his high forehead was always wrinkled in distaste. He was nearly as unsettling as Lord Vader despite being a military man. She did not understand career soldiers who went into politics. Their duty was to serve and protect, not participate in the complicated web of power games.
The lights dimmed again.
"I've lost power to the canon, Sir."
"It will be temporary." Apparently they were energizing the big weapon. They must have reached the target. That explained the fighter attack: it was a last ditch effort by the rebels to slow or distract the space station.
"Back on line, Sir."
"Recommence defence pattern."
The floor trembled beneath their feet, but the impact was further away and they barely felt the force of whatever had crashed into the hull this time.
"Enemy ships are retreating, Sir."
"Good." As soon as they got the order to stand down, she was going to send that holo-vid to her husband.
The world ended in a flash of brilliant white.