The Infernal Days
Part Two:
"Twenty-two days"
The firefight traversed the length of the dormitory corridor, perhaps twenty meters between us and the Mimbos. The conduits and structural supports allowed an individual to fire from cover. Corpses of Imperial troopers were arrayed before our position, the toll exacted from one futile advance after the other. So many bodies had fallen, we could employ them as a morbid barrier against enemy fire. Bostra's orders were to secure this wing of the dormitory. The tactics he chose were influenced by the report of the previous detachment that attempted (and failed) this task. To play the advocate on the lieutenant's behalf, he had solicited my counsel for alternatives that would meet with success while minimizing the casualties his command would incur.
The groupement under my control was in one of the dormitory units, as the battle raged outside. Haurn and a second trooper were against the bulkhead to the next room with fusioncutters in hand. The pair worked quickly, carving through the durasteel to create an opening and pass to the adjacent quarters. I supervised the cutting, to which Haurn offered no shortage of mocking grimaces and joking remarks. Being the main avenue of advance was impassable, Haurn proposed this alternative strategy to outflank the enemy. Unconventional and untested, yet unexpected and feasible, Bostra hesitantly agreed. Later, Haurn admitted one of her ancestors employed the exact same technique when faced with a comparable scenario. I trusted her judgement. I talked Bostra into elevating Haurn to corporal. If anything, to bump her pay grade because she already bullied the new guys like one.
Bostra split the detachment, holding the bulk of our force as the diversion, and providing me with this groupement to execute the tactic. The firing in the corridor held the enemy's attention, while we sliced our way, from one room to the next. As we progressed with the fusioncutters, Govnic and the allotment of troopers followed closely, prepared to storm the breach once opened.
In my hand was an emitter, projecting an accurate hologram floorplan of the dormitory. The plans were assembled and carefully measured by Bostra during our briefing. The number of rooms between our position and the area under enemy occupation, the thickness of the bulkheads, all were carefully computed, so we went in knowing the extent of the cutting that would have to be performed and close approximation on the work duration. I would trust Bostra's judgement in this matter, for he poured his engineering expertise into these calculations. Marked on the holographic display were indicators as to where we needed to stop cutting, as we approached the final wall. Based on our best intelligence, the enemy was on the opposite.
Anticipating hands tightened around weapons. Enlarging the holo-blueprints, the adjacent room appeared to be a communal shower and refresher suite, once shared by the residents. I ordered a breaching charge affixed to the final bulkhead and we arrayed ourselves prepared to rush through the blasted opening. The charge detonated and an almost two-meter hole was formed. The force of the explosion was concentrated away from us, but we still felt the concussive wave, amplified in the small space. Ears stung and rang for several minutes from the deafening noise.
Through the breach, Govnic pressed his incinerator's nozzle, the macabre skull mounted at its end grinned upon the unfortunate quarry. The violent stream of liquid fire inundated the void opposite, saturated the occupants in the burning conflagrine. The area was too confined, the entire structure was not suitable to employ a flamethrower, yet Govnic could not be dissuaded, nor denied. The most decipherable noise, above the fiery roar of the pressurized incendiary, were the screams. The wicked shrieks of beings resounded above the din of blasters, as their flesh seared and fell from the bone. Haurn tossed in a thermal detonator, and we braced while it exploded. The already insufferable heat we normally had to contend with was intensified beyond tolerable limits. One trooper succumbed and collapsed, as we burst through the opening.
Blasters erupted from the enemy's side. A trooper, young, only arrived at the detachment this morning, cowered at the side of the breach. I grabbed her arm, swore at her to move, ordered her to kill the bugs. I saw the fear reflected in her eyes, she had not the conviction for what needed to be done. Present circumstances, she did not have a choice, as I shoved her toward the fight. She stumbled, fell on her knees, screaming. Regaining her footing, the E-10 held clumsily in her hands, an enemy's blaster bolt struck her dead.
The groupement returned fire, while bracing against the cover offered by the compartmentalized shower stalls. It was difficult to discern the enemy given the miasma created by fire and bomb. Smoke stifled the washroom, shrouded the charred figures in a thick haze. The sweat drenched my face and I felt lightheaded, desperately wanted the water I had no safe way to consume. I was not the only one in such a shape. Water, that unattainable resource, pooled at our feet, as blasted apart shower heads ejected the liquid onto the tile floor. Boots sloshed with each step, while it soon mixed with blood seeping from the enemy dead and wounded.
A succession of grenades tossed by the troopers forward of me tore through the remaining opposition. Bostra and the detachment's main body simultaneously pressed their attack down the corridor. Momentum shifted in our favor and the enemy was driven back, to the stairwell leading deeper into the redoubt's labyrinth. Bostra began an effort to get the situation organized. His orders concerned the securing of the dormitory, and a subsequent unit would be rotated forward to relieve ours.
The grenades had done ample work, but there were still dozens of enemy wounded spread throughout the washroom, laid upon its floor. I was approached by troopers inquiring about the enemy wounded. It was a sign of their collective lack of combat experience, those of us here with an accrued length of service knew what was practical.
I went from body to body, kicked them with a boot. If it writhed, I fired a single bolt into its gut from my 35. Haurn was equally as methodical and callous about the chore, drawing her Mandalorian pistol to do the work cleanly. The few other long-serving troopers contributed without hesitation. Most of the wounded were too incoherent or strung out on medicinal spice and did not see the ending shot fired. The pleas from those aware of their impending fate, were in vain. Wounded prisoners would need to be conveyed to the surface and there were not enough gurneys or stretchers. They would have to be carried out on the backs of our weary troopers. The new guys, tasked with potential manual labor, already exhausted, came to a quick conclusion.
One face out of all of them still haunts me, for I continue to glimpse it in visions long since this episode. I kicked the foot of young man, a human, who was on his side. He rolled over onto his back and looked at me in the eye. His chest was patched up with bacta swatches and he appeared in considerable pain. The mask he wore covered his full face, but was transparent, so I could read his expression. What I saw was a simple looking kid, equally tired and scared as I was. His features struck an uncanny resemblance of Zact, the friend I made on Coruscant, and lost. There was a sadness in the boy's eyes, and I began to second guess my resolve. The pistol was held out, pointed squarely at his chest. My hand trembled, the muscle of my finger needed to depress the trigger would not act.
"C'mon sarge, waste 'im!" the bestial utterance of Govnic spurred.
Unwilling to suffer my hesitation, the cur pushed by me and slammed his boot onto the side of the boy's face. Govnic pressed down with his leg, driving his victim's head against floor, and applying increasing pressure, as it was held in place. The boy's arms flailed in a pathetic manner, working hands beneath the sole of Govnic's boot, but lacking the strength to wrench free.
"Ye bastards kill me best friend, Tundy!" Govnic snarled in disjointed coherence, unleashing his wrath upon the boy. "An' I'm gonna done to ye alive, what yer's did to 'im when 'e wus dead!"
The victim ceased his struggle, as Govnic leaned down and hoisted the boy against the wall with his brutish arms. I did nothing to stop the cur, what good would any attempt serve. Govnic was in the prolonged throes of a mental collapse, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Haurn and I, for our sakes, hoped we would not be around to witness his final break. To Govnic's displeasure, the victim he hoped to exact some form of retribution upon was already dead. It seemed the airtight seal of the respirator was displaced when trampled by a heavy boot. Enough of a gap was opened for the poison gas to kill the boy in the time it took Govnic to lift his victim up. Thrown into a violent rage at the denial of satisfaction, the inhuman cur set about defiling the corpse with a vibroblade. Disinterested, I left Govnic to his work, as I pressed through the two or three aghast troopers in search of Bostra. The objective was secure, and a reserve unit would renew the attack, while we rotated back to the surface.
The nights were getting warmer, the temperatures comfortable to accommodate shirtsleeves. I was standing outside of the tent, leaning against one of the posts used to hold up the awning, enjoying a cigarra and sipping from my canteen filled with spirits. Drink was becoming increasingly necessary to triage the horrors of our pitiful existence. It was warm enough, or I was simply acclimatized to the cold, that shirt sleeves and the cutoff trousers were adequate. Haurn was inside, wrapped up in our blanket and asleep, thoroughly exhausted from the intimacy we shared. There was too much on my mind to permit sleep: stress and responsibility. The skies were crisscrossed with AT-Haulers and Zeta-class shuttles, taking advantage of the amiable conditions to carry out resupply operations before the weather turned.
"Can' sleep boss?" the croaking voice of Govnic interrupted the solitude.
It gave me somewhat of a start, the cur materializing unexpectedly. He wore a grimace, not his typical morbid smirk, as he extricated a cigarra from a pack with his teeth. To be fair, I was not keen on having a conversation, preferring solitude in this rare moment on calm.
"Yeah, something like that," I answered, with a long drag of my own cigarra. "What can I do for you Gov?"
"Ergh, nuffin'," Govnic replied, much to my slightly elevating annoyance. "Just thinkin' ya know? 'bout the old gang: Orvavo, Pommey, Tundy too. That pisser, Remov. You wasn't 'ere for Lincol, you'd laughed at 'im, 'e's was a right toffer. Now, we counting Dashnik among 'em."
There came a pause in Govnic's speech, when he stared off into the night's darkness, evidently lost in the retrospection. I thought about the names too, the friends we lost.
"Thought I'd be makin' it out too," Govnic somberly interrupted the reminiscence. "If I do live, nothin' gonna do anythin' to stop a bad dreams. Can' seem to make 'em stop, you know? Ev'ry time I close me eyes, I jus' 'ear the screaming. Be nice if I didn't, no more."
Aghast by the personal admittance from Govnic, I turned and awkwardly placed a hand to Govnic's shoulder. I felt sorry for him, could understand what he was going through. We are all tormented by the horrors of what Mimban has done to us.
"Always thought yous was alright," Govnic looked at me with a smile. "Say, you wouldn't mind 'elping me with somethin'?"
Withdrawn from the pocket of his tunic, Govnic held a small datapad. There was a look he gave, almost of embarrassment.
"I sees yous always writin' down words," Govnic, with innocent sincerity injected into his speech, began. "Lia always wrote these for me, I'm not too good wif the words, you see. If I was to say a line or two, could you write somethin' down for me mum?"
Silently nodding to an agreement, feeling pity, I accepted the datapad. The only way to send a message to those back home was in writing. Security [propaganda] concerns prevented holo-recorded messages, since images might, in some manner, betray operational secrets. Also, Govnic speaks in a rather harsh dialect that made it difficult for the transcription software to commit his voice accurately to text. Therefore, he was dependent on the literate to manually type out his musings.
The letter was thoughtful and did not venture into detail, though he amended events to reassure his mother. Govnic explained that he was in a safe role and in great health and spirits. The overall substance of the message conveyed optimism, if at the expense of truth. I was struck by his mention of Tundy. Govnic described how he made a friend in the young man but altered his fate to say "Tundy had to go away for a time" and was not sure if he would be back. It concluded with the expected well wishes and intention to visit when permitted. I handed the completed datapad to Govnic, invested with a newfound understanding of what Mimban is doing to us.
I have chronicled the declining mental state of Govnic for some time, though he was never right from the start. The incident we feared inevitable has come to pass. At the time, Haurn and I were clandestinely visiting the commissary stores scrounging for extra rations, for our novice comrades had squandered theirs and it fell to us to re-equip them. Had Govnic been under our charge, the outcome might have been different, but in the aftermath of what he caused, I am not sure what I could have done to intercede.
At the foot of the slope leading up to Redoubt 7, the one we bled so dearly in its ascent, command assembled thirty MLA prisoners. The prisoners were deemed "high value" individuals, all the equivalent of officers within the MLA's hierarchy. None were native Mimbanese, but off-world volunteers –ex-military and mercenary types. They were in it for the money or to settle a grudge against the Empire, but all brought with them a wealth of combat experience. These "officers" were awaiting extraction to the rear for interrogation by Imperial Intelligence and were clustered together inside a shallow depression made by howitzer shell.
A few troopers stood by guarding the prisoners, smoking, and generally conversing. Blasters were trained on the detainees should any attempt to flee. None noticed Govnic approach. Why would they, for he appeared as any of us would in his fatigued and despondent state. From the recollections that made it to my ear, a sentry struggled to light her cigarra, the wind too strong to keep her igniting flame alight. Govnic held up the nozzle of his incinerator, a small ignition fire faintly but steadily burning. The trooper thanked him, believing he was showing off with that 'trick the flamethrower troopers always appear to do'. She froze in horror when Govnic turned the incinerator upon the prisoners. Their bodies immolated, desperately clawing their way against the walls of the crater in a pointless effort to elude the flames. All were burned to death, as the troopers on guard permitted the violence without intervention.
The courts martial would charge the sentries with dereliction, suggesting they invited the attack. I have beheld sentients devoured by blazing streams of conflagrine, my ears deafened by their piercing cries, and I know the depths of the cur's depravity. To fault the guards for inaction is unjustified. Once the killing had been perpetrated, Govnic slunk back toward his blanket and ground cloth, and bedded down for the night, until the military police made their arrest. Numerous times through the Offensive, Haurn and I made overtures to the medical staff on Govnic's behalf to have him evacuated for his mental state –all attempts met with failure. It finally required an incident of mass murder, and the loss of prisoners to interrogate, to see Govnic off from Mimban.
Lt. Bostra stood atop a supply crate and addressed the assembled ranks of Special Detachment 39 –the crate needed to bolster his 1.6-meter frame. I was positioned to his right, rigidly "at-ease", but assiduously scanning the troopers arrayed, my expression stern and unforgiving. It was needed, the ranks were replenished with fresh arrivals, recently released from the depots, and woefully lacking in experience. Never had I pictured myself playing the role of the intimidating veteran sergeant. What little moments of idle time in between the combat I devoted, with Haurn lending her proficiency, to running our raw newcomers through drills and the best mock combat scenarios I could replicate above ground. We taught them the importance of cover, the effectiveness of grenades in close quarters, and whatever we've been doing to stay alive up to this point. Reminiscing impressions of Dystraay, I crafted the exterior to present to the newcomers, and to conceal the absolute terror I had attempting to fulfil this role. Corporal Haurn was on the lieutenant's left, and demonstrating considerably more intimidation than I could ever hope to exude.
Words of encouragement were conveyed, in addition to the objective we would be fighting to secure. In the weeks since I have attained this rank, we have savagely fought our way through the depths of the redoubt, driving the enemy deeper. Their numbers are decimated, and the bugs now occupy only a single quadrant –their last bastion, last stand. It has required the depletion and reconstitution of the detachment twice to bring us to this point. Bostra concluded and ordered us into the redoubt. Haurn and I shouted commands: form up the detachment, march forward, and the like.
Respirators were affixed and seals checked, as the heavy bay doors to Redoubt 7 retracted. The stretcher bearers were the first to emerge, shrouded in the pent-up cloud of decontamination spray (deployed to neutralize the poison gas) that was sucked out by the pressure change. Mangled and wretched figures convulsed and bellowed, as they were carried by. Then came the troopers, worn down and rotating out for their turn to rest. Their shift was over, and we moved in to take their place, one line of hollowed out beings exchanging places with the other. Polluted and disheveled, weary, and traumatized, they looked forward to the few hours respited before it was time to return to "the work".
The corridor was dark. No windows to offer any sort of natural lighting and the power cut to the illuminators meant it was blanketed in shadows. We knew better than to traverse a corridor such as this, and I made that evident to Bostra. Bostra would have none of it, for he had orders from his superior to sweep it. The Mimbos held the advantage with their ability to see in the low light. I was in favor of rolling a detonite charge to the opposite end and setting it off. That was overruled because of our proximity to the reactor core and the inherent dangers of setting off high explosives in its vicinity. The employment of incinerators and grenades was also forbidden. Perhaps my confidence would have been reassured had the lieutenant not loaned half of the detachment to the neighboring 43rd, in desperate need of reinforcement.
Trooper W was at the head of our column, followed by a second trooper, L, Haurn, and then me. Good kid, W, if a bit nervous. I helped him cut-down his E-10, which he panned from side to side, to illuminate the shadowed crevices with the affixed glowrod. Trooper L was of a petite stature yet was saddled with the cumbersome incinerator that always appeared ready to topple her over at each interval. The hallway felt like the interior of a blast furnace, sweat cascaded from our foreheads. Three troopers were already lost to heat exhaustion. Dehydration was an enemy equal to that of the MLA. The crude straws rigged in the hoses of the respirators allowed us to drink without removing masks, but the airtight seals would have to be broken to replenish the water reservoirs.
A loud bang nearly caused Trooper W to jump so high, he nearly hit his head on the overhanging bulkhead.
"What the hell was that!" W shrieked in a panic, the E-10 trembling in his hand.
Our column halted at my signal and remained still. Through the walls, we could hear blasters and grenades exchanged. Listening intently, I tried to gauge the distance and direction of the combat. A blaster bolt raced by my face, so close I could feel the heat of the plasma singe my forehead. The bolt struck the trooper directly behind me and he collapsed to the floor. W became agitated and fired wildly in the direction of the killing bolt. In her excitement, Trooper L shoved W aside and opened up the incinerator, the flaming torrent arcing the length of the corridor. A figure at the far end was alight and ran further into the depths before it finally collapsed. Darkness once again overtook the anxious ranks.
For a moment, I felt the sensation overcome me, the feeling of the walls closing in. "Not again," I swore to myself, clenched my fist, prepared for the inevitable. Haurn put her hand to my shoulder, and I could barely glimpse her in the diminutive light. Her presence was reassuring, bolstered my confidence and filled me with a fervor to persist.
"Silowa," I barked to Trooper W. "Pop a flare, far as you can down the corridor, where we're headed."
He complied, took the flare, and tossed it with a sideways throw. The flare erupted in a brilliant flash of blinding white light, so intense we had to squint. The brilliant illuminance played havoc with the low-light vision of the Mimbanese. While humans might be disoriented for a few moments, aliens possessing enlarge ocular receptors would be left completely blind for several minutes. If it gave us the slightest advantage, we took it.
The advance brought us to a wider corridor, double the size of the standard passageways. I believe these were utility hallways and we could traverse nearly six abreast. Attitudes relaxed when we encountered groups of troopers dispersed throughout the hall, visibly milling about idly. Dead Mimbanese lay about, interspersed with bodies of Imperials, arranged but not yet collected. The enterprising fortune finders were actively at work rifling through the pockets of the enemy, and even our own.
"Sergeant," a voice directed at me, the speaker bearing the insignia of a captain. "What detachment is this?"
"Thirty-ninth, sir," I replied, after stopping and bringing myself to attention.
Hard to miss, behind the captain, a captured Mimbanese, with hands bound behind its back, was on the ground wailing. Four troopers were collectively stomping and kicking the prisoner, if only for their enjoyment. Despite the torment, the captors ensured they did not unseat the respirator worn by their Mimbo prey, lest it inhale the redoubt's poison atmosphere before they were through. The captain looked me up and down, surmising immediately my young age and arriving at the outcome that I attained the rank through merit, or I simply outlived the other candidates.
"Thirty-ninth?" the captain, stern and seasoned, huffed. "Bostra's unit. Where is your lieutenant?"
"Took half the troopers to support the forty-third," I answered.
"We're the forty-third! I haven't seen Bostra all day. As your detachment's sergeant, you're supposed to know where your officer is at all times! Now, where is Lieutenant Bostra!?"
I hesitated, began to fumble an answer, and included the prophetic "I don't know", which proved to be a grievous mistake. The captain unloaded with a tirade filled with expletives and condemnations –thoroughly questioning my abilities in full view of the troopers under my command. In such a situation, loomed over by an officer, your only choice is to keep your mouth shut and suffer the verbal mistreatment. I winced throughout, expecting the captain to knock me on the head for this instance of failing, but the blow never came. Rather, we were interrupted by the arrival of a quartet of combat engineers reporting in, laden with large canisters, hoses, and tool bags. The captain nearly sighed, but I could tell there was an expression of relief beneath his mask –one less chore he had to oversee.
"The hell with Bostra," the captain shifted his tone. "Let him wander about like an idiot. The engineers we were waiting on are here. Your job, sergeant, is to escort them to the control room ahead and keep them safe while they do their work."
This maintenance corridor terminated at a small control room with viewports overlooking what appeared to be a small storage bay. The bay was packed with three large cisterns and a heap of machinery with pipes jutting out at angles.
"It's the water supply for the whole redoubt," one of the engineers remarked. "It's what kept them hydrated until now. Bugs put up one hell of a fight for it. Without it, bastards will be dead of thirst before too long."
The engineers set to work attaching the hoses to the canisters and fastening those hoses to the larger cisterns. The job did not take them long to accomplish and we were able to pull out shortly afterward. The bugs could retake the cisterns at this point, but it would not be of any benefit. The canisters held toxins and the engineers pumped them right into the water supply. The filtration unit was smashed beyond repair, never able to again function. Their air poisoned, their water poisoned, the noose sliding ever tighter, yet they still fight.
"Six days"
Haurn was seated across from me at the small table within the mess tent. An empty bottle of cheap, yet potent, Corellian wine lay on its side next to its half-consumed twin. She swirled the contents about in her metal cup, but kept her eyes focused on me, as I downed my drink and went to refill. If we polished off this second bottle, there was a third stashed in my musette bag we would gladly open and consume until a superior intervened. I could not help but return a smile of my own. For once, we both had a reason to smile.
The datacards, each addressed to Haurn and me, rested on the table, treated with an observant and ecstatic gaze. They were handed out at the mail call, as we emerged from the bowels of the redoubt. The cards held the details of our pending discharge from the Imperial military –Haurn at the end of her conscription term and I was completing my volunteer contract. The datacards outlined the procedure for demilitarization, when we could expect transfer to a processing depot, and a timeline for when we could, for ourselves, adopt the infamous moniker of Demil.
"This time next week," I grinned, as Haurn clasped the hand I idly laid out. "We'll be on our way to anywhere, but here."
I am not sure how to describe the true juxtaposition of emotion I felt. To be fair, I was ecstatic about the demilitarization orders, knowing Haurn and I were about to be taken from this miserable hell. During this period, I put aside all thought of duty to the Empire, the cautionary words Dashnik spoke about being drawn back to this place. In the time since, when I would sit down to record this account, I would have a better understanding. But, in those final days battling through Redoubt 7, I was hardly focused on my composition. So fraught with joy we were, to see an end in sight. The Voran Offensive still raged, but we had done our part.
"Just hope they don't kriff us over like they did Govnic," Haurn scoffed, disrupting the fantasy with a biting touch of reality. "Like how he was days away and they extended his tour."
"It won't be like that with you and me," my response clung to optimism, unwilling to veer back into the despair that so often has stalked us. "Gov just has rotten luck. Command extended his time because they needed specialists for the Offensive, but that's done. Bugs are on their last breath, and I mean that. Plus, he got that additional year tacked on because he groped that nurse. That one he brought on himself. Not that it matters. He's going to be sitting out the rest of it at whatever penal colony they tossed him in."
The effect of the drink had made my head light and my tongue loose. As we sat in the middle of this bombed-out hellscape, I couldn't help but feel serene. The worries and dangers melted away; we could not be bothered to spare a regard.
"When the discharge is finalized," Haurn started. "And they throw us out of the depot on our asses, any idea what you're looking to do after?"
The short time being a sergeant, I have learned to listen more intently and identify the subtle meaning, if not spoken outright.
"Figured on taking one of those aptitude interviews," I answered. "Calculate my pension, see what I can do on that. What are you thinking?"
"Dunno," Haurn shrugged, though it felt contrived. "I think I'll go home to Concordia. If nothing pans out, maybe to Mandalore."
"Being an aruetii isn't a disqualifier for settling there, is it? Or is there something that can be done about it?"
Haurn's eyes instantly were alight, her smile, though she made no effort to hide it, glowed. We poured, then quickly drank, perhaps two drinks, finished this bottle and I produced our third. The conversation was rather one-sided, with Haurn explaining her home on Mandalore's moon, Concordia, diverting to rapidly explain its history and current politics, and all her favorite places. Then she launched into ideal locations to settle, establish a home and the like. While a previous iteration of myself would have been overwhelmed by this manner of detail, I was rather enamored by her reveries. Her envisions came across better than any plan I could throw together and I genuinely could conceive a future. Curiously, she made no mention of childhood or her family.
"What's your scheme to make money?" I inquired, almost as a joke. "I don't think the combat pension is enough to keep us going, not with the lifestyle you want me to afford. Army taught me a lot about 'procurement', could put those skills to use."
"Unfortunately, Mando'ade do not look too kindly on that skillset as a career," Haurn rebuked with a lighthearted scoff. "I may know of an opportunity. Adenn Astronautics, not as big as the other conglomerates like MandalMotors or Mandal Hypernautics, but they're local to Concordia and the owner, Rhoj Adenn, was a burc'ya of my father. They do specialist customizations and refits, retrofits for shuttlecraft, light freighters, privateers, and the like."
"I can dig a trench and take apart a mine, but I don't know the first thing about starship engineering."
She smacked my arm in the playful way she does whenever I say something stupid.
"He has designers and engineers for that technical work," Haurn laughed. "I'm talking about hired muscle. Their clientele are not the most 'lawful' of characters, so Rhoj likes a strong show of force to keep contentious transactions amiable."
"Nothing that will require me crawling into small spaces like this place?"
"Hardly. It's a lot of standing around and more looking the part. Can't imagine anything dangerous. Bunch of armored Mando'ade at your back, creeps think twice."
"So, I'll be getting some of that armor?"
"You know the terms," Haurn inferred, folded her arms and winked.
"Sounds like you have the whole thing planned out," I smiled back, letting Haurn continue and finding myself enthralled with the unfolding aspirations.
I could tell there was something on Haurn's mind, a recollection or a painful memory held within. Her smile began to fade, and her gaze averted from the constant fixation on my eyes.
"Rhoj Adenn was the only one who came to see me off," Haurn spoke, her words slow and marked by a haunted pain. "The day I was called up and reported to the conscription office. The pistolI carry was a gift he gave me. Said he got my father out of many a bad spot with that blaster when they were younger. He always checked in on us, growing up. After what happened to my father..."
Her face scowled; her hand tightly grasped the drinking mug to the point it began to slightly compress from the pressure.
"My mother couldn't be bothered to say goodbye," Haurn uttered with venom and contempt. "Almost two years now and not a single holomessage. It would not make a difference to her if I bought it out here."
"Now that's not true," I replied, trying to provide reassurance and comfort. "She couldn't possibly be that uncaring. To her own daughter?"
"Oh Paulus," Haurn, her glow returning as she put a hand to my cheek, said with mustered felicity. "You have a lot to learn about Mandalorian society."
"Three Days"
Trepidation yielded before excitement. The transit documents arrived, and both Haurn and I were scheduled to board a personnel shuttle in three days' time. The depot where we would "demilitarize" orbited Bilbringi VII at the Bilbringi Shipyards –on the other side of the Galaxy. Only a minor inconvenience given the circumstances.
The detachment was assembled in a storage bay, which connected to one of the tunnels that extended underground from the redoubt. It was the same one Haurn and I wandered into during the initial assault on the plateau. The scorch marks were still visible where Govnic incinerated the MLA volunteers as they tried to surrender. I remember scuffing the marks with the toe of my boot. There was adequate ventilation in the bay where we could remove the respirators without fear of inhaling the noxious gas, but we kept our masks at hand to be safe. The only fumes engulfing our detachment came from the smoke given off by the lit cigarra being casually inhaled.
After today, only one more rotation into Redoubt 7 remained. Of course, we remained alert, be a shame to buy it this close to the end, but there was an overall relaxed attitude. Our function was as a blocking detachment, essentially preventing the MLA from sneaking out and escaping. The MLA holdouts had been silent coming up on seventy-two hours. Perhaps they were all dead from dehydration. There were no overtures to surrender, regardless our officers offered no terms. I conversed with Sergeant Hysla, recently transferred and due to supplant my station with the detachment once I rotated out. Hysla, a reservist sergeant fulfilling his required mobilization, gave the impression of dimwittedness and boredom –quite difficult to hold an extended conversation with. It was a tremendous relief to be departing Mimban, but there was something distinctive about my stint with Special Detachment 39. It was my great test of leadership, and I felt a loss at having to hand it over to another.
Bostra made the rounds, breaking from traditional decorum and frankly conversing with individual groups of troopers. The lieutenant was in unusually bright spirits, gone was his nervous demeanor, for he also received transfer orders to command an engineer company building a fortified camp in the equatorial provinces of Mimban. When I spoke with Bostra earlier, he said he recommended Haurn and me for the Order of the Empire, third class. He recognized our participation in the Offensive and felt it was an injustice that we had not been nominated. I suspect Brimmo or Andrin would have put us in for consideration if they lived. There was a time when a more enthusiastic version of myself would be proud of the achievement. Now, it felt oddly hollow.
The sound of a blast echoed from the depths of the structure. The idle chatter disrupted, as our senses jumped to alert, heads turned to investigate the noise. To provide us with an advance warning we placed two troopers as pickets further down the corridor leading into the interior: Troopers Creston & Ravoski. Before Bostra could order me to contact our pickets for a status, I was already on my comm unit, calling their names, cigarra clenched at the edge of my mouth. Static was the only response.
I cursed, threw my cigarra to the ground and stomped on it out of habit, simultaneously pulled on my respirator. The lieutenant had come to grasp my methods and behavior, was content to let me handle the reestablishing contact on my own. Trooper Benind was closest, and I ordered him to follow. There was no point in stopping Haurn, so I raised no objection when she, without hesitation, strode briskly at my side. The remainder of the detachment darted for cover behind the sandbags and barricades previously erected.
The corridor still had power, as we covered its length. The vaporimetry gauge did not detect any of the gas in lethal quantities, but we were not willing to remove our masks. A white plume filled the passageway, and we bounded the corner, blasters at the ready. A fire raged out of control, the walls charred and blackened, wiring and exposed conduits shriveled and melted from the flames' heat. Though there was no gas, the respirators did their job filtering out the choking cloud of smoke. Ravoski's body lay adjacent to the fire, there was no trace of Creston.
A blaster bolt tore from the concealment of the smoke and struck Trooper Benind dead. I leveled my WESTAR with two hands and fired several bolts at obscured targets, suppression of the enemy combatants the only viable course. Haurn tossed a thermal detonator and smacked my shoulder to indicate that we should withdraw. The bomb rocked the corridor, the resultant fireball engulfing the enemy's position. We darted in the opposite direction, back to the storage bay where our detachment entrenched. So, the bugs were desperate enough to fight their way through our blockades to escape the redoubt.
At a sprint, I went to activate my comm unit, which was squawking with the desperate voice of Bostra demanding an explanation for the bombs and blaster exchanges. We rounded a corner, not taking heed of our surroundings and abandoning the instincts that kept us alive to this point, all for the sake of haste. A Mimbo stood directly in our path, its blaster trained. Before I could react, even process, or raise my WESTAR, a bolt tore from the weapon of the bug.
A searing heat burned in my abdomen, I glanced down and saw the glowing ring bored through my chest armor. The composite plastoid was never effective at stopping blaster bolts. The perception of time was indeterminable, and I felt my knees weaken, my body collapse. My mind raced in frantic expedience, yet I could make no discernible sense of events., only pain. Recollection is difficult and I believe I could see Haurn shrieking in horror, then rage. The Mimbo, I glimpsed being eviscerated by the scattered beams of Haurn's SX-21.
In another moment, I was laying down, my head cradled in Haurn's lap and tears streaming down her face. I closed my eyes, jolted to a semiconscious state by an explosion –someone tossed a thermal detonator. Haurn was collapsing now, a glowing hot shard of steel embedded in her back. With what energy remained, I grasped for Haurn, attempted to take her by the hand, but landing somewhere around her knee. All strength faded; eyes too heavy to remain open. Then, I was overtaken by the darkness.
000