Incoming transmission…
From the Emperor's Palace, it's being reported that the battle for Mustafar has ended. After fighting hard to capture the Mustafar system for a week, New Republic forces realized the hopelessness of their fight, and so withdrew, choosing instead to destroy the volcanic planet with their own Death Star. The Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military, Darth Vader, was killed in its destruction.
Our Emperor, Sheev Palpatine, now speaks to the people of the Galactic Empire:
Citizens of the civilized galaxy! Soldiers of the Imperial Army! Your Commander, Darth Vader, has fallen. With deepest regret and reverence the Imperial citizens bow down.
He realized the horrible danger of anarchy early on and dedicated his life in this struggle. At the end of this fight, his fight, and his unwavering, straight life path, stands his heroic death at his home on Mustafar. His life was a sole duty for the Empire.
His actions fighting the anarchistic storm tide was, moreover, for the sake of the Galaxy, and civilized beings everywhere.
For the last time, our deadly anarchist enemy has lined up his masses for the attack. He is trying to smash the Empire and exterminate our way of life. To a great degree, you soldiers of the east know yourselves what fate is threatening all loyalist women, girls, and children. While the old men and children will be murdered, women and girls will be degraded to barrack whores. The rest will be taken to Hoth.
We have anticipated this hour. Everything possible has been done in order to erect a strong front. Our mighty artillery greets the enemy.
Our infantry's losses have been made good by countless new units. Units on the alert, newly activated units and the militias reinforce our front. The anarchist will this time meet the old fate of the Separatists, that is, he must and will bleed to death in front of the capital of civilization.
He who fails to do his duty at this time commits treason against our people.
Any regiment or division that abandons its position acts so disgracefully that it should be ashamed before the women and children who are enduring the terror bombing against our cities.
Above all, watch out for the few treacherous officers and soldiers who, in order to save their own lives, will fight against us, paid by the rebels, perhaps even wearing Imperial uniforms. Whoever orders you to retreat must be immediately arrested and, if necessary, killed on the spot, no matter what his rank may be.
If, in the coming days and weeks, every soldier does his duty at the eastern front, then the last rebel attack will be broken, just as the invasion of our enemies in the west will be broken in spite of everything.
Form a sworn community not with upon the empty concept of an "Empire" but for the defense of your land, your women, your children, and thereby our future.
In this hour, the entire Galactic Empire looks to you, my fighters in the east, and hopes that, through your steadfastness, zeal, arms, and leadership, the anarchist attack will drown in a bloodbath. At this moment, the turning point of this war is being decided.
—
Dalien Brock liked being back on Kalevala. When the Crusader came in to the Navy Yard for refit or resupply—or even to deliver a package—he had a chance for liberty, a chance to see his wife and kids. Unlike a lot of crewmen, he preferred getting it at home to laying down money in some sleazy whorehouse and lying down with a girl who was probably more interested in the current crossword puzzle than in him.
That didn't stop him from laying down with a whore every once in a while. It did leave him feeling guilty whenever he did. That, in turn, meant he drank more on liberty than he would have otherwise. He couldn't get drunk enough to stop feeling guilty, which didn't keep him from trying.
When he entered the planet's atmosphere, he didn't have to worry about it. He could go to bed with Lanoree with a clear conscience. And, being away so much, he felt like a newlywed whenever he did. Most of his married buddies weren't lucky enough to have caught a warm, willing, pretty redhead, either.
"I wish you didn't have to leave," she said, clinging to him with arms and legs the night before he was due back aboard his ship. When she kissed him, he tasted tears on her lipstick.
"Wish I didn't have to go, too," he answered. "But it'd be the Shore Patrol and then the brig if I tried to duck out. You fight the Navy, you're fighting out of your weight."
"I know," she said. "But—" She didn't go on, or need to. But covered bombs and torpedoes and mines and everything else that could mean this was the last liberty Dalien ever got. She clung to him tighter than ever.
He found himself rising to the occasion once more, which told how long it had been since his last liberty. In his thirties, he didn't do that as automatically as he had once upon a time. "Hey, babe," he said. "Hey."
"Ohh," Lanoree said when he went into her—more a sigh than a word. He wasn't sure he could cum again so soon after the last time, but he did, a moment after she gasped and quivered beneath him. But then she started crying all over again. "I don't want you to go!"
"I don't want to, either. But I've got to." He stroked her hair and kissed her in the hollow of her shoulder, all of which made things worse instead of better.
Finally, after she cried herself out, she reached for a tissue and blew her nose. "Good thing the lights are out," she said. "I must look like hell."
"You always look good to me," he said, and that started her crying again.
He wasn't very far from blubbering himself, but he didn't. He did fall asleep a few minutes later. Lanoree couldn't tease him about that, because she'd already started to breathe deeply and slowly herself.
She fed him an enormous plate of bacon and eggs the next morning. The way the boys stared at it said how unusual it was. They ate oatmeal as they got ready for school. Lanoree ate oatmeal, too, and drank caff that smelled like burnt roots. "Rationing that bad?" Dalien asked.
"Well, it's not good—that's for sure," his wife answered. "Better for us than for a lot of people. I know people at T Wharf, so I can get fish for us. We're tired of it, but it's better than going without."
"Sure." Dalien remembered his mother talking about doing the same thing during the last war. All over the system, no doubt, people were doing what they could to get along.
What Dalien could do was shoulder his duffel bag, kiss Lanoree and the kids good-bye, and head for the closest subway station. When he came up again, he was half a block from the Navy Yard.
He and the duffel got searched before the guards let him in. "All right— you're not a suicide bomber," one of the men said.
"Has that happened here?" Dalien asked.
"Not here at the Yard, no, but it sure as hell did in Sundari. Twice," the guard answered.
"Manda!" Dalien said. "Nobody's safe anywhere any more. I'd rather go to space. At least out there I know who's on my side and who isn't." With a nod, the guard waved him on.
Armorers were bringing crates of ammunition aboard the Crusader. They were eloquently obscene, creatively profane. Dalien had heard that before among men with especially dangerous trades. It gave them a safety valve they couldn't find any other way. He paused not just to give them room but also to admire their invectives. He'd thought he'd heard everything, but they showed him he was wrong.
He was almost sorry when they finished and walked down the pier. "Permission to come aboard?" he called as he set foot on the transport to the Keldabe-class battleship.
"Granted," answered Thad Walters, who had officer-on-deck duty. After the formal response, he unbent enough to ask, "Liberty good?"
"Yes, sir," Dalien said. "Kids are growing like weeds. Lanoree pisses and moans about the rationing, but she's sure keeping them fed."
"Well, that's good." The grin on the OOD's face said he knew Dal and Lanoree didn't spend all their time talking about rations. He was younger than Dalien himself. Chances were he didn't spend all his time thinking about Y-ranging gear, either. He went on, "Well, stow your gear below and get used to the ship again. You'd better—we put to space tomorrow morning, early and"—he looked at the cloudy sky—"not too bright."
"Yes, sir." After his own apartment, the accommodations belowdecks were a rude reminder that he was back in the Navy's clutches. Everything was cramped and smelly. Instead of a bed to share with his wife, he had a hammock in a compartment full of snoring, farting crewmen. If he tried to roll over, he'd fall out.
Some kid was bragging about how many times he'd done it in a whorehouse. Only a couple of guys were even half listening to him, and they mainly seemed interested in telling him what a liar he was. Dalien thought the same thing. Anybody who boasted about what a great lover he was had to be lying, even if he didn't always know it.
Food was another disappointment: some kind of hash and lumpy mashed potatoes. Lanoree would have been ashamed to put slop like that on the table no matter how bad rationing got. The caff was better than hers, though. The Navy and the Army got most of the real bean that came into Mandalore; civilians had to make do with ersatz.
Maybe because he'd gone without real caff for a couple of days and it hit him harder when he drank it again, maybe because his own mattress had spoiled him, he had a hell of a time going to sleep that night. He knew he'd stagger around like a zombie in the morning, but he lay there in the hammock staring up at the steel ceiling not nearly far enough above his head.
A pilot had brought the Crusader in through the minefields shielding the planet's atmosphere from enemy fighters. Another one took her out again. A small patrol ship followed the cruiser to pick up the pilot and bring him back. Dalien stayed at his turbolaser till well after the pilot was gone.
"We have ourselves a new assignment." Jod Mort's voice blared from the loudspeakers. Dalien still thought it was bizarre that he'd met the man now his superior when he was a kid in Keldab. Mort went on, "We're heading for Bermuda, and then for the Core Worlds. We're going to try to find convoys bringing food up from The Mid Rim to Coruscant. And when we do, we'll destroy them or capture them."
Excitement tingled through Dalien. This was what was finally going to make the Empire decide she'd had enough.
The ship approached Bermuda from out the main trade route. That made for more time in space, but lessened the chance of meeting TIE bombers or fighters on the way in.
"No liberty here," Mort announced as the warship docked on the Yard. "Sorry, guys. We don't have time. On the way back to Mandalorian space, I'll give you the best blowout I can, and that's a promise."
By the way the old-timers on the cruiser nodded, the skipper kept promises like that. Dalien wasn't surprised. Keeping them seemed in character for Mort. He knew what ratings liked better than most officers with Academy rings did. And one of the things they liked was officers who delivered on their promises.
Because of the threat from the Core Worlds, the crew spent the first twelve hours at battle stations; four on, four off. A handful of bombers did come over. Bermuda had Y-ranging gear far more powerful than the set the Crusader carried; sirens started shrieking before the cruiser picked up the bombers.
Mandalorian night fighters were up over Bermuda, too. Dalien wondered if they had their own Y-ranging sets. If they did, it didn't seem to do them much good. He heard the harsh crump of bombs—none very close—but saw no bombers going down.
Even after the all-clear sounded, ships and land-based guns kept throwing lazers around. "Boy, I enjoyed that," he said when the other gun crew relieved him and his comrades.
"You be able to sleep?" his opposite number asked.
"Fuck, yes. I don't care if the Imperials come back and the noise starts up all over again. I'll sleep."
And, some time in the wee small hours, the Imperials did come back. They couldn't take Bermuda away from the Mandalorians, but they could make sure the Mandalorians didn't enjoy holding it. Dalien opened his eyes when the shooting started again, then closed them and began to snore louder than ever.
The Crusader entered space the next morning, her tanks topped off and ammunition replenished. Space was a changed beast.
Imperial stealth ships. New Republic stealth ships. Misguided Mandalorian stealth ships. TIE fighters. Maybe even bombers and torpedo-carriers from a prowling Imperial carrier. This part of space was full of danger. Dalien hoped he wouldn't follow in his father's last footsteps, as he'd already followed in so many.
—
Lanoree was standing in front of her house, waiting for her children to return from school, when she felt a shadow pass over her. She raised her eyes from her datapad and saw a smudge against the blue sky that she tried to blink away.
But the smudge only grew clearer. A perfect gray sphere hung high above the planet, its surface etched with lines like circuitry.
She hadn't ever seen it before. But she recognized it anyway, knew it with her subconscious mind, and felt no surprise.
The Death Star II had come to Kalevala.
—
The deck shuddered lovingly as the battle station dropped out of lightspeed. Tiaan Jerjerrod made his assessment after seconds of perusal.
Duty officers called out status reports for their assigned sections of the Death Star ll. The hyperspace journey had gone smoothly and the station was ready for war.
Jerjerrod looked to the viewscreen and to Kalevala.
"Single reactor ignition," Jerjerrod said. "You may fire when ready."
—
The City had evacuated. Its citizens had panicked once they'd realized the Death Star's purpose. Lanoree didn't know that for sure, but it would explain why she and her children encountered no one on their departure from the house, hearing only distant shouts and the rumble of shuttles. If the shield gate was open, a few Mandalorians might possibly make it offworld before the end.
She tried her comlink, just to see if anyone answered. No one did, which was as she'd expected.
Without anywhere better to go, she led them toward the beach.
There had been beaches on Lah'mu, protected by jagged boulders that had—to a child, at least— seemed like mighty cliffs. She'd sent Stormy on harrowing adventures there, recounted them at night to her mother. Kalevala's placid waters seemed a pale imitation of Lah'mu's grandeur, but they would have to do.
When they reached the beach itself, her son struggled with his footing in the sand. He dropped to both knees and Lanoree crouched beside him. They'd gone far enough, she decided; a breeze was clearing the air of ash and smoke, and they could no longer hear shouting.
For an instant, Lanoree looked up, expecting against reason to see the glimmering of the Mandalorian fleet among the stars to save them. But of course she couldn't see anything—the sky was blue and bright, and the only artificial construct in sight was the battle station.
Instead she looked to her kids.
"I love you two," she said.
When the words finally touched them, they gently smiled and took her hand. The Death Star ll was pulsing with emerald light. Lanoree tried not to tense. She wasn't afraid of what would happen, but she didn't want to suffer. Somehow she found herself closer to her kids than before. Her breathing matched theirs, or theirs matched hers, deep and steady.
The Death Star ll flared too bright to watch and a tremor went through the beach. The placid waves rolled higher, spraying flecks of warm seawater over Lanoree's cheeks like tears. An unfathomable rumble echoed ten or a thousand kilometers away.
The rumbling overwhelmed all other sound. Lanoree tightened her grip on her children. The world grew brighter, emerald at first and then a clean, purifying white.
Soon, everything burned away, and the Brock family became one with the Force.