This place is not agreeable…
Outpost 3-Bravo, G'han Lowlands
I never signed up to be a killer. Most stories circulating the HoloNet, slipped past the censors at the Imperial Security Bureau, call us [Imperial Armed Forces] murderers. They're all garbage publications written by pompous fools, too content in their sedentary lifestyle to experience the true workings of the Galaxy. Come to Mimban and get shot at, maybe that will change your perspective. Grow up on a world ravaged by slavers under the supposed liberties ensured by the Republic. I joined the Empire because I wanted more than what Euruta could meagerly offer. I didn't ask to come to Mimban, hell, I didn't even know what Mimban was until I received it as my posting. The war we're fighting here was not started by the Empire, the Empire only inherited this mess. I kill bugs on Mimban because they're trying to kill me. We are cruel, we are brutal, but we are alive. That is what is needed to stay alive. It's that simple.
Each day you wake up on Mimban, you are confronted with the possibility of death. It stalks you at every turn. There is no escaping it. When you do wake up and you aren't dead, just consider yourself lucky that you've made it this far, but your time is coming. Once you've resigned yourself to that fact, it is easier to process. I've watched people die. I wish you could say you got used to it, in some ways you do, like when you come across a body it does not shock you. Sergeant Dystraay, his death is the one that bothers me still. He was tough to serve under, but he watched out for me, taught me what I needed to know to survive to this point. I harbor resentment towards the Mimbanese for his death. Dystraay had a wife he loved, two kids he always talked about –proud of his son ready to start at the Academy and the daughter that meant the worlds to him. His was the family I wish I grew up with and he was the father I wish I had. Stars knows my father was a useless ass. Now, Dystraay no longer exists. The Mimbos killed him, there in the trenches. I carry his E-11 I picked off his body, so there's that piece of him that lives on, the part still with me.
Some here have yet to grasp the concept that this is a war, the Mimbos are the enemy. Many of the former students, convicted by Imperial courts for practicing a contrary opinion and sentenced to military service on Mimban, struggle to understand. They latch onto the non-aggression ideology and wish to practice pacifism in the face of constant death. There are a few who take their protest a step further. At night, they slip out beyond the perimeter of the outpost and seek defection to the MLA. When our patrols go out, they find the mutilated corpses of the deserters, hacked to pieces, and scattered about. The Mimbanese made their position on the matter clear, we are their enemy and always will be. How do we make peace with these savages? Many of the students are unwilling to hear my solution.
A short time after the raid, where we leveled the Mimbanese village, I was called to the company officer's dugout. Captain Brimmo was there with his first sergeant, as well as Lieutenant Dangir, and the lieutenant commanding 3rd platoon, whose name escapes me. When I was summoned, I thought I was in trouble, maybe an official reprimand for hazing Baize to the extent I did. But that was not the reason. Brimmo made Dangir do the honors –present me with the Order of the Empire, second class. It was the commendation Brimmo awarded me for my actions in the village and it came with a promotion to corporal, which I did not expect. Naturally, I was proud, excited even. I showed my loyalty to the Empire, and I was finally recognized for it. Dangir could only scowl, as he presented me the small medallion and Brimmo read the official commendation aloud. The lieutenant was so desperate to acquire as many medals as he could and was extremely envious at my success –while he was humiliated before his command by Brimmo. It was a brief ceremony, before I was expelled from the officer's space into the cold mud where the grunts belong.
The base has been officially titled Outpost 3-Bravo on official maps and reports by command, so I guess we're calling it that now. We've been hard at work turning this clearing on top of the hill into a damn fortress. The individual dugholes scattered around the perimeter have all been linked by a series of entrenchments to form a reinforced line. Spaced periodically, we've built bunkers to place the E-Web heavy repeating blasters where they can cover the approaches. All over the muddy slopes, we've strung razor wire to entangle any Mimbo dumb enough to run right at us. Command flew in a labor detail of two dozen Wookiees from Camp Forward. The Wookiees are amazing beasts to see at work. Their detail dug in a few days, what would've taken our entire battalion weeks. The Empire kept a selection of Wookiees on Mimban to serve as our labor –take on manual work to free up Troopers for other duties. Never did find out where they came from or what brought them here. Didn't really care to.
We receive supplies delivered in cargo pods dropped by AT-Haulers (when weather permits). The cargo pods do not go to waste, as we dismantle them and use the steel sheets to line the walls in our dugouts and bunkers. I prefer the dugout, if you can sufficiently waterproof it, to the tents they've set up to house us. The dugouts are more insulated from the cold and retain heat much better than the tents, which are poorly constructed and fray almost immediately after being unpacked.
I've taken up tabac smoking, a filthy habit to anyone who hasn't served in the Imperial Army. I don't know how I've made it this far without them, to be honest. Cartons of cigarras arrive with every supply drop and are regularly distributed to us. It is the one item the Army ensures makes it to its Troopers. I suppose it is their way to keep morale up and help us deal with conditions here. Did the cigarras exacerbate the problems caused by spore inhalation and "lungfung"? Who knows, more importantly, who cares? I am not a doctor. They helped to take the edge off when you can light up, inhaling the tabac warms the insides on those frigid nights. Now, I'm always smoking, we were always smoking. The one item of enjoyment in this hellscape.
The purpose for our being here is to deter and counter enemy action within this sector of the G'han. We want the Mimbos to come at our base in force –wreck their numbers in a vain assault through our overwhelming firepower. In addition to the E-Webs in bunkers, we've mined the slopes and our mortar platoon has the range sighted for about two kilometers in every direction. Success, for headquarters, will be measured by the number of Mimbos we kill. But the Mimbos do not come. Since our pacification of the village, enemy activity has significantly decreased. Operations now concern themselves with the launching of patrols to seek the enemy and destroy whatever trace we can locate, be it combatants or their caches of arms. If it draws them into attacking us, all the better. Though, we've seen minimal success with this strategy, only sparse encounters with the enemy. The bulk of the hostile Mimbos are out there, deep in the forest, we know they are.
Our "seek and destroy" approach had to be reevaluated after the 1st company went out on an extended patrol and got themselves banged up. 1st company deployed to sweep a preselected sector for Mimbos. Details of what exactly happened are sketchy, but this is what I know. About six kilometers from the post, 1st company was on an old swamp trail that opened on a glade when their sappers came across a mine. It was one of those HX2 antipersonnel mines, surplus from the Separatists, the Mimbos had access to millions of these and planted them like crops.
The two sappers of 1st company were in the same training program as Haurn and me, though I do not recall their names. They graduated after only three weeks –due to the dire need to assign sappers. Those two tried to disarm the mine, in doing so, triggered the device and were killed in the blast. 1st company did not realize it, but they walked right into a minefield. Once the sappers managed to blow themselves up, chaos ensued. Troopers in the front panicked and ran into mines, setting them off. Panic spread and more Troopers took off running in every direction without regard, triggering more mines in a cascading effect.
Their number killed was listed as fifty-six, though how many were wounded and left out in the swamp because they could not walk or be carried, I do not know. The wounded that did make it back were an appalling sight –limbs missing and screaming from the unending pain. The overwhelmed medics did what they could to ease the suffering until those wounded could be evacuated to proper facilities. Their misery was prolonged because the weather would not break for several days –preventing landing craft from reaching the outpost to fly them out.
The battalion arrived here with eight sappers, two to a company. Minus the pair that blew themselves up, the remaining six of us share a dugout in the northwest quadrant of the outpost. Originally, the dugout was for the captain of 1st company, but she stepped on a mine, so the sappers took it over. It is situated twenty meters from the section of trenches where 3rd company is stationed. When I am not on duty or have a watch, you can find me in our dugout. We share the space with Cpl. Flez Govnic and Trooper Tak Pommavaz from 2nd company, along with Cpl. Lia Orvavo and Cpl. Edwan Dashnik from 4th company. The other four each have at least a year on Mimban, Dashnik just started his fourth, but they did not burden Haurn or me with any of the hazing practices, despite our comparatively newly arrived status. We all were veterans of this conflict on Mimban. Though, the pair of us were still tasked to run the errands on behalf of the sappers.
Our dugout was something to take pride in, we fought off the sergeant commanding the remnant of 1st company for it. The dugout itself is sunk into the mud about two meters, with the siding ripped from a cargo pod comprising the roof, which is covered with mud and sandbags for protection. Inside, we have a floorspace of about 2.5x2.75 meters. We crudely fashioned bunkbeds from cots, and they line three of the interior walls, so each gets their own bed, and we don't have to share. There is a communal table in the center that occupies what remains of the limited area, we use the lower bunks as benches when seated around. It is cramped, but we make it work, especially since the insulation holds in the warmth.
The other sappers are alright, we all understood how life on Mimban worked, we'd all done our suffering. Cpl. Govnic came from one of the lower levels on Coruscant –one too many aggravated assault charges landed him in the Army, a lengthy prison term being the alternative. He was always spoiling for a fight. I didn't like Govnic, he was too cruel and obsessed with death, suffering, pain –this was the type of Trooper who took the fingers off a dead Mimbo to make a necklace. Govnic was nothing less than a monster, evidenced by the satchel he fashioned from the skin of a Mimbanese he flayed and the Mimbo skull he kept within it. Occasionally, he'd take the skull out, alter his voice, and talk to you through it.
Tak Pommavaz was an odd one, nice guy, but odd. He was a very quiet man, never would hold a conversation or say more than two words to you. When you tried to talk to Pommavaz, he'd give you an awkward smile and nod his head. He became very anxious and twitchy if you tried striking up a conversation. Pretty much, he would agree to anything you said just to get you to stop talking to him and leave him alone. Despite being a quiet guy, he was an ardent writer, always scribbling away on his datapad at every waking moment. I suspect they were letters home because he always turned in datacards with the outbound mail, but never did receive anything when the inbound mail arrived and was distributed. Nobody knew what brought Pommavaz to Mimban, stars knows asking him was useless.
Lia Orvavo was a poet and playwright from the Inner Rim world of Tirahnn, apparently well published and renowned among the planet's intellectual circles. She ended up on Mimban after composing a ballad critical of the corruption flourishing under the Governor of Tirahnn, who did not appreciate the scathing analysis of his administration. You'd hardly know Orvavo was an accomplished author, she never discussed, recited, or even mentioned her works. Orvavo no longer put effort into composition, rather, she just put her energy into screwing. Probably slept with most of the Troopers in the battalion, and hyperbolic rumors claim she's been with half of the 224th, who knows. It seems like a game to her, the only thing she truly cares about at this point.
Finally, there was Edwan Dashnik from Nendal. Dashnik and I shared a similar background, both from impoverished and overlooked Outer Rim worlds. Both our worlds were ravaged during the Clone War. Unlike Euruta, Nendal had enough clout to declare for the Separatists and be accepted within the Confederacy. Dashnik's parents were killed fighting in the planetary militia against the clones once the Republic arrived. Originally enrolling in a pilot training program, Dashnik failed out of Imperial flight school due to poor grades and lack of aptitude. Wanting to recover the costs already invested, the Empire transferred him to Mimban. Dashnik seemed like a genuine person, he was outgoing and always cheerful. The cheerfulness never eroded, never sullied, it was perpetual as the smile he wore on his face. Nothing appeared to dampen his spirits. Though, when you got close, despite what positivity radiated in his words, and looked Dashnik in the eye, it seemed like there was nothing there.
I talk about the sappers, because they were the first group of Troopers on Mimban I got to know. We took our meals together in our dugout, swapped gear we pilfered from the students, and joked about our situation. Dashnik had been a sapper for most of his time on Mimban, was knowledgeable on just about every aspect of the deadly trade. He passed on everything he knew in the hopes we wouldn't blow ourselves up repeating a common mistake. I felt like I came away with more from the short time with Dashnik than my original sapper training. Dashnik explained it clearly and did not lose his temper when you asked a stupid question. You could be candid when discussing mines with Dashnik.
The battalion still conducts limited patrols of the surrounding forest, but always in close proximity to the outpost –we never venture out as far as 1st company. Various platoons rotate the patrol duties. The patrols sweep different quadrants from the base, and we always have a comms line linked directly to the mortar platoon for support, if immediately needed. We check for signs of Mimbos, should any try to sneak up on our position, though we have not encountered any hostiles. Dashnik accompanies every patrol as the attached minesweeper, he brings Haurn and me along on many. There are a few mines we come across, most hastily planted by the withdrawing Mimbos when we fought off their only massed assault on the post. These are easy to spot and Dashnik turns every instance into a teaching opportunity –points out the telltale signs for planted mines and the markings the Mimbos leave to warn their own. The Mimbos notch the trees where landmines are present. I guess minesweeping was Dashnik's true calling because he can point them out and is never wrong. He is so casual about the exercise, whereas I am paranoid with each step I take, Dashnik is unphased. It is taxing to go out on patrol after patrol, but the practical experience is invaluable and helps to build our confidence.
The patrols are exhausting, and it can be an unwelcome occurrence to return from one in the evening to learn I've been assigned sentry duty for the platoon. When I had the watch with Haurn, it was better. We could spend the whole night talking or in silence, but it was nice to have someone you knew there, made it easier.
"Wish the bugs would just make a run on us," Haurn said, as we huddled in our blankets and sat in the trench for our turn at sentry duty. "Let's get this over with. Kill 'em all and we can go back to Camp Forward. Or we get killed and don't have to be cold anymore."
"Yeah, what I wouldn't give for one of those warm showers they claim Camp Forward has," I replied, lit up a cigarra and held the torch to light Haurn's.
"You're selling yourself short, Maider. Let's get deployed to a peaceful tropical world, grow fat and lazy guarding a beach."
"What the hell is a beach?" I asked, inhaling a drag of the tabac.
Haurn punched me hard in the arm, which was still hurting from getting bashed from the butt of Sgt. Flelt's E-10 earlier in the day.
"Do you seriously not know what a beach is?" Haurn demanded, semi-serious exasperation in her words.
I shook my head, honestly, I heard about the concept, but Euruta did not have seas nor beaches. Admittedly, I am not well traveled, my whole life was spent on Euruta, and my military training was done entirely on a space station. Mimban is the only other planet I've set foot upon. Haurn chuckled and smiled. Despite the darkness and the misery, her unmistakable hazel eyes shown through it all.
"Once we find our way out of this place," Haurn began. "I'll take you to one."
"Optimism like that," I joked. "You're beginning to sound like me."
Haurn paused for a moment, looked me dead in the eyes. Her intent was serious, and, at the time, I wish I wasn't such a dammed fool.
"We don't have to die here," said Haurn. "It's a big Galaxy and we can lose ourselves in it easily."
"But…the Empire?" I uttered. "We can't just leave, desert the Army."
"There you go again with your misplaced loyalty," Haurn fired back, anger in her tone. "You've more than paid back the Empire whatever it is you think you owe them. Bleeding for Mimban is a waste. Kriff these bugs and to hell with the Empire. Let's bluff our way onto a transport, or hell, secure a furlough and just not return."
"Won't they come for us? Won't they miss us or something? Track us down?"
"Dammit, Paulus Maider, take a kriffing look around! You know how incompetent these officers are, how shit the records are kept, how mismanaged casualty reporting is? What are two more Troopers that can't be found to the Empire? We aren't worth the effort. Come with me, we can follow our own path, lead our own lives, do whatever the kriff we want. Dying pointlessly on Mimban is beneath us."
Damn, I was a fool, never saw the message that practically held me by the shirt and punched me repeatedly in the face. If I could go back to this point in time again, I would have forged company transfer documents, shot us both in the foot, or something, anything to get us far away from here, together. I was a damn fool.
It has been how many weeks, months, since we arrived at this outpost? I no longer care to keep track, since monotony firmly entrenched. The tension gets to you when a sentry panics and calls the battalion to arms because they thought they saw a shadow move, a boot stomps a puddle in the darkness beyond the perimeter, only to find it was nothing. It plays on your nerves, being half asleep or sitting down to a meal, when the alarm is sounded and you rush to the firing line, expecting a life-or-death shootout with the Mimbos, but there is nothing there. You must find an outlet to release the stress. Hazing in the Imperial Military exists, I won't deny it. Instructors and senior Troopers hazed us relentlessly in the brief experience that was supposed to count for basic training when I enlisted. There are policies against the practice, but officers turn a blind eye. Once you've put in your time, killed for the Empire, watched friends die, then you get to partake in the practice. I took out a lot of frustration on Baize.
I never learned Baize's first name, only knew his last name because he once snitched on me to Sgt. Thif. Baize was everything I hated about the Republic, all rolled into one person. He enjoyed a privilege upbringing on Chandrila and was utterly incensed the Empire brought an end to the decadent lifestyle afforded to those who manipulated the system to prosper while the rest of us suffered. Every time there is a ration call, especially when hot food is served, I send Baize to fetch mine for me. I tax half of his meal to cover the restitution costs owed Euruta by the Republic. The one time I caught Baize spit in my food, Haurn and I beat him senseless. He doesn't spit anymore. Whenever my equipment is mud-logged, or my blaster acquires a build-up of carbon, it is Baize who takes care of the cleaning. Sometimes, for no reason at all, I'll punch him in the gut or the head –his cries are truly pathetic. There is nothing he can do in retaliation, as I hold the rank of corporal and am his superior. Thif is aware I've singled out Baize, but there is little she can do, apart from assigning me extra sentry duty. Haurn steps in to pick up the slack while I'm sequestered on watch. The hazing is widespread and Thif is too insignificant in the greater Imperial workings to affect any change. Rumor says she tried to report my behavior to Brimmo, and the captain reportedly laughed in her face.
I get to pick on Baize, but you are never fully immune to the practice of hazing from a superior. I was on sentry duty in the perimeter trench, assigned an extra watch from Sgt. Thif after I smashed Baize over the head with an ammunition crate. The rain came down, as usual, and I was huddled under my raincloak and struggled to stay awake. Sgt. Flelt trudged along the line, stumbled over a few times, and landed in the mud that pooled in the bottom of the trench. As expected, he was drunk. I tried to sink myself into the wall of the trench, become as invisible as I could to avoid his attention. Then an intense pain in my ribs, delivered by a heavy blow, sent me tumbling into the mud. If I had my chest armor on, it would've broken Flelt's hand, but I took it off to use as a seat to keep my ass dry. The drunken sergeant proceeded to kick and stomp me repeatedly with his heavy boots. I curled up, tried to protect my soft spots from the strikes.
"Where's my liquor, Rizdak," Flelt shouted, all while the boots pummeled. "I told you not to show yourself until you brought me the four liters you were ordered to find."
So, I caught this beating from Flelt meant for someone else. It was not just mistaken identity beatings, there were plenty meant for me. Haurn and I were summoned to the company officer's dugout. It was under the pretense that Lt. Dangir needed to review something, some spurious excuse. Brimmo was at the battalion commander's shelter, enjoying a formal dinner flown in from Camp Forward and exclusive to select officers. As Haurn and I stepped down into the dugout, we found ourselves set upon by Flelt and the company's first sergeant, Ukes. Flelt got me with a heavy punch that landed just under my nose. Getting punched sent me reeling a step or two, before Flelt took a metal rod and bashed me over the head with it. He grabs me by the back of my head and slams my face, several times, into the frame of an adjacent bunkbed. Flelt releases his grasp, I fall to the ground in pain, the room spinning. Ukes punched Haurn in the throat, which has her gasp for breath, as she is repeatedly kicked by the first sergeant. All the while, Dangir sits back in a chair and watches the assaults. The beatings occur under Dangir's instruction, but the lieutenant is unwilling to get his hands dirty. Beating enlisted Troopers is beneath his station, so he delegates the work to the sergeants. I suspect the lieutenant purchases Flelt's supreme loyalty with alcohol. 1st Sgt. Ukes did not necessarily believe in hazing, held no personal grudge against me, he just liked to hit people and accepted any opportunity to do so.
My commendation carries some negative consequences. Dangir resented the fact I won the approval of Capt. Brimmo, I received the medal. I was the nobody from the Outer-Rim who outshined the wealthy merchant's son from the Core. For that, Dangir was delighted to see me suffering. Haurn was there because she was guilty of her association with me, and the fact Dangir harbored a deep prejudice against Mandalorians. I couldn't recall how long the beating lasted, blood covered our faces, collected on the dirty flooring of the officer's dugout. It came to an end when Flelt smashed a stool on my back, Dangir lashed out in a verbal castigation for breaking the furniture unnecessarily. Bruised, bleeding, and in excruciating pain, Haurn and I were shouted at to immediately leave the officer's dugout for it was off-limits to enlisted personnel. We shuffled out into the driving rain to nurse our wounds, light up a cigarra. In a few hours, when we felt better and up to it, the two of us would track down Baize and make him suffer dearly for our torment.
The beatings under Dangir's instruction happened on and off over the course of our time at Outpost 3-Bravo. Sometimes Haurn and I were summoned together, sometimes individually. It is not like we could avoid a summons to the officer's dugout because it was a direct order. There were occasions it was a summons to discuss legitimate military matters or deployments but would often conclude with a beating. We were spared having our hands smashed or digits broken –we were sappers and Dangir would catch absolute hell if we could not disarm mines. Officers had an unwritten rule not to assault a fellow commissioned comrade, so there were no instances of Brimmo taking out his frustrations on Dangir by use of fists –they just screamed at their subordinates. However, officers were free to strike enlisted personnel, or get a proxy to render the beating.
Many of these former students, who comprise this battalion, are unwilling to accept their old way of life is gone. They've taken it upon themselves, the more politically minded ones, to organize a soldiers' committee. The committee's purpose is to resist, if only through passive-aggressive grandstanding, the draconian rule of the Empire. If the ISB had an adequate number of agents stationed on Mimban and bothered to investigate, this little student club would be immediately shutdown. Baize was a founding member and elected chairman with that punk Rizdak as his deputy. Sgt. Thif is also involved, but technically subordinate to Baize, as military structure has no application among committee members. I learned that I have been permanently disqualified from membership, as if I wanted a membership, due to my "morally reprehensible behavior" and "atrocities committed against a civilian population". They also held a vote to have me censured. Every officer in the battalion received the same manner of condemnation. These are all showpiece actions and carry no real-world consequence –they're too afraid to confront me personally. My rank of corporal elevates me over the Troopers belonging to the committee, so they can't assault me without invoking a military court. Fear of mutiny ensures stern and immediate measures are brought down upon subordinates that fight back against superiors.
Their committee is more of a nuisance than an antagonizing organization. Its members take pity on Baize and are aware of his treatment at my hands. Often, they will cover for Baize, providing me false information about where he is or take to hiding him when I come around. The part that really pisses me off is when they try to substitute his place for a beating. I am there to beat Baize, not them. It forces me to beat them in addition to Baize as punishment for their effrontery. The days are long, and I find it tiring to effectively render more than one beating. In those cases, I have to fetch Haurn to help, but if she is on duty, then it is Govnic. I do not like having to bring Govnic. Ostracization spares me from their committee meetings, which consist of hours long recitations of political theory and education on their "history" of the Republic. It is required for any Trooper belonging to the committee and a prerequisite for membership –membership being highly sought after because it's better to belong to a group than not. The sappers are my group.
We were huddled in the sapper's dugout. The rain fell hard that night, beat against the roof. Glad Haurn and I did not have to stand watch, for it was a miserable night. Govnic and Orvavo were under the blanket in Govnic's upper bunk, unconcerned by our presence. Pommavaz scribbled away on his datapad. Haurn and I were seated on my bunk at the table with Dashnik, who was seated in his. We sifted through the packs of synthetic sweetener the military included with each ration issue. The rations were of such poor quality, the sweeteners were included to make the food more palatable. We accumulated a stash of extra packets, either saved from unused meals or taken from the students. What we needed was a sizable supply.
Before us on the table sat a twenty-liter jerrycan of polyprotane. Polyprotane is an alcohol-based compound made for cleaning blasters by stripping the carbon scoring that accumulates from firing. The twenty-liter cans are to service the E-Webs, but we got our hands on this one by agreeing to share the finished product with the quartermaster sergeant. Haurn and I had to open each sweetener pack and empty the contents into a larger bowl. Once filled, Dashnik took a measuring cup and added the sweetener to the can of polyprotane. You could drink it raw, but it was harsh, and you'd often find yourself gagging. The sweetener took a lot of the bite off, so you could stomach the stuff. Just like that, we had our own "jerrycan gin". Damn, it could get you drunk.
Dashnik filled his mug and took the first sip –broke into a severe coughing fit. It was to his standards. He quickly filled a mug for me and then Haurn. Govnic and Orvavo stopped their activity to partake, as Pommavaz set down his latest composition. We congregated around the table, hoisted our mugs high. Dashnik delivered the toast.
"To the sappers," Dashnik began. "Who only need to be as good as their last mistake."
Mugs clinked and we threw back our drinks. At once, the improvised gin scorched my insides, as I swallowed and gagged immediately. I felt sick to my stomach, like I wanted to throw up, like I'd been poisoned. Honestly, I probably was poisoned. Everyone was in the same miserable shape, yet we placed our mugs back on the table and demanded they be refilled. I did two more before I had to stop, had to grab the communal slop bucket, and empty my guts. Haurn was right behind, as was Pommavaz, who flailed his arms wildly to signal the need for the bucket. Damn, I could feel it hitting me, my head spun as did the room.
The night passed, we sang and shouted in revelry. The mood was festive, as we could forget about the misery just beyond the confines of our dugout. Dashnik led the group in singing a few shanties popular among spacers, though I didn't know the words, I happily joined in. When Haurn gets drunk, she switches to speaking exclusively in Mando'a, which can be quite humorous since she does not realize it. Govnic isn't as much fun when he's drunk. At least he does not become violent, as one might assume. Rather, Govnic becomes depressed and emotional –puts his head down and cries for his mother. Pommavaz will drink, throw up, and then fall asleep in his bunk when he decides he's finished. I had to decline an advance from Orvavo, to which she was furious, smacked me hard across the face, then grabbed her raincloak and breathing mask, and swiftly departed the dugout in search of company. I didn't want to be impolite, just wasn't in the mood.
I had my arm around Haurn, who was seated next to me and unable to steady herself upright. She looked at me, slurring her words as she spoke. I couldn't understand her peoples' language to begin with. Then, she grabbed the front of my tunic and uttered the same phrase repeatedly, like it was something serious. I was worried it was a threat or some Mandalorian hex she was putting on me, I had no idea what she was saying. Every word in their language sounds so kriffing aggressive.
"She's saying she loves you," a frail voice piped in, but with confidence in the knowledge conveyed.
At first, I did not recognize the voice, but then I could not believe the source. Pommavaz leaned on his side from his bunk.
"In Mando'a," Pommavaz continued. "'Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum' is a pronouncement of one's love in a sincere and true manner, though a more literal translation would be, 'I hold you in my heart eternally'."
I did not know what to think at that point. Pommavaz could speak in complete sentences –the fact he was so knowledgeable about Mando'a. Then there was what Pommavaz translated, what Haurn said. My heart raced; did she truly mean it? Or was it just a drunken statement to be forgotten by morning? I turned back to Haurn, only to find her with her head thrown back, mouth open, and clearly passed out. Oh well. Dashnik caught the whole thing, let out a boisterous laugh and slapped a hand to my shoulder. He helped me lift the blacked out Haurn to her bunk, so she could sleep off the night's drinks.
We sat down at the table, Dashnik and me. I wasn't tired and the gin's effects began to dissipate. Dashnik refilled my mug, and I slowly nursed the drink over the time we talked. He seemed to have a high tolerance to the drink –figures, since he was so proficient in mixing the stuff. Govnic ceased his sobbing and was asleep, face down on the table and drooling from his slacked mouth. I wanted to think about what Haurn said, but I also had to assume it was the alcohol talking. She couldn't love me, some bumpkin from a backwater world. No, I wasn't the sort Mandalorians would mix with, let alone respect. Thinking about it would just hurt, so I deflected the conversation when Dashnik brought it up.
"What's the deal with Pommavaz?" I asked, changing the subject. "I thought he couldn't speak?"
"Oh, he can talk," Dashnik replied, downing a mug of gin. "He doesn't like to in most cases. Get him going on one of his subjects or give him a chance to brag about his intellect, and he won't shut up."
"What do you mean by subjects?"
"Whatever's caught his fascination, usually it's the navigational mechanics of hyperspace routes. He thinks he's found a calculation that shaves three parsecs from the overall length of the Perlemian Trade Route. All that writing he does, those aren't letters home. They're articles he writes for academic journals for publication. Tak also speaks about two dozen languages, guess Mandalorian is one of them."
"So, he's some sort of genius? What the hell is he doing here?"
"No idea," Dashnik smiled. "Haven't gotten that out of him yet. But he volunteered for the Army."
It was humorous, to learn this facet of Pommavaz. I just thought he was weird, but he's weird and a genius.
"What's your story?" I asked Dashnik, a swig of gin to build up the courage to ask. "Why are you so bloody cheerful all the time?"
Dashnik laughed, filled my mug and his, then insisted we finish our drinks first.
"After failing flight school," Dashnik began. "The Empire demanded I serve on Mimban for two years, the remainder of my service contract. So, I did my two."
"I thought you were on your fourth tour?" I inquired, confused.
"Yes. I was discharged from the Army, went home to Nendal. Lasted six months in civilian life before I reenlisted. Requested and was granted a post on Mimban."
"Why come back to this? Mimban especially?"
"I don't know the reason why I came back," Dashnik paused for a moment, mug balanced in hand. "Life outside of Mimban just didn't feel complete, I felt like I was missing something, felt bored, directionless. Here, there is purpose. Plus, if I don't teach you kids what they didn't teach you in sapper training, we're all kriffed."
"You're crazy for agreeing to come back," I said to Dashnik. "I want to serve the Empire, see more than Euruta, but I'd gladly do it anywhere but here."
"You still believe in the Empire?" Dashnik asked me, straightforward.
"I do," was my answer, though I thought it a strange question.
Dashnik smiled, lifted his mug, but did not take a drink. He swirled the mug in his hand and set it down. Then, he indicated for a cigarra, which I handed over, lit one for him and one for myself.
"The Empire will make you do some unspeakable things while in its service," Dashnik uttered, though his speech was far more detached from its usual joviality. "You may have done bad things already, but I'm not here to judge. It's going to get worse, the longer you're here. I would find yourself an escape, something that lets you hold onto your humanity and forget about Mimban, if only for a while."
"So, I don't end up like Govnic?" I asked.
"No, Govnic was always cruel. He'd be this way on Coruscant if left there," Dashnik replied with a smirk. "I'm talking about me. Don't follow my example, don't invest yourself solely in the Empire, in Mimban. You'll only find yourself wanting to come back here, unable to adjust to life beyond the swamp. The combat is like a drug, you get addicted to it, find you cannot live without it. It will draw you back here, no matter how hard you try to avoid it. Take your sapper training, apply to engineering school. Leverage your experience and tenure to get a posting demining an old Clone Wars battlefield on the cushy planet of your choice. They make the droids do all the dangerous work."
Dashnik was beginning to sound like Sergeant Dystraay, giving me hope for a life beyond Mimban. Dystraay told me to reach for an officer's candidacy and obtain a commission. If you enjoyed the sapper's work and had the seniority, you could get an assignment clearing mines on a nice world, and you get issued equipment that works. Plenty of mines were left over by both the Separatists and Clones. We didn't drink much longer, as Dashnik and I were sufficiently drunk and tired. He said a polite goodnight and slid back into his bunk. I wished him the same and laid down in mine. I could not sleep, at least not at first. For a while, I just stared at the underside of the bunk above me, where Haurn was passed out. I had not given it much thought; I really had no plans besides leave Euruta. Maybe there was something more, maybe I could really make something of myself. Maybe what Haurn said was true. In that case, I really should make something of myself.
000
