Optimism
"What about flexcamps?"
"All out."
"Power packs?"
"Out."
"The cooling units?"
"Last one broke down yesterday."
General Garett Arhen groaned and ran a hand through his sweat-darkened hair. "Well, do we at least still have a functioning repulsorbroom?" he snapped.
Quartermaster Pershing Braxx pretended as if he hadn't heard the sarcastic bite behind his general's question. With the lower set of his arms crossed over his expansive gut, he tapped one meaty finger against his bicep, while studying his own datapad. "No repulsorbroom. The techs broke it down for spare parts last week to fix the cooling units."
"That would explain the convention of dust durnies taking place under my bunk," O'sic noted with barely concealed ill-humor.
The general shot his second-in-command an irritated look. "Perhaps we could forgo the jokes, Commander, in favor of some constructive ideas on how to solve our supply problem?"
"Yes, sir," O'sic responded with perfect aplomb. "All jokes put on hold. We might require them for later, anyway. Another volley like last night's and jokes will be all we'll have left to throw at the Separatists."
General Arhen, obviously misinterpreting the words as criticism to his battle-strategy, bristled. The tropical heat gathering in the plastent, coupled with a humidity that made the air thick enough to drink, was beginning to shorten a lot of fuses, including that of Blazer Corps' commanding Jedi. "I don't appreciate your tone, Comma..."
"Look on the bright side," Braxx interrupted the brewing argument with his usual heavy-handedness. "Way things are going with Supply, Fleet's going to have to call off the war entirely. Of course," the quartermaster added with an annoyed flare of the wattle at his neck, "way things are going, we won't find out until the nunas come home to roost." He thrust his index finger at his 'pad. "The comms gave their last croak, by the way, and we don't have any repulsorbrooms left to fix them."
Open-mouthed, the two officers stared at Braxx, then broke out into simultaneous bursts of laughter. The growing tension in the plastent dispersed like a storm cloud under a heavy gale and General Arhen even went so far as to lean back on his bunk, propping his back against the plastent's stiff sides. "Best make a note then, Staff Sergeant," he said, wiping the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. Unlike the clones, the general did not have the option of retreating into an environmentally controlled suit of armor and had therefore stripped down to his boots, a pair of knee-length pants and a white, sleeveless undershirt that was already sticking to his lean frame. "A new shipment of repulsorbrooms should be at the top of our requisition list."
Commander O'sic was grinning as well, but suddenly the clone's head jerked up, his eyes going to the roof of the plastent. In the same second, General Arhen was on his feet, his lightsaber suddenly in his hand. Braxx froze, unable to stand in the small confines of a tent built according to Human standards.
"What is it?" he began, but General Arhen cut him off.
"Company. Someone's approaching from the skies and fast."
"Sounds like..." Commander O'sic broke off. The muscle in his scarred cheek jumped once, then a smile lit his usually stern face. "A Republic freighter!"
As if on command, the camp's PA system boomed out: "Attention, all personnel! Attention! Supply freighter on approach!"
Even before the announcement had ended, the pounding of heavy footfalls and the call of excited voices could be heard outside of the plastent.
O'sic, being closest, threw back the plastent's tarp and a shot of bright, unfiltered sunlight stabbed into the tent, along with a breeze every bit as hot and humid as the air they'd been breathing for the past half hour.
Braxx let out a bark in his native tongue. "Id' best get out there," he said and began to rise from the crate he'd used as a seat. Dark circles of sweat reached from beneath all four of his armpits almost to the loops of his belt. "Before those techies get their greedy hands on everything but the kitchen sink."
Garett and O'sic hastily made room for the Besalisk, but Braxx, used to operating in a Human-sized environment, maneuvered his bulk with credible grace, his head-crest barely brushing the plastent's ceiling.
Once outside, the quartermaster straightened, pressing two of his four hands into the small of his back, before starting to bark out a series of orders. Milling troopers parted before Braxx like a snow flurry against a mountain.
General and clone marshal remained standing in the plastent's opening for a few minutes, blinking their eyes against the unforgiving glare of the sun.
General Arhen tilted his head back and shielded his eyes, squinting as he followed the supply freighter, whose outline was slowly manifesting itself against the haze of the afternoon sky.
"Well, would you look at that," he murmured to himself, so quietly that O'sic, standing next to his general, almost didn't hear him. "Looks like we're a military unit again."
O'sic snorted and cast a jaundiced eye up at the freighter. "I wouldn't count my ammo clips until Braxx crossed them off his manifest, General. Remember our last supply drop?"
The general grimaced. "180 pairs of snowtrooper boots and an entire crate of re-heatable fire stew at forty-five degrees Standard temp. How could I forget?"
"If you don't mind my saying so, General, but while the Force might work in mysterious ways, GAR Supply takes the uj cake."
That teased a laugh out of his general. "You are an eternal optimist, Commander."
"Not me, sir." O'sic's attention had strayed to the troopers crowding around the camp's makeshift landing pad. The pad - no more than a section of jungle hastily cleared of underbrush - wasn't big enough for the freighter to actually land. Instead, the ship's crew would drop the supply crates and already some troopers were arranging bets on how close the freighter's crew would get to the staked out drop zone. "Him, on the other hand..." O'sic gestured with one hand, drawing his general's attention to Commander Gaff, who was busily jogging towards the crowd in spite of the oppressive heat.
General Arhen blew out a breath and shook his head in appreciation. "Where does he take the energy from?" he wondered, watching as the commander tagged individual troopers and gave them brief orders. The prospect of fresh supplies, coupled with the officer's relentless enthusiasm, revived a unit of men that had, up until five minutes ago, hit an all-time low in morale.
O'sic crossed his arms over his chest. Commander Gaff seemed to have things well in hand, so the senior commander didn't feel induced to take charge of the situation. "I couldn't say, sir." An excited murmur went through the troopers gathered around the drop zone and the first crates made their appearance, parachutes opening without problem and slowing their descent. O'sic squinting against the sun, calculating their trajectory. Not much wind at the moment, so the crates shouldn't stray too far. Gaff had already organized a line of troopers, ready and jumping for the chance to get their hands on the new - and desperately needed - supplies. The commander, meanwhile, was continuously skirting the edges of the drop zone, head swiveling in every direction and calling out the occasional order, never dropping out of his trot. "The Kaminoans must have added something to this batches' genes."
Even Braxx had fallen back, trusting Gaff to whip the men into something useful.
A small smile was playing around the edges of the general's lips as he watched the lively scene.
In an unexpected burst of his own optimism, General Arhen clapped O'sic on the shoulder. "Come along, Commander. Let's give the men a helping hand. It wouldn't look good for Blazer Corps' ranking officers to laze about in the sun like jeweled lizards, while the men do all the work. And you never know. Supply might have actually remembered to pack up something useful this time."
More crates, their white parachutes blooming flowers against the brilliant sky, appeared, as General Arhen jogged off to join his men. In a moment of inattention and shared camaraderie, O'sic saw Commander Gaff shoot his general a quick smile.
O'sic shook his head, exhausted just by watching this outpouring of energy. "Both their vats, hopelessly spiked," he muttered, but followed obediently behind his CO. There were crates to unpack, supplies to restock and a Separatist contingent waiting for them on the other side of the creeping jungle.