The Infernal Days
Lost in the darkness; held in despair's embrace
Part One:
"Ninety Days"
The blaster shot exploded in the cupboard above my head, showering us with charred bits of debris. The battle raged through the mess hall on sub-level one, within Redoubt 7's depths. We held the kitchen and fired over the counter of the meal serving line, onto the enemy braced against their barriers of stacked dining tables. Haurn slid the body of a dead trooper out of her way. She threw a gas grenade, which exploded and engulfed the hall in a thick cloud of a diseased yellow hue. Not that the gas would be of any benefit at this stage, the MLA donned respirators in answer to the chemicals' employment. We were using them as smoke screens, and to piss off the bugs. It also meant the corridors and chambers, from service ways to quarters, every square centimeter of Redout 7's interior was saturated in the deadly gas. Thus, it was impossible to exist within the confines of the massive coffin of duracrete without a mask.
One of the Mimbos at the opposite end of the mess hall was equipped with a light repeating blaster and fired a torrent of bolts through the toxic haze. One struck a trooper, an inexperienced conscript I did not know, who made the mistake of not crouching low enough. The blaster impacts riddled the ovens and ranges along the back wall of the kitchen. A bolt tore through the upper chest of a replacement trooper, who, through lack of experience, presented himself as a target. I tossed a stick grenade blindly in the direction of the enemy. The resulting detonation rattled the walls and threw broken bits of tables about. The repeating blaster ceased firing. Haurn braced herself against the serving counter, forearms planted, and her WESTER pistol steadied. She fired several shots into the barely observable targets, while minimizing her exposure. The increased energy in the Mandalorian pistol's golden bolts punched through the improvised defilade, and two MLA combatants were shot dead. A retaliatory fusillade drove Haurn from her perch, as she threw herself out of the path of the incoming fire.
Behind me and to my left, I briefly observed Dashnik conversing with the lieutenant. A bewildered trooper was felled by a succession of bolts, off to my right. Though, the trooper uttered no screams in response to her pain at being hit, quietly crumpling lifelessly upon the deck. Another glance to Dash, and I saw the officer scarper away in a direction opposite the fight, through the hatchway and corridor to the rear.
Dashnik shifted his body, handed me his final stick grenade. Imperial forces were spread too thinly throughout Redoubt 7 and the casualties were heavy. The MLA were concentrating on driving us from our hold on the mess hall. Manpower constraints obliged us to fight in small teams, attacking in piecemeal incursions, leaving us without the force necessary to swiftly overwhelm the enemy. I thanked Dash for his contribution and readied the grenade.
"You'll have to make it count!" Dashnik exclaimed in a filtered voice. "Lieutenant ordered us to hold this position."
"And where is Lieutenant Bostra?" Haurn looked about, just noticing the lieutenant's absence.
"He's gone for help!" Dashnik answered, emphasizing the last word in mock impersonation of the officer's shaky tone.
It was clear what was implied.
"If we had a crate of these things," I said, gestured to the stick grenade. "We could hold this kitchen all fraggin' day!"
My words were premature, for a bomb, thrown by the MLA, landed in our midst. It was a desperate scramble to throw ourselves out of the path of the predicted explosion, which swiftly followed. I felt the heat from the detonation, the concussion pinned my body to the deck. The noise was deafening, my ears rang, and my head felt nauseous and disoriented. The kitchen was scorched and blackened, with small fires burning at sporadic intervals. Haurn sat up, brushed the small bits of debris from her body, but she appeared unscathed. Then, I pivoted to check on Dashnik.
He clenched a hand to his neck, a metallic shard, debris from the steel countertop that was blown apart by the bug grenade, about thirty centimeters in length, jutted out from his throat. Dashnik gasped for air, we could hear his respirator strain from the labored inhalation. Blood seeped from the puncture wound. Additional pieces of the shattered countertop embedded in Dashnik's arms and legs, his chest armor interdicting a fragment intended for his right lung.
The situation was desperate, as the Mimbos tightened their noose and advanced. I threw that last stick grenade to buy us a few moments and it sent the enemy to ground briefly. Govnic, who until this point we had lost sight of, rose from wherever he was, and unleashed his incinerator. The fire tore across the dining section, searing the MLA caught in the flames. Bug, alien, and human screams echoed from the walls in the most hideous cacophony of agony. The raging conflagration screened us while we dragged the wounded Dashnik into the adjacent corridor. A relief squad materialized and charged into the kitchen to carry the fight in our stead.
Haurn and I watched Dashnik's eyes widen, the pain must have been excruciating and he was in a desperate state. His arms flailed wildly, as he tried to remove the embedded shard from his neck.
"Grab his arms and stop him!" Haurn commanded, as she dug for her last spray of bacta. "Don't let him pull that metal out! It's better if we leave it in until we can get a medic."
I went to seize the excited Dash, but he evaded my grasp and fixed his hands to the shard. He was in a state of great agitation, unable to think clearly, and quite hysterical. Dashnik wrapped his fingers around the metallic piece and ripped it from his flesh. Recollections indicated Haurn and I cried or shrieked in alarm and clumsily tried to administer aid. Blood erupted from the puncture wound and I instinctively thrust my hand to the area to staunch the hemorrhaging. Dash kicked his legs in rapid motions like a raging animal. My efforts to apply pressure were futile and Haurn could not locate the bacta. Not that it would have made any difference. The thrashing was the result of Dashnik inhaling the poison gas. The neck wound punctured his windpipe in addition to the artery. Despite the respirator he wore, the gas entered through the gaping hole in his neck and filtered into the lungs. A few more final twitches and he was gone.
We sat under a tent erected outside of the redoubt, propped against its exterior wall, on the grounds secured by Imperial forces. The biting wind flew up the slope of the plateau and whipped against the fabric in a deafening drum. This was the first opportunity, free from the gas, we could remove our respirators. Painful rings encircled our noses and cheeks, where the mask's seal rubbed the skin raw. The shift, as we called the combat rotation inside, was over and we had twelve hours to rest and recuperate before we must return to "the work".
I leaned against a few small crates with Haurn, who was equally exhausted, wrapped in several pairs of blankets to cover our trimmed down attire. Govnic sat completely motionless, his eyes widened, yet made not a sound or uttered a word. The cur was not even willing to converse with his souvenir Mimbanese skull.
The loss of Dashnik, it is hard to find the words to explain it. He was a great friend. I remember him coming over and introducing himself to Haurn and me at Camp Forward, right before we boarded the A6s to the outpost, introducing us to the other sappers. Haurn was convinced they were going to jump us and steal our gear, given their veterancy, but that was not Dashnik's manner. Dash was always willing to pass on his experience, he taught me everything I know about mine clearing and just how to stay alive on Mimban. I credit him greatly for getting me this far. But there was one thing he told me, about the addiction to combat.
Dashnik finished his service contract; he could seek an honorable discharge or even be granted a transfer to a quieter role on a backwater world. Not Dashnik. He reenlisted, volunteered to return to Mimban, because he secretly could not tolerate civilian life. He could not readjust, could not acclimate to a mundane routine. After only a few months, Dash was in the recruiter's office signing on again. He warned me not to follow his example, told me to do something more, not to throw my life away on Mimban. As much as I hate it here, I understand –and I worry that I may not be able to leave.
The talisman, the one Dash insisted I carry for him and return to his sister, lay still in my palm. Its features were smooth, and it was cold to the touch, pressed against my skin. I could not decipher the faded white characters etched into the medallion's onyx surface, nor tell you the significance of the jewel at its center, clouded by wear and age. For hours I labored to compose a message to Dashnik's sister, some words to offer comfort or express condolences. The only thoughts I could translate to the holodisk were, "he was a great friend." I slipped the talisman and holodisk into a mailer, and silently handed it off to the postmaster.
The MLA stubbornly clings to Redoubt 7, beyond all hope of reinforcement or breakout. We have the bugs, and whatever morons decided to throw in with their cause, trapped within. The bulk of the Imperial forces have advanced beyond the plateau and are preparing for the final thrust on the main Voran refinery. This left a patchwork amalgamation of "specialists" delegated for the mop-up action. After our battalion bled itself seizing the plateau, the remnants were taken to the rear echelon and properly billeted in dry accommodations. We were on our second week of recuperation, Haurn and I, like most, did nothing but sleep. Then command came around to scrape together sappers and "volunteers" to replenish units already depleted, fighting within the redoubt –use depleted units to replenish depleted units. As is our luck, Haurn, Dashnik, Govnic, and I were assigned to that task, to exterminate the stubborn holdouts. We joined others, formed into a composite platoon with the designation "Special Detachment 39".
The combat waged in Redoubt 7 is like nothing we were accustomed to, and we suffer horrendously, as we try to adapt ourselves to fight this new war. The interior of the redoubt is comprised of prefabricated sections, transported to Mimban, and assembled to form a labyrinth encased in duracrete, which formed a reinforced exterior. The corridors, rooms, and atriums have an appearance resembling a utilitarian starship's interior. We are not fighting in trenches, maneuvering across terrain, or slogging our way up fortified elevations. This is enclosed combat, killing in the narrow confines of passageways, up close against the enemy. At every turn and corner, we encounter Mimbo, either lunging forward or lying in wait to ambush us. Grenades are far deadlier to the recipients, and even the sender.
Quadrants of the structure have lost power, plunging those areas into complete darkness. This forces us to fumble about in the pitch-black, only the faint glow of a hand torch or headlamp able to guide us through. The Mimbos are subterranean dwellers, their large eyes allow them to see perfectly in the low light. The enemy sets their ambush, luring the individual trooper or small detachment into a darkened corridor. The bugs scurry through ventilation ducts, appear behind us or simply toss out bombs on the unsuspecting.
When a blaster is fired, the bright illumination betrays the one who depressed the trigger, heaping upon them a cascading response. The halls are an impasse with sturdily erected barricades, every bulkhead junction is a fortified checkpoint. The enemy contests us for each corridor, stairwell, dormitory, and conduit. This infernal structure was purpose built for a defending force, if provisioned, to hold out indefinitely. There are retractable blaster ports that allow an enemy combatant to fire or toss a grenade and then seal themselves off before we can retaliate. The labyrinthine construction of this facility leaves us easily turned around. Part of the initial construction, its intention was to create a layout able to disorient and mislead intruders. Whole squads will reconnoiter a darkened hallway, become turned around, never to emerge. If we find the bodies in a later sweep, we have our answer, and if we don't, it is best not to ponder their fate.
The climate controls of the redoubt have failed, and the heat generated by the overtaxed facility reactor contributed to the hellish atmosphere. The internal temperature averaged forty centigrade. One would think the heat would be welcome after the months of toiling in freezing rains and mud, but existence was insufferable. Troopers regularly succumbed to heat exhaustion and severe dehydration –it is quite difficult to consume water when you cannot remove your respirator. The conditions permit a detachment only four to six hours of operations at a time inside the redoubt before its troopers must be rotated back to the surface, and others brought in. It is making the securing of Redoubt 7 a painfully slow and frustrating process. We even altered our uniforms to adapt to the sweltering conditions. Helmets and excessive gear were abandoned. Torso armor had to be retained, as the filters were built into the back and connected to the respirators through hoses. We stripped off our tunics and fought in shirtsleeves and undershirts. Trousers were sheared at the knees, and we improvised sweatbands from strips of cloth to keep the perspiration out of our faces. The image we struck was less of a uniformed fighting force and more akin to a heavily armed motley rabble.
I have since stowed my E-11 in the baggage, preferring to equip myself with my WESTAR-35 pistol. In the tight spaces, often having to crawl through narrow conduits and squeeze through obstructing wreckage, it is simpler to manage with just a pistol in hand. The stopping power of the Mandalorian sidearm is quite sufficient. In my free hand, I will sometimes employ my sharpened entrenching tool to hack and cleave my enemy, for when the fighting becomes too close even for a pistol. Haurn removed the stock of her SX-21 and stripped the optics, all to cut down the profile of her weapon. The scatter blaster performed terrific work; the spread of the bolts decimated whatever heap of flesh was unfortunate enough to impede in its path. In the tight corridors and passageways, she could not miss. In select instances, Haurn would draw her WESTAR-34, with her remarkable marksmanship, to devastating effect. In addition, we laden ourselves with bandoliers teeming with grenades and thermal detonators to ensure generous employment.
Survival is dependent upon our initiative. It is up to us to devise and implement strategy moving forward. There are no subject matter experts available to lend their knowledge of close quarters warfare. Command is unwilling to squander their scant reserves of Stormtroopers within this abattoir –the ones who are trained, equipped, and better suited for this manner of engagement. The struggle is disorganized and chaotic, with teams of troopers breaking off to pursue enemy contacts, usually at the behest of an officer. Haurn and I have managed thus far, with Govnic included, despite losing Dashnik.
We hurl grenades the length of a corridor, advance under the suppression of blaster fire. Govnic is pushed to the head of our column, unleashing his flamethrower. The fire traverses every nook within the confined spaces, burning the enemy to our front. The rudimentary strategy is to drive the Mimbos occupying a level or quadrant of the facility into a corner, force them to barricade themselves in a supply bay or congregation room. With their backs against the wall, effectively trapped, we eradicate what is left. This is done by shoving grenades or thermal detonators between gaps in their makeshift obstacles or through unsealed ventilation ducts. If practical, Govnic or one of the others carrying an incinerator will insert the nozzle in an opening and saturate the inside, roasting the enemy. The flamethrowers prove to be highly effective as terror implements, as much as they are practical clearing weapons, able to persuade a cornered and terrified foe into surrendering.
At first, we would show no quarter, but not going about the deed directly. Our detachment would array those MLA, who opted for surrender, against a bulkhead and go through the motions of searching their effects for holdout weapons and the like. In truth, we were pilfering anything of value the prisoners had, so as not to damage the items before riddling their bodies with blaster bolts. Haurn and I were sure to have the freshest replacement troopers be the ones who pulled the trigger –acquaint them directly with the business that transpires in these parts. Govnic, how I hold the cur in contempt, was permitted first choice of the takings, given his duration of service on Mimban, followed by Haurn and myself equally taking our share. Lt. Bostra, horrified by the behavior, attempted to put a stop to the executions, insisting prisoners be given proper treatment under conventions, but I know not what conventions to extend to the MLA. He was rightly ignored. The lieutenant went to lodge a complaint with the intelligence corps, who in turn came down hard on us with a reprimand on "the importance of gathering intelligence through the interrogation of prisoners," or something akin. We spared who we could, when practicable. The episode, however, furnished me with an exquisite wrist chrono.
"Fifty-four days"
The shift was turning out rather eventful. Not a few minutes into a relief of another detachment's position, Govnic was sending jets of fire from his incinerator down an unexplored corridor. In short order, the walls were charred and blackened. I leaned against the bulkhead that formed the junction to the corridor. Absent-minded, his face buried in a datapad, Lt. Bostra strode by and into this corridor. Those exercising better judgement perhaps would not venture beyond without a proper clearing having been performed –root out whatever Govnic's flamethrower missed. In fairness, the lieutenant was an officer and free to exercise what discretion he pleased. There came a rattle on the floor, the one made by a small device clanging against the metal deck. It was accompanied by the unmistakable countdown hum indicative of the surplus grenades left by the Separatists, now employed by the MLA. Instinctively, I grabbed Bostra by the shoulder joint of his armor and wrenched the unaware lieutenant from the corridor, as I simultaneously slammed the door control board to seal off the bulkhead. A thundering boom shook the walls, left our ears ringing and in considerable pain. Dazed, Bostra looked up at me and then to the sealed doors, which were bent in a convex shape from absorbing the force of the blast. But a taste of the day's excitement.
Further ahead, the detachment advanced, to another passageway junction. The square shaped grate was bolted at each corner to cover the access duct. The redoubt blueprints indicated this point would link us to a maintenance conduit, where the MLA ambushed Special Detachment 14 –leaving two survivors. I melted the upper left bolt with my fusioncutter, while Haurn worked the ones opposite. Agitated troopers clenched their weapons, choked on the stifling air that filtered through their respirators. The impatient Sgt. Eonna loomed over, silently pondering how to impel the plasma beam into melting durasteel faster. The opinion I held of Sgt. Eonna would be abysmal, at best. She was the replacement brought in to irreverently succeed Dashnik. A supply sergeant, Eonna was plucked from her cushy desk at a rear echelon depot and thrown right into this mess.
Once the four bolts were melted, I wrenched the grate from its mount and slid it aside. Eonna was barking commands to the troopers, Haurn jabbed me with her elbow to get my attention, as she mocked the sergeant with exaggerated gestures.
"Maider, you're on point!" Eonna stated, wrestling my attention back.
I shot her a look, scowled. It required every ounce of discipline to refrain from shouting, "the hell I am!" Had I, the sergeant would have every right to shoot me dead on the spot for insubordination and nobody could do a thing about it, though I imagine Haurn would not take things idly. At a begrudging scoff, I pulled the glowrod from my webbing, held it forward, while my blaster pistol was drawn in the other. The section formed up behind, as I was the first in, followed by Haurn.
The duct was cramped and narrow, dimensions perhaps a meter by a meter. I led the section through, my shoulders banged against the duct's confines. It was a slow advance, painful on the joints, my knees ached from being dragged along. Those actors in the holo-movies and novels make it seem like it is easy to navigate these conduits. In truth, they are dirty, covered in dust and soot and whatever particles the ventilation system sucked in over its lifespan. In no time, my arms were blackened, covered in grime and filth, which clung to my skin thanks to the fact I was sweating profusely.
Each meter advanced, I felt the walls of the duct compress. My mind raced to Hill 211, to the bunker, when I was buried beneath the collapsing traverse. The four sides of the duct folded against my body, my breaths became frantic and labored through the respirator. The glowrod slipped from my trembling grasp and flickered off, plunging the crawlspace into darkness. Groans and curses erupted from the trail behind, drowned out by the encompassing fear overtaking my consciousness. A hand grasped my shoulder, it could only, logically, be Haurn's, but I was in no state to make such a connection. The only preoccupying instinct was to escape.
Thoroughly within the grip of terror, I raised the WESTAR and fired several shots. At the same moment, I threw myself in reverse and pressed against Haurn, to force her to move. The echo of the blaster, confined within the tight space, deafened those present. Heads pounded and ears rang. There was no target I aimed for, not one I could distinguish in the shadows. The glow from the bolt cast a golden light that scattered the darkness running the length of the duct. Briefly, I thought I observed figures at the opposite end, down range from where I fired, thought I heard a shriek and a body slump. My mind was rife with turbulence, and the details are difficult to recall.
The next moment I was able to recall was when I regained my senses back at the junction, free from the constriction of the duct. Haurn and Govnic each had hold of my webbing and dragged me across the deck. Blaster fire was exchanged, and shouts of panic plunged the scene into chaos. Sgt. Eonna was sprawled out next to me, the mask of her respirator lifted from her face and a viscous mixture of gore and vomit seeped from her mouth.
Govnic dropped me from his grip, as Haurn gently laid me on the deck. A Mimbo had broken through the cordon and was amongst the troopers. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, almost betraying a hint of excitement at the occurrence, Govnic lunged at the bug. Quickly, the cur had his hands wrapped around the Mimbo's throat and leveraged his brute power to slam his quarry against the bulkhead. Fiendishly, like being possessed by a manifestation of derangement, Govnic squeezed, as the Mimbo hopelessly clawed at the hands suffocating it.
"Gov, quit playing with your food and help me!" Haurn shouted, attempting to mask the anxiety. "I can't carry Maider's fat-ass by myself!"
There was concern, fear in Haurn's eyes, discernable, despite what the mask she wore covered. Govnic cast aside the dead Mimbo and lumbered over, prepared to hoist me over his shoulder to be carried out. Wishing to be spared the indignation and sufficiently recovered enough, I pulled myself to a wavering stance. The cur let out a snort, turned to send a flaming trail of conflagrine along the corridor to keep the enemy at bay, cover our retreat. Most of the troopers had already withdrawn and Bostra was nowhere to be seen. Haurn positioned her shoulder under my arm and helped with my balance, so we could make our escape.
Within an hour, I was physically fine; however, my anxiety about narrow spaces kept my nerves jittery for the rest of the day. There were enough visible signs and markers in my demeanor for Haurn to spin excuse after excuse until we were back outside. A medic, prioritizing my condition to avoid assisting the surgeon with a rather gory amputation, gave me a thorough examination and sent us on our way with a generous supply of barbiturates. Just another day.
Haurn found us a spot atop the overturned hull of a knocked-out AT-ST. We were on the plateau's crest, the redoubt at our backs, watching. The night stretched before us, filled with great upward streaks of fire. Explosions appeared in magnificent bursts of light in response to the flashes of artillery barrels. The stalwart Fortress Voran was beset by the onslaught of the Imperial war machine. Raining shells pummeled the grand fortification, the last bastion held by the MLA and the offensive's most insurmountable. The reinforced exterior absorbed the heaviest bombardment our side was able to muster, purpose built to withstand such a deluge. The enemy lobbed ion flak skyward, which burst into brilliant displays of blue sparks. This immobilized the TIE bombers, sending them careening toward the ground.
A loud crack reverberated across the sky, and we thrust our weary gaze upwards, startled by the sudden disturbance. A bright orange streak lit the thick clouds above, illuminating them in this surrealistic hue. Emerging, its hull ablaze, was a CR90 corvette, of all things if you can believe that! The corvette was quickly losing altitude, pursued by a trio of TIE fighters. The TIEs strafed the CR90's dorsal hull with their cannons. So focused on the corvette, the fighters neglected the six GR-45 transports. Haurn and I sat together from our vantage, and watched the transport ships slip through and make for the refinery. It was a dammed resupply mission –Stars knows how many mercenaries and volunteers they had crammed aboard those transport ships.
"The game's up and they still resist," Haurn mused aloud, a palpable hopelessness in her voice.
The CR90 escorted the GR-45s and drew the attention of the Imperial Navy, while the transports ran the blockade. From the information inadvertently disclosed about Operation Vile, one could wonder if the Gallofree transports were deliberately given safe passage. The intention to draw in as many of the Empire's enemies into one place where they could be wiped out. What appeared to be a sacrificial diversion on the enemy's part could have been a carefully orchestrated deception by Imperial Intelligence –if ever a greater contrariety could exist. The consolation was in watching the corvette crash into the ground, bursting into a gigantic fireball. Any crew on board would have burned to death.
We remained on that AT-ST hull, wrapped in a shared blanket, not a word uttered, watching the violent spectacle in the distance. Only a light drizzle materialized, scarcely able to saturate with its feeble mist –so hardened to the elements, we were not affected and dispensed with the need for a raincloak. Haurn rested her head on my shoulder, occasionally closed her eyes, took my hand in hers and held it.
"You stayed," I interrupted the quiet, unsure as to why I wanted to press the question.
Haurn's head did not move from my shoulder, but I felt her hand tighten around my bicep and her arm coil around mine, as she brought herself closer for an embrace.
"Yeah," with a sigh, Haurn answered.
"I never wanted to make you choose," I stammered, first time in a while I had difficulty finding words in front of Haurn. "I would never hold it against you. I wanted to go with you. Just feel like I have something to do here first."
Detonations of shells upon the exterior of Voran momentarily drew our attention.
"You clearly can't take care of yourself," Haurn added with humor. "You think I'd leave you unsupervised? Put pulling your ass out of that vent toward the bill."
"Suppose we could count that," I smirked, the thought of the confines of the duct sent my back rigid and tremors through my hands.
Haurn immediately picked up on the agitation, gently rubbed my hand to soothe the anxiety.
"It's getting worse," Haurn spoke up, concerned.
"Wasn't a problem until I got buried on two-eleven," I replied, the panic gradually beginning to recede. "Then those tunnels under the plateau. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I've been in plenty of small spaces, crawling through wreckage of clone ships when scavenging as a kid."
I felt Haurn's grip tighten, sympathetically reacting and doing what she could to comfort, conveying her love in words unspoken.
"You're as stubborn and resolute as a Mandalorian," Haurn tried to joke through the emotion quickly overtaking her. "You're everything I'd want in one. If you're still interested."
"That friend of yours, Mereel," I said, completely misinterpreting her suggestion. "He didn't seem too keen on me, especially with me talking with you."
She glanced up and rolled her eyes in a histrionic fashion to convey her opinion of the individual. Then transformed her smile into a warm and joking grin.
"Paulus Maider, are you jealous!?" Haurn said, in dramatized aghast.
"Well…I mean," I nervously fumbled for a response. "He…he seemed very vocal about not wanting me around."
"He was hopelessly pressing his intentions. As if I would ever seriously consider a Mereel."
Haurn scowled at having to delve into detail about Mereel clan, though necessary for my awareness.
"The Mereel's are nothing but trouble," Haurn grumbled. "It's always something with their clan. One simir they're staunch traditionalists, the next, reformers. Ebbar [Mereel] has been running his mouth claiming you can only be Mandalorian by birth. That being a foundling or marrying in doesn't count. He just holds a low opinion of everyone but himself. But you've long since proved yourself."
Haurn exhaled, grasped the blanket, and pulled it tight –a noticeable shiver from the cold air reverberated through her body. She nestled herself against me and I pulled her close, to share the warmth. I missed the subtle cue in her words, distracted by the confusion of Mandalorian history and clan allegiances.
"I couldn't leave," Haurn eventually offered a reply, spoken solemnly. "Truth is, I wouldn't know what to do, where to go, without you."
"I'm glad you stayed," I said, squeezed her shoulder with the hand I wrapped around her back.
"I don't believe in this war, the Empire," Haurn continued. "But this is your fight and your cause, I respect that. Since it's your fight, I'll fight it with you, because you matter to me. I'm not fighting this for them. I said I wasn't dying on Mimban, not gonna let any bug or Imp kill me here. Besides, what kind of Mandalorian would I be if I just took off and ran?"
I felt my heart pause for a moment, processing her words. She let out a heavy breath, as if casting off a great burden.
"You've saved my life in more ways than you can understand," Haurn never uttered truer words. "I think I owe it to you to stay by your side. You're my future, the future I want, and I'll follow this path wherever it takes me."
A smile enveloped Haurn, nearly from ear to ear, small tears forming in her eyes.
"If something does happen," she said, charged with emotion. "At least I got to have this time with you."
Her hand gently clasped my cheek, as she pulled me in for a kiss. Excited, eager, generally longing for her, I reciprocated, pulling Haurn closer.
"Corporal Maider, a word please," the voice of Lt. Bostra interrupted the moment.
The announcement caught us at an embarrassing instance, in the presence of an officer. Though Bostra offered no remark or castigation. I gave Haurn a parting smile, turned and slid off the AT-ST hull. I presented myself to the lieutenant, stood up straight and offered a salute –we were well enough behind the front that officers could expect a salute without fear of an enemy sniper picking them off.
Lt. Bostra was who we found ourselves subordinated to; he was given command of "Special Detachment 39" and ordered to lead us through the battle. The lieutenant was a proper engineer, being he was officially part of the Imperial Corps of Engineers. His background concerned construction and military infrastructure. Combat was far beyond his accustomed scope, and he was thrust into this command due to the lack of available officers –someone up top equated fighting through passageways of a redoubt as interchangeable with an engineering discipline.
The fear and exhaustion shown clearly through the gaunt lines on the young officer's face. I would come to find out that Bostra would devote these spare hours, where the sane attempted what little sleep there was to be had, immersed in military texts and after-action reports. He recognized his shortcomings, his lack of combat knowledge and experience, and was intensively studying every tactical analysis submitted by commanders concerning previous engagements and contact with the enemy. And, despite the fatigue and long hours spent fighting in the redoubt's confines, he managed a pristine image, if only for appearance. His fatigues were spotless, his hair neat, and face shaven, indicative of meticulous personal grooming. By contrast, my uniform was frayed, holes worn in the tunic in several places, my hair unkempt, and body ridden with a fresh infestation of mites.
Upon returning my salute, Bostra mustered his best attempt at a cordial expression, manufacturing a pleasant demeanor for what he was about to say.
"This is certainly not a choice assignment," Bostra said, an awkward endeavor at convivial small talk.
"If that is the officer's assessment," I replied, straight-faced.
Too often, I have incurred physical abuse from superiors for the slightest provocation –erring on the side of groveling obeisance for self-preservation.
"Look, I'll admit it," Bostra sighed, hands trembled slightly and anxiety prevalent in his stuttering words. "I'm over my head in all of this. I graduated from the engineering academy last semester. I'm supposed to be constructing a landing pad. I shouldn't be here, be in charge of this. I don't know the first thing about fighting."
Bostra grunted out of frustration, a spark of realization that he perhaps said more than he should. He turned his glare upon me, his eyes almost pleading for help. It was a pathetic expression.
"I need a sergeant," Bostra continued. "I need someone with experience. Someone who can advise me and assist me with command."
"If you're looking for a recommenda…" I began my response before being swiftly interrupted by the lieutenant.
"I'm promoting you to sergeant."
Outstretched in his palm were the rank pips, held out expectantly. With reservation, I took the insignia, silently accepting the station thrust upon me. Perhaps it is hindsight that recollects these words, recommending reservation in accepting the station. Though, I suspect Bostra would have ordered the promotion if I attempted refusal.
"Th…thank you, sir," I uttered, my gaze affixed to the objects in my palm –a complete break from the decorum expected when addressing an officer.
"Every way we go about this operation, it's bad," Bostra spoke nervously, shifting the topic. "Your former lieutenant, Andrin, right? He attached nothing but praise in your file. So, I know I am making the right decision."
My disbelief prevented my mind from fully understanding the weight of responsibility saddled upon my back. All attention was captured by rank insignia, cradled in my palm, its outline traced by my thumb.
"I have some deployment notes I would like us to review before the next rotation," Bostra added, motioning me to follow.
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