Challenger-IV

Orbit of Rishi

"SCUM!" Drill Sergeant Syko shouted. "Reprobate! Degenerate! Dank Farrik! Maggot! Filth!"

At each utterance of an insult, Syko advanced along the rank of assembled recruits and delivered a heavy punch. Our training platoon was formed in our barracks at another "line-up". When it was my turn, Syko referred to me with the Huttese pejorative of "Sleemo", accompanied by a hard blow to the gut. This was our daily routine when assembled for the morning rollcall. I began to wonder if enlisting in the Imperial Army was a mistake –ever since I'd arrived at this station, it'd been nothing but beatings. The recruitment officer failed to mention this part.

"You cunts are the most vile, inhuman, piles of shit to ever set foot through my depot!" Syko screamed. "If you cannot take a beating properly from a fellow Imperial, how long are you going to last against the enemies of the Empire?"

As I sit in this mud-laden trench, at this wretched outpost, composing these accounts of Mimban for your curiosity, I cannot help but recall those terrible weeks of initial training, on Challenger-IV, a most horrid place. When I enlisted, in the recruitment office in Yggdrasil City on Euruta, the recruitment officer sold me on the Stormtrooper Corps. "The Stormtroopers are the best of the best," he told me, and I was guaranteed to see the Galaxy. It was after I signed the enlistment contract and handed over to the medical board, the doctor determined I was medically unfit to be a Stormtrooper and passed me over to the Army –years of undernourishment did not grant me the necessary physique to be a buckethead. I boarded an Imperial transport, packed to the bulkheads with the other Eurutians, who sought military service as their only prospect for a future. An entire generation of Eurutian youth, since the end of the Clone War, fled our pathetic world when given the opportunity within the Empire. The transport was the first time nearly all of us had been aboard a ship, sent into space, left Euruta. Everyone held onto the deck, braced themselves, when the transport lifted off from the spaceport, expected the thing to explode or plummet suddenly. The transport's crew laughed at our imbecilic reaction.

Only a handful of us were deposited at Challenger-IV, the rest were scattered to different Imperial depots across the Outer-Rim. Challenger-IV was one of those Golan Defense Platforms, though this one was converted to serve as a training facility and transfer point for the Imperial Military. The "IV" did not mean there were three other stations bobbing around nearby, nor did it indicate this was the fourth iteration of Challenger station. It signified the location of its orbital position above the Rishi Moon, as Rishi played some significant role during the War, the Navy never left. There was even a civilian promenade deck, which contained a trade port and recreational facilities. Cantinas, there were a lot of cantinas on the civilian promenade, maybe too many, since you had a captive customer base flushed with credits and reasons to drink. New inductees into Imperial service were sent to this station to undergo recruit basic training. The station also hosted those Troopers with a month remaining on their two-year service contract, where they could complete their term and begin the transition to civilian life. The Empire was concerned that military personnel, equipped with weapons training and combat experience, would create trouble if pushed out into the Galaxy with nothing to occupy their time. Career counselors were there to match individuals with suitable jobs, so they could become productive members of society. Corporations and legitimate, licensed mercenary outfits placed representatives aboard the station, ready to scoop up those about to be discharged with offers and career prospects.

When we arrived at the station, disembarked the transport, we found ourselves deposited on the civilian promenade. There were no Imperial officials to greet us, tell us where to go or what to do. Every uniformed Imperial we tried to ask either scoffed or shrugged their shoulders –not wanting to undertake the effort to help. For two days, we wandered the promenade, slept where we found a comfortable spot, traveling beyond was restricted for non-authorized Imperial personnel. We had no credits, nothing to barter with, and most of all, no food. The hunger was not an issue, we grew up accustomed to the feeling and how to go about it. The shop owners were a bunch of dimwitted Sullustans, easy to steal from when you needed something to eat.

The idleness ended, as a transport docked with eight hundred new recruits to be processed through the depot for training. The cortege of inductees marched through the promenade, and we assimilated into the passing ranks. Processing took nearly a day to accomplish and consisted of waiting in a series of lines. First, induction personnel scanned the holodisks that contained our enlistment information, then we went to uniform issue, then came haircuts, medical inoculations, issuance of equipment, bedding. It culminated in a massed formation in the large bay of the station, utilized as the parade ground. The commandant of the instruction school, a worn and aged man who seemed placed in his role as a final humiliation to a lackluster career of service, gave one of those copy and paste speeches about duty, what was expected, how we made the Empire proud. I was a naïve fool at the time and took it all in –thought it was a speech just for me. When the commandant left, we divided into our training platoons, the fifty recruits we would spend the duration training with. It was late in the evening when we were sent to the barracks and allowed to settle in for the night, each platoon had their own barracks. It was an exhaustive day and I drifted to sleep quickly, the last time I'd get a decent night of sleep.

In the predawn hours, the training platoon was awoken by shouts and our formal introduction to Drill Sergeant Tannor Syko. The calls instructed us to stand at attention at the end of our bunks. Sgt. Syko entered with a half dozen of those Troopers with a month left of service before discharge, the ones receiving career counseling aboard the station as part of the transition back to civilian life. Demils, short for "demilitarizing personnel", was their infamous moniker, owing to their transitional status. It was pandemonium, as we scrambled to assemble. Some were confused and tried to dress themselves in uniforms first. Those recruits were assailed by the Demils, who unleased a fury of kicks and punches. We were told to hit the deck, rise, hit the deck again. Anyone too slow was attacked by a Demil. One hit me above my eye, sent me stumbling back into my bunk. That was interpreted as me trying to go back to bed. At once, they were upon me and rendered a savage beating. I was thrown onto the floor, kicked repeatedly, and stomped by their boots. It left me bloodied and in great pain. I wanted to lay there; every movement hurt. They unleashed another series of kicks, as punishment for my perceived laziness, for I was not granted permission to lay on the deck.

"Listen up you pieces of shit," Sgt. Syko addressed, after we were reformed at attention. "We need to cover some basics. You all are not Troopers of the Imperial Army. You are not citizens of the Galactic Empire. You are not even human beings. Your lot belongs to me. Some of you morons thought this would be a suitable alternative to prison, oh, you're going to wish you took the jail time. Some of you just have shit luck and were conscripted into Imperial service. You have my sympathies, might as well take your belt, and hang yourself later tonight, you'll do me a favor. And for those of you who actually volunteered for this, walked right up to the recruiter and said, 'I want to serve the Empire.' You're dead. If I find out you volunteered to be here, I will beat you to death with my bare hands. Now, get dressed. Parade in four minutes."

We quickly learned how the hierarchy works within the Imperial Army. One's rank speaks less than their length of service. The longer you've been in the Army, the greater your seniority, which earns you the right to prey upon those lower, those with less time in. Outside of the officer establishment and those foolish enough to go career, the Demils were the highest in that order. Their status meant they had free reign over us, the new recruits. They were free to engage in the practicing of hazing, systemic bullying. When they enlisted, they were subjected to it, endured it throughout their service, why not reciprocate it? Of course, this was not official Imperial policy, it was even technically a banned practice, but it still commenced. It was not even an Imperial tradition –originated with some outland security force that carried on and propagated when that force was assimilated into the Empire.

The recruits at this depot are almost exclusively from worlds in the Mid-Rim and Outer-Rim. All are young, seventeen to twenty-year-old kids. Recruits can be defined by one of two categories: conscripts or volunteers. Conscripts came from planets that required all human citizens to serve two years within the military. Many of the planets were Separatist aligned during the War and conscription was one form of control exercised by Imperial authorities to disperse the population and prevent future uprisings. Planetary governors could also invoke conscription to silence political rivals by shipping them off for service. Volunteers were, as you might assume, in Imperial service of their own accord. Those who walked into a recruitment office and willingly signed their life over to the Empire. The category also pertained to criminals, convicts, and political prisoners who were offered Imperial service in lieu of a prison sentence performing hard labor. Two years was the commitment, and the authorities would erase your arrest record upon completion of your service. Naturally, it was a deal hard to resist, given the appalling conditions of many penal colonies, and the condemned could be free in two years as opposed to decades languishing. The prisoners did not like the volunteer label, but it was what they were, they had a choice and volunteered themselves to serve the Empire.

A total of three days were devoted to military preparedness, as in learning how to march in a dress parade, basic formations, how to recognize and salute officers. It was the bare minimum we needed, so we didn't look like idiots, or we didn't make our sergeant appear incompetent, when called for an inspection. After that, there was no further military training, the training platoon, indeed the rest of the recruits became nothing more than a labor battalion, a workforce for the station. We were relegated to menial janitorial roles, light maintenance, and cargo load/unload when supply ships docked. Other times, we would become the personal servants of the Demils, cleaning their uniforms, collecting their meals, filing their job placement paperwork, and incurring their wrath in the form of beatings whenever they felt like it. One might ask if the station had droids to complete these tasks, why it was up to us to perform them?

The station had droids, at one point. The Demils would get drunk at one of the many cantinas on the civilian promenade or in their dormitories. Blasters in hand, they'd storm through the corridors, shooting droids. Weapons and alcohol were two items readily available on the station that should have been the hardest to obtain. More commonly, droids were sold by Imperial personnelto the civilian merchants who passed through, there was a thriving black market where you could obtain a great deal of military hardware. A few droids were outright stolen by Demils, as they departed the station with their formal discharge. Nobody filed a loss report on behalf of the droids, technically Imperial property, because nobody wanted an inspector to visit Challenger-IV to conduct an audit. So, there were no requisitions filed to obtain additional and replacement droids. Why would you need droids when you had a potential workforce that required something to do? The recruits performed those duties. This is how it worked, had worked, and continued to work. Nobody dared to interrupt the system in place.

A recruit's day aboard Challenger-IV started at 0430 when woken by the drill instructor, or a selection of Demils if the drill instructor was too hungover to report that early. Recruits immediately dressed in the grey jumpsuits with military-green fleet caps and made to line up. Any recruit still asleep or not dressed within thirty seconds was assaulted by the drill instructor or Demils. The drill instructor performed the morning inspection of the assembled recruits. Each recruit received a pejorative slur or derogatory insult accompanied by a heavy punch, usually to the gut. The duration of inspection was determined by the engagement of the drill instructor, once they grew disinterested it ended and we were marched to the mess for breakfast. Recruits were made to take their meals in the corridor outside of the mess halls, which Demils and other Imperial personnel reserved for themselves. From there, we received our work assignments for the day. Some Demils got drunk and trashed their quarters, or the filtration units of the station's ventilation system needed to be swapped out. Midday meals were never set, you ate only what rations you managed to stash away. The day ended when we were called for dinner, which was similarly taken in the corridor followed by an hour of mandatory political lecture. The station had an official from the Imperial Security Bureau responsible for our political education and consisted of the viewing of various propaganda holovids. The ISB official was like many on this station, assigned to this post as a demotion for some failing, here to serve their penance. We could expect a series of beatings, more line-ups with the drill instructors. Alternatively, you could be detailed to assist the Demils in stress relief by the use of their fists. That is how it was until lights out. It was common for drunken Demils to storm into the barracks to wake us up to engage in humiliating activities for their amusements, or to hit someone. The routine continued this way, daily.

The nights were about as miserable as they were depressing. The Demils took our mattresses just to be cruel and we had to sleep on the metal slabs of the bunks. Those accustomed to the comforts a bed offered spent the night in agony. Sometimes, we would be kept awake from the anxiety –waiting for the Demils to storm the barracks and commence with our beating. There were recruits, mostly the conscripts, who sobbed throughout the night, begged for their mothers to take them home. If you can picture it, a darkened room with several young men, we were kids really, weeping in their bunks. At least they had someone, had mothers. I had nobody, no family, there was nothing back home.

The Demils were nothing less than psychotic. They'd been in the Imperial service for nearly two years and experienced untold horrors –stationed on war-torn planets, committed atrocities, watched their closest friends die. They arrived at Challenger-IV bitter and full of pent-up anger. Whatever wrath they did not unleash on the enemy, they saved for the recruits. The Empire provided vocational services to set them up for careers outside of military life but offered no counseling for those truly in need. Rather, they had access to plenty of alcohol and no supervision to curtail their behavior. Challenger-IV was their reward for surviving, their celebration for making it through. Their revelry, the merriment, was all a façade. If you roamed the corridors at night, passed their dormitories, you'd hear the sobbing, the cries of terror –Demils awoken from nightmares, still trapped fighting battles on the worlds their bodies left, but minds remained. Violence was the only language they spoke and understood. They communicated through torment.

We recruits endured the worst of their aggression. The Demils stumbled into our barracks one night, maybe around 0200. A dozen of them, and they were quite intoxicated. They shouted at us to rise from our bunks but not to dress, rather to strip the undershirts we slept in, so our chests were bare. In their hands were glass bottles of alcohol they consumed liberally. The empty bottles were smashed in the center of the room, the shards littered the ground. We were lined up, when it was our turn, we had to hit the deck and roll the length of the room, over the glass shards. The glass tore our flesh, left bloodied trails in our wake. As recruits rolled, the Demils would throw another bottle, it shattered before you and you had no choice but to roll through it. After that occurred for several rounds, we were lined up again and then made to lay down in a single rank within the glass shards. While we laid there, bodies in great pain from the lacerations, the Demils opened the footlockers beside our bunks and took what they wanted. All the saved rations were scooped up, as were socks, toiletries, anything they wanted. One recruit stood up in protest, told them to stop. The Demils smashed the recruit's face into the bulkhead several times then dragged him off, as they left. We never saw that recruit again.

Ours was an existence of fear. You were afraid when the next beating would occur. The routine beatings, such as the morning assembly, you could mentally prepare yourself at least, to receive several punches from Syko. The random ones, when the Demils would jump you or attack without provocation kept your nerves on edge. There were times the Demils would be drunk and storm the corridors, blasters in hand. Recruits could be cleaning the mess hall, wiping tables, when a contingent of inebriated Demils enters. The Demils start firing the blasters wildly, no regard for human life. Only option is to hit the deck while the bolts fly less than a meter above your head. A grotesque chorus of laughter would erupt after the shooting stopped, as the Demils whooped at the spectacle. We'd also have "fire drills", where Demils would enter our barracks in the middle of the night with blasters. They'd wake us by firing over our heads and shouting for us to find cover. It was to simulate an attack, but that was nothing more than a vicious euphemism. It was more cowering, hoping not to get shot, before the agitators lost interest and left. Nobody ever did a thing about it. The weapons armory was not kept locked, and anyone had access. It was not locked because the ones who stole weapons and resold them would not be able to get in. Interrupting the trade would be more inconvenient than weapon safety.

I was assigned a cleaning detail, mopping up dried vomit in one of the lesser used corridors on a sublevel. This was the area of the station that housed the auxiliary shield generators. Since we never came under attack, there was never much use for them, but it was far removed from the rest of the station. An isolated corner to shoot up with spice. Drugs were easy to come by –bought from the spacers who passed through the promenade. A group of Demils and sailors who comprised the station's garrison approached. Challenger-IV was a naval installation, so the garrison were all sailors from the Imperial Navy. Being the station's permanent residents, the garrison were about as crooked and corrupt as they come. Any inventory shortfalls regarding weapons, uniforms, equipment, rations, anything really, could be traced to the garrison sailors selling it to the passing freighter captains. The station's commander received proceeds from each sale and permitted the practice to continue. How did I know this? The garrison openly bragged about it. I kept my eyes down and focused on the cleaning work, hopefully to avoid their attention.

"Hey asshole!" one of the garrison sailors called out. "What did you do to our station?"

I said nothing, lowered my head. Another garrison kicked over my mop bucket, spilled the dirty water all over the deck.

"Look at this," the garrison said. "The recruit has dirtied our station. We host the Army aboard as our guests and this is how they repay our hospitality?"

The group laughed, the Demils stood around with their arms crossed. Someone grabbed me, I do not know who, and bashed my head with the bucket. I fell into the pool of spilled mop water. This was not a day after the glass rolling incident and the cuts burned, as boots repeatedly stomped. When they had their fill of kicks, one grabbed the back of my jumpsuit collar and dragged me along the deck. A few meters ahead, there was an airlock, which they tossed me in and closed the inner door. The alarms wailed and the decompression started. They gathered around the viewport and watched. The oxygen was pumped from the airlock. From their vantage, they laughed, as I gasped for breath in the thinned air, hypoxia set in. My next recollection was waking up in the sickbay with an unsympathetic nurse and the fury of Sgt. Syko.

"Recruit 0-8-7-9-0, you moronic sleemo!" Syko unleashed, as he shoved me from the bed. "You think you can just enjoy four days excused from duty!? Get your ass out of that kriffing bed and to the barracks before I have you declared absent without leave. I should have your ugly taint knob stood against a bulkhead and shot for extreme dereliction of duty. The platoon lost valuable instruction time because I have to be here dragging your pathetic cunt out of bed since you decided to take an unauthorized leave of absence. Who said you could be excused from duty? Four days of critical training you have lost, you've robbed the Empire of four days of service. You are a worthless camtono of Hutt shit."

Throughout Syko's tirade, the sergeant struck me several times, as I hurried to dress, and made for the barracks. The entire distance, I was pursued by the infuriated drill instructor, who continued his shouts. When we arrived in the barracks, the recruits were assembled for line-up, their focus at attention and none looked in our direction as we entered. Their faces bore fresh bruising and cuts, black eyes, and swollen lips. Evidently, in my absence, the Demils worked them over at the behest of Syko. Four were selected from the assembly, instructed to step forward. These four looked like they endured the worst of the recent beatings. The platoon was made to watch, as the four took turns punching and kicking me repeatedly. When one tired, another stepped forward to take his place. I don't know how long it lasted, I just remember the pain, I still shudder at the thought. I'd been in fights before, growing up on Euruta, beaten up plenty of times in the street, but this was something different. Those fights were over petty matters, valuable junk or territorial. This beating, from the four, was motivated by hate. All the misery they experienced was unleashed. This was their opportunity to satiate their aggression through fist and boot. By far, this was the worst beating I ever suffered. When it ended, I was left on the deck, as the platoon was dismissed and allowed to crawl into their bunks for the night. Nobody tried to help me up, render any manner of pity, I just laid there. I coughed up blood for a bit and then passed out at some point.

My beating was relatively subdued compared to what befell Recruit 2295. I never learned his name; we were not allowed to give our names or use names to refer to any recruit beyond their number designation. Recruit 2295 was one of those guys who could not do anything right and attracted extra attention from Syko and the Demils. He was always late to assignments, falling asleep, the last to get ready, performed work unsatisfactory, got lost easily in the station, asked too many questions –the little things that make superiors angry. One morning at the roll call line-up, Recruit 2295 was absent. This sent Syko into a rage where he struck several in the platoon, but there was no search undertaken. Beyond the minor outburst from Syko, no one cared to locate Recruit 2295, he was just another line on a balance sheet that was simply altered to read "inactive". Of course, it did not end well once Recruit 2295 was found. You could leave Challenger-IV at any time, it was rather easy to get away. Civilian freighters constantly berthed at the trade port and crews, disgruntled about pay or conditions, inevitably jumped ship. Captains were always desperate to fill those roles and would take on any candidate who showed up at the mooring airlock asking for work. Many recruits, fed up with the beatings and the military, escaped the depot by signing on as deckhands. Though it was not a guarantee. The Empire paid bounties to captains who turned over deserters. That is how we got Recruit 2295 back.

Recruit 2295 received no court martial or even a mark for desertion. His status was returned to active, and he was sent to the barracks. Syko was prepared, he ordered our platoon to report to the armory beforehand and issued each of us with a riot control baton. We formed two ranks on either side and Recruit 2295 was made to march between –struck by a baton at each turn. When Recruit 2295 could no longer stand, we were lined up and allowed two strokes before returning to the end of the line to await another turn. I hit his arm with a forceful swing, and I believe I broke it. Since then, I never felt bad about what I did. He was in the wrong to abandon the Empire in such a disgraceful manner, considering he was a volunteer who signed on at a recruitment office. The bastard should've served his time and done his duty. The collective beating lasted until Recruit 2295 spasmed violently and collapsed, unconscious. He was taken to sickbay where he remained for well over a week, bobbing in a bacta tank. We'd forgotten all about him, given the regular torment we faced daily –not enough energy to care about his fate. The day Recruit 2295 was set to be released from the sickbay and returned to the platoon, one of the medical staff discovered his body. He hanged himself with a uniform belt, I suppose he couldn't take it anymore.

The next morning was slightly different from the usual routine. Rather than going to morning meal, the platoon was marched to the parade ground. There, the commandant of the instruction depot waited, as we arrayed for a formal inspection. Lieutenant Colonel Aptoym silently strode along the ranks of our platoon, we were down to thirty-seven from the initial fifty, the number owing to several successful desertions, three medical discharges from severe brain trauma, and now the death of Recruit 2295. Aptoym appeared haggard, bags under the eyes conveyed tiredness, exasperation from the role he filled. He never met our gaze, but still scanned our faces. Not one in the platoon was without visible bruising or swelling. Sgt. Syko trod authoritatively at Aptoym's side.

"Why do you do this to yourselves?" Aptoym addressed us. "Why are you constantly beating each other? Make no attempt to deny it, I see your faces. Does this occur after lights out? Do you rise from your bunks and spend the night pummeling your fellow platoon-mates? Why do you abuse yourselves so?"

No response came from our ranks, none wanted to provide an answer. I was not sure if the lieutenant colonel was serious, believing we were the ones doing this to ourselves, that ignorant of the bullying taking place under his domain. Or was this a test to root out anyone who could make trouble by reporting their comrade and perhaps their superiors.

"The Imperial Armed Forces does not tolerate bullying in any form," Aptoym spoke. "There are policies in place to protect personnel from the archaic and downright barbaric practices of hazing. There will be no retaliation against any recruit who steps forward to report hazing, acts perpetrated against you or ones you've witnessed. Well, is there anything to report?"

Nobody was stupid enough to provide the truth and we remained quiet. Aptoym turned to Syko.

"If there is nothing further," Aptoym spoke. "You are dismissed. Carry on with training."

Ten weeks have passed, I think. We are exhausted, broken physically and mentally. So many recruits have hanged themselves, sergeants have confiscated belts, cords, even loose wiring. They discover a suicide every few days. Guards are permanently stationed at all docking rings to catch deserters trying to stow aboard freighters. Nearly everyone has rotated through the sickbay for some manner of injury. I have no idea how long we will be stationed here, technically training lasts eight weeks, though we've done no actual training, but we are awaiting assignment. Rumors abound, the most predominant one claims Aptoym is holding up the process, playing with our fates, because he has too many shortfalls in his records that need to be amended, such as explaining recruits lost to desertion.

I don't know how much more I can take. I can't keep meals down; the food is unpalatable, and my stomach is in so much pain from the repeated beatings. My nose is permanently disfigured from being broken, repaired, and broken again. When I signed on, joined the military, I thought I would be serving the Empire and battling its enemies wherever they were. Daily attacks from seniors and drill instructors does not seem like my idea of service. I have thought about it, about ending it. The plan I had consisted of walking up to Sgt. Syko, calling him a cunt until he beats me to death –get him mad enough to do the job right. So many were at that limit.

Then, one day, almost unexpectedly, everything changed. If it was for the better or worse –that may be yet determined. A Gozanti-class cruiser docked and disembarked over two dozen officers and noncommissioned officers. At their head was Major Bontil, with orders to take command of the recruits undergoing training at the Challenger-IV depot and form us into the newly designated 2931st Rifle Battalion. In a week, an Acclamator-class assault ship would arrive to embark the battalion. Formations were desperately needed to support the action on Mimban, and officers were scattered throughout the Empire to throw together reserves wherever they could be found. With nervous apprehension, the recruits assembled on the parade ground and listened to Maj. Bontil read the order. Details were scarcely offered. We were told the local population resisted Imperial rule, so additional Troopers were needed to restore order and protect Imperial interests. Nobody knew anything about Mimban, and we assumed a show of force was all that was necessary to crush the dissidents. Some ass started a rumor that Mimban was a tropical world, and we even had our hopes up for a fleeting moment. LtCol. Aptoym appeared disinterested throughout the speech, probably glad to be rid of us and preparing for the next batch. Once the major was finished, we were dismissed and returned to the barracks.

Optimism flowed through our ranks for the first time in…well, I can't say I know when. But, when we returned to the barracks, Syko prepared a "going away" celebration. Ten to fifteen Demils met us with a barrage of punches, some armed with improvised clubs, and a savage attack on us commenced. The violence remained unabated for several minutes. Two Demils pinned me face down to the deck while a third whipped me repeatedly with the pronged end of their dress belt. Footlockers were overturned and the contents purposely strewn about or destroyed. Recruits had their heads slammed into the metal frames of the bunks, others were hit by the clubs, had furniture thrown at them, or made to roll shirtless through freshly broken glass.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!" a thunderous voice boomed.

At the sight, one of the Demils jumped and shouted, "Attention, sergeant on deck!"

It prompted everyone to cease their action and shoot to the erect stance. The source was a behemoth of a man, dressed in a military-green uniform, sergeant's rank placard on his left breast.

"Who the hell do you think you are!?" Syko demanded, incensed by the interruption. "You lot, as you were. Carry…"

"Sergeant Syko!" the behemoth interjected, forcefully. "You are relieved of command. This platoon is now my property. If I find out you or your sleemo band of Demilitarizing pirates are so much as looking at my new platoon without my permission, then I'll break that pretty-boy cock sucking jaw of yours!"

Syko let out a grunt, a show of aggression to assert power, but conveyed hanging around the barracks no longer was of interest. The drill instructor gathered his cohorts of Demils, and they swiftly departed –drink themselves into a stupor, for there was little else to do. The recruits of the platoon stood at attention in our line-up position. Each one of us trembled at the presence of this new sergeant, who could intimidate Syko and our tormentors. "What would he unleash on us?" we wondered. The sergeant strode along our assembled line, no emotion outwardly shown, nothing said. I was visibly quaking when he stopped before me, turned, and locked his eyes on my pitiful state.

"What's your name recruit?" the sergeant demanded.

"Sir!" I exclaimed and answered. "Recruit zero-eight-seve…"

"Stop!" the sergeant barked, interrupted my reply. "I am no good at remembering random numbers, I asked your name, son."

I was terrified to supply an answer. It was driven into every recruit that we no longer had names, we were numbers, only numbers. Any individual who used a name when addressing a fellow recruit could expect a beating. But the sergeant asked me directly, still waited for a reply. I was not sure if this was a trick, though I worried if there would be consequences should I repeat my recruit number.

"Recruit M…Maider, sir," I fumbled.

The sergeant placed a hand on my shoulder, closed it in a firm grasp. I trembled visibly; it was so bad I do not know how I remained upright. Without any control to stop, he spun me around. I instinctively threw my hands over my head to protect it from the savage beating I was sure to expect. A grunt sounded from the sergeant, one more associated with frustration than rage, as he examined the welts and lesions on my back freshly incurred from the belt.

"Are all the recruits in this shape?" the sergeant demanded aloud, though more rhetorically. "I'm taking your lot to war in six days, and this is the condition I find you in? You're not ready."

He took a stool, used moments ago to bash a recruit, and sat down, removed his fleet cap, and wrung out the sweat. The sergeant appeared exhausted, eyes heavy and distant, breathing labored. We dared not move from our assembly, frightened at what would happen next. Would we be left aboard Challenger-IV or ship out to this Mimban? At the time, Mimban did not scare us, we wanted to go. Not even the fear of the unknown could overcome the terror of Syko and the Demils.

"You have ten minutes to clean up this mess, ready this barracks for inspection," the sergeant spoke. "Then it's lights out. We'll take morning meal on the parade ground. You can eat while I start instruction, which should give you an extra hour of sleep. You'll need it."

That was our introduction to Sergeant Dystraay. The best sergeant I would ever serve under.

The next six days were a blur –events blended. Dystraay pushed us hard and taught us everything he believed we needed to know about the coming deployment, everything he knew about survival on Mimban. Not a recruit was beaten under Dystraay, but he demanded our best and no one was allowed to give anything less. Tasks were repeated ceaselessly until we perfected the assignment. "Hitting you is pointless," Dystraay reiterated, "you fail this task in the field, and you pay with your life and lives of your comrades." We pulled eighteen, twenty-hour days during that time, slept on the parade grounds or in corridors for there was no opportunity to return to the barracks. Dystraay issued us stims to keep going, the urgency was that dire. What should have occurred over these past ten weeks was crammed into this brief time. We were shown how to pack our gear, so heavy loads could be carried with comfort. Meals were taken during the instruction, part of it being how to consume field rations and soldier's tricks to make food more appetizing.

The first and only time I fired a weapon throughout training occurred during this period. An improvised rifle range was setup in a closed off section of a cargo bay. We were given surplus DC-15A blaster rifles, converted for training, which could only fire low level and non-lethal blaster bolts, so as not to damage the station's bulkheads. Humorous, considering all the shooting the Demils had done. I fired five shots, wildly missing the target, but still declared a pass. One recruit, I'd seen her around, but we never talked, put all five bolts dead center. They gave her another go to see if she could do it again, which she did with precision. Must've burned through an entire charge pack consistently hitting the bullseye every time. She was Sonya Haurn, from Mandalore, and clearly well experienced with a blaster. I have no idea why she wasn't sent over to recon or the snipers, but nothing here makes sense.

Dystraay sat our platoon down for a lecture. We just visited the storeroom where we were issued combat fatigues, breathing masks, filters, chest armor, helmets, greaves, raincloaks, and entrenching tools. The talk started with the entrenching tools, Dystraay showed us the one he carried on his belt. The simple shovel served a dual, albeit grim purpose. One was to entrench, the other was to strike, as we were told sharpen the spade. When we engaged the enemy at close range, the tool became an effective slashing weapon and could cleave the head of an opponent clear off, if enough force was applied. We were impressed and joked around, caricatured hacking each other with gestured waves of the entrenching tools. Dystraay didn't laugh.

"We're going to Mimban the day after tomorrow," the sergeant began. "It's a cruel and inhospitable world. The air is filled with spores, toxic to humans and fatal if exposure is prolonged, which is why you've been issued respirators. The opposition calls themselves the Mimbanese Liberation Army, or MLA. We call them bugs or Mimbos. Physically, they're weaker than humans, less bone and muscle mass, but don't underestimate them. Your enemy has been at war since you were swimming around in your daddy's nutsack. The Mimbanese fought the mining firms, they fought the droids, now they're fighting us. War is multi-generational, tradition by this point. Mimbos know how to sling a blaster by the time they know how to walk."

"Why are we at war with Mimban?" one recruit raised their hand, timidly put forth the question.

Dystraay paused, hung his head low, hands placed on his sides.

"I don't like to lie to recruits, comrades," Dystraay let out an exasperated sigh. "I've lied to so many already. Commanders will tell you it's to reinstitute Imperial law over the Mimbanese, who have elected armed insurrection versus civil discord. The real reason we're there is to protect the hyperbaride mining. The Empire needs Mimban's natural resources, and the locals are getting in the way. Regardless of your feelings about the Empire or your reasons for being here, we are going to Mimban. Place all your considerations and beliefs aside, for they will only cause you harm beyond this point. The Mimbos are the enemy, and we will fight them, we will kill them because they are the enemy. Look at the Trooper seated by your side; they are who you are fighting for. No Senator, Moff, or General will see you through this battle, but your comrades will stand by your side."

The part of Dystraay's speech that resonated the most was his referring to us as "Troopers". In his eyes, we weren't scum or some subhuman workforce to be kicked around for amusement, we weren't even recruits anymore. To Dystraay, we were Troopers, he saw us as his comrades and afforded us respect. He had driven us over the past few days to the point of exhaustion, forced us to give beyond our limit. It was hard, it was demanding, but it was all done for our benefit. We did it because it had to be done, it had to be learned. The stakes were too serious to screw around by this point. There was a sense of awakening, as if I found the true Imperial Military, found my place in the Empire. At least for now, the zeal, the idealism manifested and burned brightly in my heart.

That was that. Our true training was pathetically short, Dystraay crammed in all he could before the troopship arrived. The Acclamator docked at Challenger-IV, embarked our battalion. We had to be issued blasters from the ship's stores because there were not enough left (as in not stolen) aboard the station to sufficiently arm all four companies. Dystraay had nothing positive to say about the E-10s, as they were handed out –only to keep the mud off through frequent cleaning. We were stuck with the E-10s, because the newer E-11s were reserved for units that mattered, such as the Stormtrooper Corps. I noticed Dystraay carried one of those E-11s. Didn't know it at the time, I'd inherit his weapon. It would take another three days to reach Mimban, there were several waypoints along our route, to posts where additional Troopers awaited embarkation. The nightmare of Challenger-IV officially ended when the cargo door was secured, and the docking collar retracted from the troopship. The battalion did not cheer the event, but that relief of it being over was palpable when you looked around. Despite the lectures, despite the rushed training, there was still little dread over the coming deployment to Mimban. We were all happy to be off that terrible station.

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