Postscript: Coruscant Furlough

The order given; the commands executed. In a tide of humanity, we surged from our trench. Blasters and artillery greeted us, in kind, the moment we tread upon the desolate no man's land. We pressed forward, as swathes of our line melted from existence. Death so tolled that those at their first experience of battle soon found themselves old acquaintances. Onward the officers called us to go. Rockets tore the landscape, the terrain set ablaze. The shrieks of dying comrades deafened anyone not fortified by indifference.

A hand shot up, clutched my leg. I turned to meet the moribund gaze of Pommavaz. The vibrant life of the young genius was fleeting, for a shell had taken the lower portion of his body. The eyes of Pommy, my friend, conveyed sadness, hopelessness. He tried to speak, words too difficult to form, as his grasp tightened…

The stewardess had a light hand on my shoulder, roused me from my sleep. She inquired if I was finished with the tea that sat before me, offered to take the near empty cup, and requested I stow the tray table for landing. I nodded, let the Togruta attendant collect the service items. The flight deck made the announcement, the passenger liner exited hyperspace and was on final approach for Coruscant. I placed a hand to my face, rubbed my weary eyes. It took four days of transfers, missed connections, and flight delays to get from the Star Destroyer orbiting Mimban to where I am now. This was a commercial liner, though half the passenger compliment were military personnel, dressed in uniforms representative of their branch of service, interspersed with the civilian travelers.

I took off my cap and wiped the sweat from my brow with a handkerchief. Another bad dream, they've been plaguing what little sleep I've managed since I left Mimban. A sergeant, dressed in a clean fleet uniform across the aisle, took notice of my state, leaned over with an opened flask in hand. I accepted the offering and indulged a pull from the container –the harsh liquor burned on its way down.

"All that shifting you've been doing," the sergeant began, words describing my behavior while asleep. "Figured you could do with a brief nip. Where're you coming from?"

"Mimban," I replied. "Here on eight weeks furlough."

The sergeant's worn face reflected an emotionless expression when I answered. We spoke our first words to each other, yet there was an understanding, as if we had been close comrades this entire time.

"I know Mimban," the sergeant replied. "I thought it was bad when we were fighting the clankers there, now the bugs have turned on us. I couldn't imagine it. Those Mimbos, what savages they are, I've not met any species capable of such cruelty…outside of our own."

I listened to his words; thoughts drifted back to that cursed mud-covered hell. Images raced through my mind all at once, the butchering of our wounded at the hands of the Mimbanese, our side gunning down any bug who surrendered. The flask slipped from my hold when I recalled the village, the Mimbanese family huddled in their cellar. They offered no resistance, they did not look like fighters, they were just there to hide. And I opened the heavy shutters to their shelter and tossed a grenade in. I did the right thing, didn't I? The attack on the village, those were orders, I followed them, even won a medal. Why do their images torment me like this?

"Hey kid!" the sergeant's voice pulled my focus back to the present.

He stood over me from the aisle and snapped his fingers loudly, centimeters from my eyes. Disgruntled passengers pushed by in their bid to depart the transport, now parked at the spaceport gate. In my state, I lost track of everything, missed the approach and landing.

"You did see some shit!" said the sergeant, as he pulled me to my feet.

Eventually, we were off the transport and in the busy terminal. The sergeant, genuinely concerned about my wellbeing, apologized he could not remain any longer, as he had a connecting shuttle to catch. He bade farewell and offered some parting advice, warned me to avoid some of the seedier Twi'lek clubs on the lower levels. I quickly passed through transport control, the security officers more preoccupied with harassing the alien species in search of contraband and false documents. Those humans, especially ones in Imperial uniform, were quickly ushered through, hardly a glance at my own identicard. Personnel of the Imperial military, those on Coruscant for leave, were corralled in a section of the transit concourse, where we boarded airbuses to ferry us to our accommodations.

My attention instantly focused, my gaze through the window at my seat upon the great ecumenopolis that filled its view. Never in my life have I beheld such a spectacle as my first true glimpse of Galactic City. The brilliance of the city's lights reflected from the surface; concentric rings pattered to indicate the hubs of population. Yggdrasil City is my only comparative reference, but there is no way to relate the scale of the galactic capital. Vast forests of duracrete and transparisteel stretched beyond the horizon in every direction. The many spires extended upwards, on the precipice to touch the stars. Swarms of airspeeders choked the skies, which darted about the monolithic obstacles. As our airbus drew closer to the destination, the glowing hologram advertisements flooded the compartment in their gaudy neon shades. Those from the backwater worlds, I among their number, could be instantly recognized, as we pressed faces to the bus's windows and gawked in astonishment at the sights.

Taking everything in, I wish Haurn were with me. When I was evacuated to Camp Forward from 3-Bravo, I searched everywhere for her, checked all the medical stations. The field hospitals were inundated with a mass of broken humanity. Wounded Troopers overflowed from bunks, crowded each patch of cleared space. The screams and pleas from those suffering was enough to drive one mad. The doctors and nurses, criminally overburdened, appeared indifferent to my repeated inquiries. One orderly finally cracked after enduring my stubborn and persistent badgering, showed me a patient transfer list. I learned Haurn was taken aboard a MedStar-class hospital ship in orbit, the frigate deployed to handle the influx of casualties resulting from the Mimbo grand offensive. I suffered through that miserable siege, outmaneuvered death at every turn, all I wanted was to see Haurn again. I exhausted every effort to get aboard a medical flight ferrying wounded to the hospital ship, but I was not a priority case and was subsequently denied. The military police placed me under arrest after they caught me, as I attempted to stow aboard a shuttle.

Brimmo was the one who secured my release from detention, being my action was negatively interpreted as desertion. Now promoted to major and given command of the 8843rd Battalion, Brimmo said he placed my name into consideration for the Imperial Badge of Meritorious Service. Also, I had been granted eight weeks of furlough for immediate use. I tried to explain I could not abandon Haurn, and I needed to see her. The major sympathized, but made it clear there was little he could do to help. Haurn was aboard a naval vessel and their protocols were inflexible in these situations. He agreed to do his best to deliver a message and I scribbled out a quick note on a datacard. With the furlough pass and transit permission in hand, I shuffled over to the vast queue of similarly fortunate troopers who awaited embarkation.

I must have slept for two days straight. The sun from the Coruscant dawn crept between the slits in the blinds of the hotel window. The warm glow illuminated the room in a soft orange, as the rays stung my weary eyes. After a year of torment, violence, death, I indulged in the scalding shower and soft bed afforded by these accommodations. Choosing sleep, I had yet to venture out and explore the sights of Galactic City. My lodgings were in an old luxury hotel owned by the Commerce Guild before the Clone War. At the outbreak of hostilities, Republic authorities seized the property, its sixty thousand rooms, and converted it into a billet to house the thousands of clones arriving daily in the mobilization. Coming under Imperial control meant those military personnel on leave could take up residence here for the duration of their furlough free of charge. It was a suitable arrangement that allowed troopers to expend the saved credits on copious amounts of alcohol, spice, and prostitutes.

The six spires of the Hotel Grande contained direct lift access to the entertainment district spread over the ten city levels beneath. The district flourished, owing to the proximity of a large customer base flushed with credits and in desperate need of a distraction from the military routine. Bars and nightclubs proliferated, in addition to markets catering to every vice imaginable. Being a lower level, the district lacked any direct exposure to sunlight and was perpetually shrouded in the artificial gleams of the advertisement holos and garish displays of manufactured light. The oppressive illumination assaulted the senses, disoriented you if stared at too long, distracted you from your true surroundings. It meant the nightlife atmosphere never ceased, never relented to offer a respite. It was the eternal festival. Holographic depictions of seductive and provocatively dressed Twi'lek women flashed at the entryway of each cantina, the beacon to lure those inside. Synthesized music reverberated from the structures, with sound systems battling for acoustic dominance. Walkways were jammed with all manner of persons, human and otherwise. Unscrupulous creatures flocked to the district to pickpocket, swindle, run their crooked games of chance, or assault those too inebriated to resist.

The prostitutes were everywhere, at the barstool next to yours, the sabacc tables, the footpaths, alleyways, in plain sight and unconcerned with the law. They even roamed the corridors of the hotel billet –entered your room to offer their services if you neglected to engage the lock, so persistent you would have to pay them to leave you alone. The whores ran a gamut of species, the cheapest being the Rodians, who could be bought for as low as a credit or even a cigarra, though they were abhorrently repulsive. Of course, there were human girls, Togruta, Zeltrons, and some Pantorans. The most popular and abundant were the Twi'leks, while the Mirialans were the most expensive to solicit, owing the rarity of finding one in this profession. The girls could be worse than the pickpockets. Many a Trooper would wake to find their date and their wallet missing in the morning.

My first day out of bed, I descended the lift to the entertainment district on a car loaded with Troopers, dressed down to our service uniforms. Curiosity and an urge to see the sights compelled me to join the comrades billeted on my floor of the hotel to explore the district, rather than the desire to ply myself senseless with alcohol or seek the company of one of those repugnant rented dates. The surface above our heads confined the humidity, each breath felt like you drew in an inferno. Waste and grime covered the walkways, so clogged with pedestrians you were always bumping into someone or something. I kept my identicard and credits in an interior pouch of my tunic, for I felt many a hand make a discreet grab for the pockets of my trousers. Often were the cries of alarm at the notice of pocketbooks gone, or a perceptive trooper with an apprehended individual clutched by the wrist. Other attempts to separate you from your credits occurred when aliens would accost you on the footpath, thrust some trinket into your grasp. At that moment, they would demand a large sum as payment for the item. The aliens grew increasingly irate and hostile when you refused, tried to return what they handed you. My first brush with the Coruscant Security Force occurred from such an encounter with one of these so called "salesmen".

I was at the tail end of my group, entranced by the illuminated displays that aligned the row of establishments. A creature, with a rounded snout, not unlike a Rhodian, but it was not a Rhodian, stepped before me and slipped a holocard into my unexpecting hand. At once, the creature grew belligerent, demanded in a broken dialect of Basic I pay three hundred credits. Not wanting to part with my money, nor having the desire to retain the holocard, I gave back the property. Trying to ignore the creature, I walked away to catch up to the comrades, who made it further ahead. The creature put a hand on my shoulder, spun me around, jabbed a shriveled finger into my chest. Again, it demanded credits, five hundred this time. I was incensed, thrown into a rage at such an affront, committed against me by an alien. Something in me snapped. I drew back my right arm, balled my hand into a fist, and threw a heavy blow. The punch collided with the creature's face, their species must be of a frail construction, for I heard bone cracking upon impact. It screeched in agony and collapsed to the ground; the crowd encircling stood aghast. I lost sight of the creature, who logically fled in the confusion, when two officers of the Coruscant Security Force closed in. The officers pulled me aside, demanded my identicard, and ran my credentials through their system. They eventually released me from custody with a warning. So disgusted at the incident, at the detestable beings that inhabited the district, I abandoned my billet comrades, who had already gone ahead without me, and made for the lift back to the hotel.

I spent a few days pissed off from the incident –tried to find some way to avoid the tedium of staying at the hotel while alleviating the boredom. I had nearly seven weeks of furlough left, and I could not book passage back to Mimban until the leave expired. The public airbus route stopped at the hotel, and I would take it to different destinations. Mostly, I visited the tallest buildings and traveled to the observation decks, surveyed the majestic views of Galactic City. It was an awesome sight, to behold the vast expanse of towering monuments to human achievement. To think, we shed our blood and lives in the swamps of Mimban to subdue those who flounder in insignificance when contrasted against the majesty of what stood in my view. The Mimbanese were no different than the sentient refuse I encountered in the entertainment district. There was the opportunity to share in the prosperity generated by the Galaxy, the Empire, yet they rejected the offer outright, content with a lifestyle of degradation and depravity. Do not claim poverty as an excuse for their circumstances. I am all too familiar with destitution, raised from a background of privations. I found a way out, I joined the galactic community, took advantage of what the Empire offered. Here I stand, above the great city of Coruscant, as testament of what one can accomplish.

I soon became good friends with another trooper, Talbot Zact. Zact occupied the room about three down from mine and we often met in the hotel's cafeteria for meals, meals were also provided at no expense to ourselves. He was my age and from a world in the Colonies that had fallen on hard economic times. It was several larceny charges that landed Zact in Imperial service to avoid prison. I often joked, and he agreed, prison would have been the better alternative. Honestly, he was a good guy, only stole to make ends meet. In a strange instance of fate, Zact was posted to Euruta with an Army detachment responsible for customs enforcement and anti-smuggling actions. Though he was kept busy, given the volume of illicit trade owing to Euruta's location between Hutt Space and Kessel, Zact was spared much of the combat so many have experienced. I suppose he could consider himself fortunate. We did spend a great deal of time exchanging stories about Euruta –he described his assignment while I recognized the locations, or I shared a memory of Yggdrasil City and he filled me in on the current events. Despite the recollections, I still held no desire or intention to return to my homeworld.

On the second week of my furlough, word arrived that Brimmo's recommendation was approved, and I was to receive the Imperial Badge of Meritorious Service. To my fortune, there was an award ceremony scheduled for recently decorated military personnel and my name was added to the list of attendees. I joined the one hundred thousand others from the branches of Imperial service, Army, Navy, and Stormtrooper Corps, who won various decorations. The ceremony saw us packed in the massive, enclosed stadium located in the Federal District. A few select and important individuals were taken to a stage erected in the center of the field to accept their commendations in a choreographed presentation arranged for propaganda purposes. The sudden arrival of two columns of red clad guards flanking the stage gave us cause to look on in anticipation. To our surprise, and a fact deliberately withheld prior for security purposes, Emperor Palpatine emerged to personally present awards to the special recipients. I was awestruck at the sight of His Imperial Majesty, beheld by my own eyes! To be fair, I cannot offer a great amount of detail, as my seats were far removed from the platform, situated in the upper stands near the very top of the arena. What I observed was a figure in dark robes walk with the aid of a cane. There were no closeup images rebroadcasted on the large holoscreens depicting what transpired on the stage. From my knowledge, the Emperor avoided being recorded due to the horrible disfigurement incurred by an assassination attempt. At the end of the Clone War, some religious extremist cult loyal to corrupt hardliners of the Republic attempted to kill the then Supreme Chancellor Palpatine. It is understandable why the Republic had to be reformed into the Empire. The flourishing corruption and ineptitude of the Senate plunged the Galaxy into that horrific war. When their hold on power was threatened, the Republic's hardliners got together to overthrow the one man working to hold the fractured Galaxy together. Imagine the chaos if the Senators got their way?

The Emperor bestowed the awards, one Imperial Medal of Honor to a general, looked to have never dirtied his boots in his life, two titles of Baron upon starfighter aces, and the Medal of the Emperor's Fist to a Moff who met some production quota. After thanking the recipients, the Emperor approached a podium and rendered unto the gathered mass a speech. I was so taken by events, by the appearance of our leader, I was not fully paying attention to the words spoken. I will try to recollect what was said to the best of my memory.

Servicemen and women of the Imperial Armed Forces.

You are present in this assemblage for deeds rendered in service to the Galactic Empire. You are recognized for actions taken that went above yourself, your personal motives, desires, and placed your comrades, your Empire first. To this, the Empire, your Emperor owes you a great debt, for loyalty of this degree is indeed a rare attribute.

Each one of you is to be awarded in acknowledgement of your conduct. You serve as an example to your peers and the citizenry what those who possess the will and fortitude can accomplish. Each one of you understands what sacrifices must be made and I understand there are those among you who have experienced loss. Yet, despite all obstacles, you have persevered and triumphed.

The Empire is beset on all sides and from within by our enemies, who do not desire peace. Our enemies want to see lawlessness, a lawlessness that flourished under the Republic, return to the Galaxy. You are the bulwark that holds back the chaos and terror sure to overwhelm our worlds, wreak destruction on the innocent and all we work so hard to maintain.

Order, security, and stability are the hallmarks of the Galactic Empire. It is up to you to maintain a vigilant watch, to be on guard against those who will bring nothing but death and ruin. Your dedication proves you are up to the task and are willing to do what is necessary to ensure the New Order remains strong. To this, I, your Emperor, humbly thank each of you for your devotion to duty.

Only the four awards were presented at the assemblage. The remainder would be distributed in the most feasible manner. I received my commendation a day later at the billet, a company sized gathering of recipients was amassed in one of the hotel's repurposed ballrooms. A rather corpulent admiral, with a veritable legion of adjutants in tow, presented each Trooper with their corresponding decoration. There was no grand speech or expression of appreciation, only a curt grunt offered by the flag officer, as his aide dropped the box, containing my badge, into my grasp. The Badge of Meritorious Service was a simple steel crest, which featured the Imperial cog in the center encircled by leaves, to be worn on the dress uniform. It came with a set of cuff titles with For Merit embroidered in grey Basic lettering on a black cloth trimmed with silver cord. The cuff titles were sewn into the left cuff on the dress, service, and fatigue uniforms. Despite the despondence of the presenter, I felt myself filled with pride upon receiving the insignias and made straight for my room, upon conclusion of the ceremony, to sew them on. My chance at seeing the Emperor and the receiving of my decoration filled me with enthusiasm –hard to relate into words. I felt the sacrifices I made on Mimban were recognized and my faith in the Empire was vindicated. Though filled with excitement, the episode would be the pinnacle of my furlough, for the remainder soon devolved into nothing better than a nightmare.

I understand why everyone billeted at the hotel is so eager to abscond to the cantinas and drink themselves to unconsciousness. All of us, pulled from our respective combat zones, from the daily occurrences of misery and death, your mind has time to decompress, focus on something other than evading ordinance or the enemy's blaster fire. I remember the screaming on Challenger-IV. Here too, the hallways and corridors of the hotel reverberated the cries of tormented souls. Troopers woke in the middle of the night, aroused from another horrific dream of watching friends die in their arms, the traumatic events played on an endless loop they had no way to stop, no way to avoid, condemned to relive it in their minds. I wish I could say I was immune, but it was not long before I was tortured by the horrors I've experienced. Constantly, I saw the deaths of Pommavaz and Dystraay. In each depiction I was powerless to save them, as they called my name, begged me to help. Soon, they were joined by visions of Haurn mortally wounded, laying in a mud filled shell hole –I could not discern if her demise was a hallucination or premonition. Increasingly, I found myself jolted awake, as I gasped for breath, the sheets soaked, my body covered in sweat.

After a week of relentless nightmares, I decided to visit one of the cantinas. I needed to distract myself from the phantoms that plagued my mind over and over again. It was mostly at the insistence of Talbot Zact, who sought to acquire some female company from the array of Twi'leks. I was not interested myself, but agreed, if only to serve as a lookout for pickpockets. We settled on an establishment based on the garishness of its holo-display and the live dancers situated above the entrance to seductively beckon patrons. We located the last two seats together at the bar and quickly ran up a tab, drink after drink ordered. The clientele was overwhelmingly comprised of servicemembers. The employees, apart from the dancers, were exclusively droids. Every alien on the premises was either a prostitute or some manner of swindler after your credits. Fights were common among the rival military branches, usually intoxicated, but swiftly resolved when the droid staff dragged the combatants outside. The music glared to a deafening volume, and I had to shout directly into Zact's ear to be heard. Probably to our detriment, we decided on a particularly strong bottle of Alderaanian wine. The alcohol quickly had us swaying on our stools, swearing loudly, and slamming fists on the countertop. It was a wonderous escape from the recent troubled thoughts.

Zact did not make for a graceful drunk. Plenty of Twi'lek women approached, I politely declined, but Zact became overly aggressive. He'd throw an arm around them, grab them, try to plant a kiss. Five or six girls left, disgusted by his actions, slapped Zact across the face. The droid bartender and servers took no action, as we had an open tab worth around a thousand credits by this point. It was when I was drunkenly attempting to settle the bill, a male Twi'lek approached Zact, and the pair quickly became entangled in a physical altercation. Before I could reach them, a droid firmly grasped the two and carried them outside. The male Twi'lek apparently represented the women harassed by Zact, and demanded my friend pay a restitution fee for the trouble. The heavily inebriated Zach refused and the Twi'lek forcefully insisted on compensation. I went outside, saw the event unfold. I am not sure what possessed me in this moment, my friend in trouble, self-control diminished by the alcohol. Closing swiftly on the Twi'lek, who smacked the barely lucid Zact, I slammed my fist into the alien's lower back, on the spine. The Twi'lek screeched and dropped to the ground. Immediately, I launched a series of kicks and stomps with my boots, which so battered my victim and left him bloodied. The attack was halted by the intervention of officers from the Coruscant Security Force. Once again, I found myself relinquishing my identification to the CSF and having my transgression entered into their system.

"That's two aggravated assaults now," the CSF officer stated. "Maybe a night at the detention center will fix this attitude."

"For what!?" I protested, resisting the officer. "Tail-head is the guilty one!"

One CSF officer had me up against a wall while he patted me down. Zact broke down when questioned by another officer for a statement, fearful of potential repercussions that would arise from this incident. A third knelt with the injured Twi'lek to render medical assistance. My wrists were pulled behind my back and just before the officer applied the binders, two military policemen appeared on the scene. Whether they were summoned by the Imperial onlookers or happened to be in the vicinity was unclear. The military policemen saw uniformed Imperial personnel and intervened. The MPs demanded I be released at once. An argument erupted between the respective enforcement agencies. The taller of the MPs took hold of my sleeve and raised it, revealed the merit band sewn into the cuff. The MP burst into an unrestrained rage –bellowed and cursed at the CSF officer. The CSF relented, grabbed the injured Twi'lek and departed. I thanked the MPs for their help and was told I could register an official complaint against the CSF over my treatment, however I declined. Zact appeared rattled by the incident, and I started a gradual return to sobriety, so I made the decision to select another cantina to continue the evening. I did not want to return to my room to sleep through another round of terrors and Zact's agitated state could be calmed by a few additional drinks.

I woke to my head throbbing, as if Govnic were thrashing my skull with a heavy instrument. I lay on the floor of a room in the hotel still dressed in my service uniform, but it was not my room. The sound of Zact vomiting emanated from the refresher. Glancing up, I saw a Togruta woman adjusting her dress in preparation of a hasty exit. She noticed me and returned a stern glare.

"I charged your friend extra to let you watch," the Togruta grunted. "But then you pass out before we could even start."

While I had no memory of what occurred after the incident with the CSF, there were no nightmares either. Zact, it seems, accomplished what he set out to do last night. Neither of us had recovered by the time we dragged ourselves to the cafeteria for a late morning breakfast. To be fair, we were not the only ones in a fatigued state.

"Hey Paulus, what the hell happened last night?" Zact inquired, as he nursed his mug of caf.

"You got laid, pal," I replied, hand pressed to alleviate the pounding headache.

"Well, yeah. If only I could remember it…But I'm talking about the first cantina, the CSF, the MPs."

"So, what about it?"

I could tell Zact was unsettled by the altercation, the confrontation with authorities. He liked to cut loose and talk tough but was constantly nervous about getting into trouble or receiving an official reprimand. I believe it stemmed from Zact's basic training. His training depot did not subject him to the comparable torments I endured, there were no tenured personnel preying on the recruits. Once you've had your ass kicked on a regular basis, you do not concern yourself so much with what petty law enforcement perceives they can do to you. The CSF is a joke, and I sure was not going to let them push me around.

"You beat the shit out of that guy," Zact started, recalling the incident with the Twi'lek.

"Bastard had it coming," I answered, am I supposed to care? "Besides, he was a tail-head. I'm surprised you didn't kick his ass first, after he slapped you."

"I don't really recall that bit. Just remember the security officers showing up and asking questions. I thought for sure they were hauling us in. I mean if those MPs hadn't gotten there when they did. We'd still be sitting in the detention center, waiting on an arbitrator. Imagine what trouble we'd be in!"

"We didn't get into any trouble," I said, with some frustration in my tone. "And we won't get into any trouble. We're here to relax. Stop worrying about the stupid shit and enjoy yourself."

"I'm out two grand in one night and can't remember half of it."

"It just means you're having a good time."

After we finished breakfast, Zact wanted to return to his room to sleep away the hangover. We parted company and I went to the former hotel lounge with a datapad. I believed I should comprise a message to Haurn, find out how she was doing and let her know I was fine. Yet, I did not know if she was still on the hospital ship or returned to the surface to rejoin the battalion. Regardless, I did want to write something. Working in the lounge, indeed billeting at the hotel, one was not immune to the hazing of the dreaded Demils. The demilitarizing personnel, the Demils, were here, deposited on Coruscant at the end of their military service to complete the final days of their term. Mostly, I avoided confrontation with the Demils, who drank themselves to oblivion at all waking hours, even more so than those of us on leave. As I drafted my words to Haurn, evoking the memory of her kiss at the last moment we were together at the outpost, a contingent of Demils happened by. They took notice of my presence and were up to their usual practices.

"Hey recruit!" barked the lead Demil. "Spare us a 'undred credits!"

"I ain't a recruit," I grunted, not glancing up from my work.

"You got some mouth, fresh!" another Demil interjected. "How about you show your seniors some respect."

There were four Demils that formed around my seat. By their appearance, bulging guts barely squeezed into uniforms, it had been some time since they were combat effective –probably enjoying a cushy posting at a guardhouse or facility in the waning months of their service terms. Except one, he was largely built and fit, though detached from the others and their conviviality. The lead Demil put forth a hand to seize my datapad, but I pulled it from his grasp in time. This caused a great excitement and uproar among the three lethargic ones of their number. Instantly, they bellowed a slew of insults, curses, and threats. They tightened knuckles, stretched arms, all in preparation to exact a physical beating upon my person. I have suffered enough, the assaults and intimidations meted out by these demilitarizing persons, who feel they are entitled to do so. They are free to harass recruits, replacements, but not me. No, I have bled for the Empire, suffered for the Empire, won praise by the Empire for my deeds. No longer, I told myself, should I endure their wrath. If they wanted to throw punches, they best be prepared to receive.

On a small end table next to my seat, an ashtray for my half-consumed cigarra rested on the glass surface. Before the Demils could react, because Dystraay always stress "action is quicker than reaction", I snatched up that ashtray. Utilizing the circular smoking receptacle as an improvised weapon, I smashed it into the face of the lead Demil. He let out a cry of anguish, the ashes clouded his vision, irritated his eyes. The ashtray had some weight and I believe I broke his nose, his hands saturated in blood when he clasped his wounded beak. The surprise attack and the pain collapsed him to the floor. Quickly, I moved onto the second, struck him on the side of his head three times in rapid succession with my truncheon. It was enough to send my opponent stumbling for a few paces. The third was not as slow as I judged, for he clutched my wrist, knocked my bashing weapon from my hand and threw a surprisingly forceful punch that winded me when it collided with my abdomen.

"Grab him!" the third Demil shouted to the second, as he regained balance.

The second threw two gangly, but burly appendages around my upper body and held me in place. I thrashed about wildly, but I could not break the hold. The third closed in, launched one blow, another, and another at my face. I felt the room spin, my awareness in a daze. Not content to serve as their sentient punching bag, I swung a leg up, kicked the assailant right in the groin. A cowardly blow, but I grew up accustomed to street brawling to survive. If you want to win a contest such as this, do what must be done. He yelped a pathetic screech, which served to distract the second, who still held me tight. I slammed my head back, collided my skull into their nose. It had him reeling, enough to slip from their restraining embrace. I delivered as many rapid punches as I could, though they were uncoordinated and the second put up his arms to block most. A kick to the groin did not abide with the third, as he drew a vibroblade concealed within his boot. I turned, readied myself for the opponent armed with a blade. The fourth, the one who could best me outright, intervened.

"That's enough of this!" the fourth Demil announced.

The presence, the authoritative delivery of those words was enough to end the combat. The wounded Demils helped each other to their feet and scowled in my direction, at the indignity of their condition. They hobbled away to reconfigure themselves. The fourth Demil walked up to me, introduced himself as Ige and offered a handshake that I accepted.

"The Demils here will not bother you anymore," Ige said, then dealt a heavy punch unexpectedly to my gut. "But don't go starting fights with your seniors."

Ige parted with that last bit of advice that forced me to slump to the ground. My insides felt like they were on fire, and I coughed from lack of breath. Further hostilities were permanently suspended when the officer of the day arrived to take control of the situation. The Demils, owing to their station, were allowed to depart without hassle, while I received the brunt from the officer of the day. I was put on formal report with my credentials scanned and events logged. The duty officer saw what he needed and did not bother with a statement. I was not confined to quarters or placed in a detention cell, so I am not sure what became of the incident. Regardless, it left me with a bitter feeling only another bout of inebriation could alleviate.

The days were indistinguishable, a routine of drunkenness interrupted briefly by sleep before undertaken again. It was all I could do to keep the horrors away. The dreams plagued me, growing ever intense in terror. The deaths of my close friends played out on a loop, but there was nothing I could do to save them. The helplessness I felt, even though it was a dream, terrified me, sent me into a panic. There was also the ever-present feeling of guilt that would insert itself into my thoughts, gnawed at my convictions. Sometimes I felt myself wonder if the violence on Mimban was justified, the acts I perpetrated, were they wrong? Surely there were guilty Mimbanese who committed atrocities, but were there others who took up the fight because they had no choice? In the G'han, we came across Mimbos conscripted into the war, forced to join the MLA, were they deserving of the harsh measures we needed to dispense? There were questions I could not definitively answer. When I looked to my medal, my badge, the exoneration did not feel as convincing as it once had.

The only effective means I found to combat these visions, these notions, was through alcohol. The drinking was the distraction. But drinking was not enough and only fueled my temper that ran considerably short, exploded at times. Each encounter with a swindler merchant on a footpath immediately devolved into a liquor-fueled prejudicial beating. The attack halted only when the charlatan lay broken or an anxious Zact was able to drag me away before the CSF could intercede. Many of the cantinas offered games of chance, which I performed very poorly under the influence. At the sabacc table, the jubilee wheel, and the tregald booth, if someone relieved me of my credits and made a mocking show of it, I set upon them with an unrestrained violence. Zact was equally trouble in his relentless pursuit of solicit-able women. When he inevitably became rough and the girl's pimp had to intervene, I was happy to fight on behalf of my friend. This was the routine, day after day and night after night, at least how I remember events.

I frequently, in the bouts of lucidity, thought of Haurn. Despite the several messages I sent, I received no reply, no word on her condition. I became desperate, broadened my writing to include messages to Dashnik, Govnic, and even Major Brimmo requesting they get in touch with Haurn or provide me with some update. But nothing, there was no response from anyone. My holomail account was nothing but junk and the temporary postage box assigned to me at the hotel remained empty. I was severed from my comrades on Mimban, like we did not exist to each other. That hurt, as if a part of myself were missing. Zact was a great drinking buddy, but we did not have that bond. When you are under fire, your life hangs precariously, dependent on where the next shell will land, there is that comrade next to you, equally afraid. You forge a special camaraderie with that trooper, one only you two can understand and are unable to relate to others. They have been through the same hardships, same experiences, they are affected by the same horrors as you. To be away from your comrades is to be truly alone.

To be honest, I am not proud to share this experience. I was hesitant to include it in this testimonial, but it should be told. What I said about the loneliness of this place, there are trillions packed in this ecumenopolis, but without your comrades it feels empty. I could not take it anymore. Zact and I were at a cantina, per usual, and he was in search of company. A human girl approached me, offered herself for a price and I accepted. It would have been a shock to Zact, had he been sober enough to realize, since I never expressed interest in soliciting a whore. The girl and I left discreetly, traveled to the billet, not a far distance walk. We made polite small talk the entire route. She was only a few years older than me, nice features, and an inviting smile. We arrived at my room, I paid her four hundred credits –over the agreed amount because I had something in mind, and I needed her to go along without objection. I did not want her for sex, I just wanted someone to hold me close. For hours we laid in the bed together, I in her embrace. I rested my head in her lap and, as she stroked my hair, she told me everything was going to be alright, and I did not have to worry. Her words were comforting, cathartic. So desperate was I to fill the void, I resorted to this hired companionship. The girl played her role perfect, obviously accustomed to this manner of service.

The cantina was several levels below the sector frequented by most Imperial personnel. There were four days left until my leave ended. I just had to make it four more days. Zact sat nervously at my side and scanned the majority alien clientele. I was unconcerned, focused on the bartending Duro, who did not refill my drink fast enough. Between Zact's harassment of prostitutes and my numerous physical altercations with anyone who would oblige, we were prohibited entry from the establishments of the entertainment district. Even cantinas we never set foot in banned us after receiving a description from those who published our notorious deeds. Now, we had to venture further in search of a saloon that could accommodate our patronage.

"Hey Paulus, I'm not so sure about this place," Zact anxiously mumbled, as he sipped from his mug.

"Shut up," I grunted, annoyed by Zact's timidity.

A Zabrak woman sauntered up to the bar, moved her hands suggestively over Zact.

"You sailors interested in a good time," the Zabrak woman said, incorrectly assuming our branch of service. "I have some girlfriends, Twi'leks, at a flat in an adjacent block, looking to party."

"She thinks we're sailors," I scoffed, shook my glass to get the bartender's attention.

The woman rolled her eyes, was about to leave when Zact grabbed her arm and indicated he was interested.

"Paulus, come on," Zact started, motioned at the Zabrak. "This place is seedy as hell. Let's go with her, spend the night with her friends. Leave is ending soon for both of us. We should end it in a blaze of glory, faces buried in alien strange. What do you say?"

"No," I answered, downed the glass just refilled and indicated for another.

Zact politely excused himself from the woman, but indicated she should not leave, and turned to confront me. There was a look of frustration on his face. He tried to put a hand on my shoulder, which I shrugged off. Everything served to irritate me at this point. I felt so angry, the rage boiled inside. Angered that I was plagued by nightmares, dependent on alcohol as the only form of relief. Angered at the separation from my comrades, Haurn. Angered that I had to drink at this alien infested shithole because the others kicked me out. And now I was angry that Zact wanted me to go off with a bunch of alien whores. I was at my limit.

"I don't want to go alone," Zact confessed, nervousness apparent. "I get you don't prefer aliens, but maybe there's a human girl there. Perfect for you, right? So, let's get a bottle for the road, pop it open at their flat. Make it a real party!"

The persistence of Zact tipped me over the edge. I spun in my seat, seized him by the tunic with my hands.

"YOU AREN'T LISTENING," I screamed in his face, my composure lost. "I said I'm not interested! I am not interested in debasing myself with these xeno whores. It's disgusting, reprehensible behavior. If you want to continue sullying yourself, go ahead. Just leave me here to drink."

"Kriff you, asshole!" shouted Zact. "I'm done with your shit. Good luck on Mimban."

I did not turn to watch Zact leave with the Zabrak woman. Both of us had the blood up and exchanged several profanities before his departure. To the annoyance of the bartender, I remained and ordered more drinks, content to purge my memory of the evening's events. An hour later, when the credits on hand were spent, the Duro, weary of my behavior, had me dismissed from the premises. Once outside, my attention was grabbed by the assemblage of a crowd, the CSF speeders descending on the scene, and the red and blue flashes cascading from the facades of the polluted structures. I crept towards the center of the spectacle, curious to see what attracted so many onlookers. Held behind the security cordon, my mind sobered at the sight.

Zact lay in a pool of his own blood at the entrance to an alley between the cantinas. Several stab wounds to his abdomen were visible. His tunic was ripped, apparent someone was in search of his wallet or other valuables. I was overwhelmed by the sight, pushed my way forward. Two GU-series police droids grabbed me, as I charged through their barricade. I was shouting, a slew of emotions poured out at once. An inspector took notice, ordered the security officers to bring me over. They sat me down in a seat of the CSF speeder, tried to calm me down with the offer of a cigarra. The inspector began a series of questions, satisfied he had someone who could make a positive identification. I recounted the evening, provided a description of the Zabrak woman, our argument and how Zact left with her. I was handed an information contact card by the inspector, who did not disclose any details of the case, and sent me away.

It did not take much to piece it together. Zact was lured into the alley where he was jumped, robbed of his effects. The Zabrak woman was sent to identify a mark and bring him out to those waiting in ambush. That's how they got Zact. The guilt hit me like the kick from that Mimbo brute. Suddenly, I felt responsible for Zact's death. I was being an ass, a drunkard, my actions convinced him to follow the woman. What if I had been there? If I had been there, maybe we would have a fighting chance. We could've held them off, or at least gone down swinging. I was incensed, distraught. This was entirely my fault. Zact was really a good kid, I did not mean what I said about him in the bar, in my inebriated state. If I could take it back, I would. He didn't deserve this, to die in some shit alley at the hands of these thugs. It was a death entirely on my conscience, my responsibility.

"Another dead Imp, who cares?" I heard a voice from the crowd utter. "One more is a good thing."

I turned to see who spoke. A Twi'lek man made eye contact with me, snarled, exposed his sharpened teeth.

"What are you looking at, jackboot!?" the Twi'lek hissed. "Friend of yours? Don't it just break your heart he got off'd?"

That was the catalyst, the ignition that released all the rage, the hatred I amassed all these weeks on furlough. It erupted in a tremendous show of violence. I launched forward, threw the hardest punch I could muster, planted on the jaw of that insolent Twi'lek. He reeled, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. At once, I was on him. I grasped the front of his shirt with my left hand and struck him repeatedly with my right, balled into a fist, battered him until my knuckles bled. My surroundings disappeared; focus locked on pummeling my victim. His cheekbones, jaw, shattered from the heavy blows. I'm sure there were those in the crowd who screamed in horror at the sight. The attack felt like an eternity, an eternity spent beating this foe, retribution for all the suffering I incurred. Truly, it was not more than a few moments before I was seized and forcibly separated from the Twi'lek by two police droids.

The droids hauled me away, as I thrashed about like a deranged beast. I cursed, spit foamed at my mouth with every pejorative and threat of further violence uttered. The Twi'lek's face was bloodied, swollen, disfigured, hardly resembled a face. Droids and security officers tackled me to the ground, restrained my hands behind my back with binders, while I continued to flail. Not concerned with fleeing custody, I wanted to resume my attack on that wretched tail-head. Even placed in the back of the CSF speeder, locked in so I could not escape, I still slammed and kicked the door, fumed with wrath.

I've been in this cell for two days, I think. It's nearly impossible to keep track of time in this place. I was in a small cell, less than three square meters, dark, with my wounded hands crudely wrapped in now blood-soaked bandages. This was not the nice Central Detention Center, where they have standards and inmates are provided direct access to counsel. Rather, this facility was on a lower level. A rundown and overcrowded incarceration complex with all the dregs Coruscant society did not want to see, but the security forces had to manage. The CSF brought me here for beating the Twi'lek, formally charged me with aggravated assault. There was no opportunity afforded to contact the military authorities or speak with a judge advocate. The security forces were, in all likelihood, playing a jurisdictional game with me as their pawn. The assault charges, threat of a prison sentence, did not concern me, as much as the absent without leave possibility I faced since my furlough was soon to end. I was more afraid of a military court putting me up against a wall to be shot for desertion, than the consequences of assaulting some tail-head.

The cell door opened and an inspector, with two warder droids as escort, arrived to take me to an interview room. I held my wrist in front of me on command, so a droid could secure the binders. The inspector informed me a representative from the Imperial government was here to discuss my case. Thoughts raced through my head on how to best present an account of my actions. The walk was done in silence, across the dilapidated cellblocks and rancid corridors. I was shown into a small room with walls of grey duracrete and a table at its center, a single illuminator feebly held back the darkness. Seated in one of two chairs at the table, a woman of dark complexion and strong features. She was dressed in black trousers and an immaculately white tunic. The rank placard indicated captain. Upon seeing us enter, the woman was on her feet, displayed a suspiciously welcoming smile.

"Please inspector, those are not necessary," the woman said, ordered the droids to remove my binders.

I was gestured to the seat, the inspector occupying a corner of the room to observe. The woman claimed the chair opposite, picked up a datapad and began to review the notes on the device's screen.

"Thank you, inspector. That will be all," the woman, without looking up from the datapad, said.

The inspector scoffed in protest. The woman waved her hand in a dismissive fashion. A silent moment passed before the inspector realized the futility and departed. Once the door slammed shut, the woman lowered the datapad and glanced at me in an investigative manner.

"Maider, Paulus, corporal, 0-8-7-9-0-9-9-4-1-5," she began. "Born on Euruta eight years prior to the formation of the Empire, parents deceased. Completed recruit basic training at the Challenger-IV military education depot. Sapper, assigned to third company, eighty-eight forty-third Rifle Battalion, Mimban. Decorated Order of the Empire, second class and Imperial Badge of Meritorious Service."

I stared back at the woman, with her detailed notes. Still, she maintained that pleasant smile.

"Oh, do forgive my rudeness," the woman said, as she presented an identification badge. "I am Agent Rendin, of the Imperial Security Bureau."

This is when I began to panic, visibly trembled in my seat. I was aware of the ISB and their penchant for ruthlessness. Perhaps rotting back in my cell would be the preferable option. The unsettling aspect of the ordeal was her smile. I expected an instrument of the ISB to compose themselves in an aggressive fashion, employ violence and terror to extract what they wanted. But the woman's smile was inviting, her words calm and pleasantly spoken. Immediately, Agent Rendin detected my anxiety at the situation.

"Please corporal," said Rendin. "I assure you, whatever you think you know about the ISB, this is not one of those interviews. I have arranged for the aggravated assault charges against you to be dropped and secured your release from this dreadful place."

My jaw hung open in a flabbergast manner, disbelief at what Agent Rendin announced.

"Thank you," I timidly spoke, words barely able to form.

"Truth be told, the CSF are a dreadful lot," Rendin continued. "Arresting a highly decorated service member was out of line. Especially over some Twi'lek with a criminal record longer than the keel of a star destroyer. The true issue at stake concerns the murder of Imperial personnel. If we appear to do nothing, it shows we are weak, the Empire can be undermined and our enemies able to strike us with impunity. Thus, it falls to my section office to investigate this matter and mete out Imperial justice to the perpetrators responsible."

"I gave the inspector on the scene my account and a description of the Zabrak girl. What else do you need from me?"

"Nothing," Rendin replied, a smile extending to each cheek. "There is nothing more you can provide that I do not already know. The 'solicitation and holdup' routine is a common practice on these levels. Qame, is the Zabrak woman who solicited your friend. A prostitute, she associates with a gang of small-time thugs, though it appears they are moving up to murder. My agents expect to have her and her accomplices in custody by this time tomorrow."

Rendin rested an elbow on the table, placed a finger to her chin, examined me in an inquisitive fashion. On the datapad was a criminal record headshot of Qame, and I recognized her as the one who lured Zact to his death. I was astonished by the swiftness and efficiency of the ISB in their identification of the suspect. The Zabrak woman never gave us her name, yet the ISB appeared ready to close the case.

"What has me curious," began Rendin. "What possessed you to savagely beat that Twi'lek?"

"I…I don't know," I stuttered my feeble response.

"You don't know? Really?"

Not satisfied with my answer, Rendin pressed a tab on the datapad, and a new screen materialized. It was a spreadsheet, all the recorded interactions I had with the Coruscant Security Force. Included was an attached report filed by the officer of the day at the billet detailing the altercation with the Demils. There was also a complete listing of every cantina that I was banned from entering with a reason provided. The thoroughness and accuracy of the information was disquieting. Rendin collected the datapad and continued,

"It has been one occurrence after another since you have arrived on Coruscant. Your arrest seemed inevitable. Perhaps absolution of your crime was a miscalculation. I should have you thrown right back into that cell, abandon you to the mercy of the civil justice system."

I felt resentment at the threat posed by Rendin, while deeply unsettled by the amount of information gathered about my actions. My sore knuckles tightened, the wounds opened, and fresh blood seeped into the already discolored bandages. Rendin observed my distress, grimaced at the reaction she invoked.

"This is what my mentor taught me," Rendin spoke. "Assume I know everything. Information. Information is what provides the ISB with its terrifying reputation. I could have a droid break every bone in your body, but I could obtain far more effective results by sharing what I've collected on my datapad. I know a great deal about you, Paulus Maider, your past, your loyalties to the Empire, even the girl you've written message after message to, though they have all gone unanswered. So, I will ask again, why did you attack the Twi'lek?"

"What is this all about!?" I protested, no longer able to control my temperament.

My fist slammed on the tabletop; blood percolated through my fingers. I was breathing heavily, panting from the anger that boiled within. Rendin was unmoved by my outburst, unflinching. Casually, at the sight of the blood, she handed me a cloth to clean the mess.

"You bludgeoned the Twi'lek because you like to hit people," Rendin grinned. "You hit people because it makes you feel better. To be truthful, you are a thug. But there is a characteristic that differentiates you from these lower-level scum, and that is your loyalty. It would seem the Empire has made a worthwhile investment in you."

I scowled at Rendin, felt indignation at her unwarranted analysis. As I pressed the cloth to my knuckles, I heard the door to the interview room buzz. The inspector burst through, though not to intervene on my behalf on account of Rendin's antics. Rather, the inspector slammed a datacard onto the table and abruptly left the room, a loud grunt sounded his frustration at the entire matter. Rendin slid the card into her datapad and nodded, as she skimmed the material.

"This was all we were waiting for," Rendin looked up from the screen. "The CSF sure took their leisure typing this up, I swear they grow increasingly vexatious by the day. But it appears all is in order. You are formally released from custody, and we may now depart this repugnant complex. Shall we?"

Rendin stood, gestured to follow. The inspector was so belittled and infuriated by the episode, he would not attend us from the detention center –the duty fell to one of the warder droids. Rendin and I strode the corridors. Gangly arms and shriveled appendages of numerous species outstretched between the narrow slits on the cell doors, hastily withdrawn in dread upon perceiving Rendin's ISB affiliation. In the center's vehicle bay, a junior agent stood dutifully at the Bureau's airspeeder and held the door open for Rendin to enter. I was provided a lift from the center to the billet. I sat quietly for the ride, as Rendin was inundated with unrelated calls from agents in the field and a slew of messages arriving on her datapad.

The silence, the two days spent locked away, afforded me the opportunity to sober and reflect over the events of my furlough, my actions, Zact's death. This whole incident with Rendin, an agent of the ISB, filled me with frustration, worry, paranoia. I could not understand the reason behind her questions –I answered nothing that appeared beneficial to the investigation, provided no new information. It was evident that I was the subject of some manner of questioning to satisfy Rendin's inquest. Yet, I felt there was an ulterior purpose served to what was asked. My responses noted and tucked into a file with the Imperial Security Bureau.

When deposited at the hotel, Rendin furnished me with a datacard that contained my transit documents. A military combi transport was set to depart in sixteen hours to ferry supplies and replacement troopers to Mimban. I would face no repercussions from the incident with a military court and no negative remarks were on my record, though who could know what the ISB logged.

I sat on the edge of the bed in my room at the billet, saw my reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. I was a kid when I join the Imperial Army a year ago, now I barely recognized the face, indeed the person, who stared back. The combat, the horrors, the reckless habits I've adapted have aged me. I am eighteen standard years old, best I can figure, and my hair is already turning grey. My eyes appear worn, perpetually bloodshot. My features have been battered and rearranged so many times, and I am left with a large scar on my brow from the Mimbo brute. With only a few hours until the transport leaves, I wait in this room. I thought the purpose of a furlough was to relax, to sojourn from the hardships of life in the swamp, the trenches, but that proved erroneous. My eight weeks were defined by misery, isolation, and violence. Now, I find myself racked with guilt over Zact and consternation at the encounter with Rendin.

I desire my return to Mimban, as the only suitable remedy for these various ailments that torment my mind. A return to a daily existence of being under fire, the enemy lurking just out of sight, death stalking you from the shadows, it is a purpose, a focus. The battlefield on Mimban comes with its own despair and hardships, real matters that you must face. There is little opportunity to retreat to the issues one can conjure in their mind when left to idleness. And there are the comrades, the troopers who slog through the muck and mud by your side. Comrades endure as you endure and suffer as you suffer. But above all, I know I will see Haurn again. And to see her again, that is what I long for the most.

Farewell to Coruscant, monument to wonder and decadence. Your marvels outstretched to the clouds only pave over the depravity concealed beneath. Torture me no longer.

000