Chapter II
People Who Are Doing Wrong
Ilum's temperature had a way of catching everyone by surprise, in one way or another. Some underestimated the world's harsh climate, and believed standard issue survival gear would be enough to keep them warm. What they failed to understand is that Imperial Arctic Survival Armor only accounted for ambient temperatures, and did not offer extra protection against frigid winds or blizzards, when the temperature on Ilum would often drop to almost 100 degrees below zero.
Others took excesses of needless precaution, bringing portable lights and heat sources, when the base already had plenty of heating and insulation for the company. These needless addons, ironically, only served to drain the battery on the arctic survival armor, and either leave them stranded, or force them to go back for a recharge much earlier than planned.
Still others packed light on purpose, hoping to loot a valuable artifact from the world's illustrious history as a Jedi sacred site. This too often backfired, leaving scavengers underdressed and unprepared, scouring ruins long since picked clean; for artifacts that were illegal to possess anyway.
No matter how well you prepare for an occupation like this, adjustments were always needed, or even anticipated. The best strategy, therefore, was to establish a presence in the mining towns as soon as possible.
"We're making good time. I spy some shanties at 1 o'clock. About 5 kliks southwest," Gomen declared, loudly, over the gunship's droning engines. From this elevated position, his electrobinoculars picked up the immediate outskirts of Nar Skocha, about a mile away from the denser downtown areas.
Nar Skocha was a diverse, sprawling city about the size of two large spaceport towns on Tatooine. The miners, primarily, came from two distinct backgrounds: Twi'leks, who were pressed into service by economic sanctions on Ryloth; and Rodians, who joined in a rush of patriotic fervor ten years ago. The small numbers of humans and other races were mostly relegated to administrative duties and private enterprises. The 212th once tried to bring Wookiee slaves to Ilum, believing that their thick fur would make them ideal for handling the climate. Unfortunately, they were right. The Wookiees rebelled during the first blizzard, and had to be put down.
"Copy that, Gomen," said the gunship's pilot, effortlessly gliding through the still air of the northern continent. "Check in with the ground team when you get a chance. Make sure everything's still green on their end."
Gomen retreated to the center of the gunship, and extended the antenna on his comlink. "Bantha-One, this is Mynock-Six. Come in Bantha-One. Over."
After a short delay, the muffled voice came back. "This is Bantha-One, we read you loud and clear and have nothing to report. Did the Colonel already make it to town? Over."
Gomen switched off the commlink momentarily. "Spinner, they wanna know about Thire. He in town yet?" he asked the pilot.
Spinner thought for a moment, then responded. "No, I think he's got his own retinue; one of the gunships behind us."
Gomen relayed the information to the ground team, then set his commlink aside in favor of the electrobinoculars. The ground vehicles had just cleared a ravine to the north, and could now be seen clearly. A dozen A6 Juggernauts, aptly named behemoths on ten wheels, each carried roughly a hundred men across the snowy plains. In better conditions, they could have carried as many as 300 troopers a piece, but out of an abundance of caution, seating was given up in favor of redundant heating systems, and torque upgrades for the front and rear engines. Twelve vehicles were still enough to bring the 9th Engineering across the frozen plains, minus the other hundred men in the aerial guard.
Near the third transport, something caught Gomen's eye. Three small figures, likely civilians, walking next to the slow-moving transports, throwing rocks at their hulls. "What the hell…?" he asked aloud. Zooming in, he could make out a few more details. The civilians were blue-skinned Twi'leks, and the oldest was only about 14. Gomen turned the commlink back on. "Bantha-Three, you seein' this shit? Over."
"Copy, Mynock. Someone really ain't happy to see us…" A muffled, metallic bang could be heard over the commlink.
"...They're just kids, though. They can't do any real damage. Over, Mynock." Johan looked to his left to see the youths taunting him with obscene gestures. A jagged rock was aimed for his face, but ricocheted harmlessly off the transparisteel window.
After a few seconds, Gomen responded. "Iff yu wanne…. giffm…" One of the kids must have hit the transmitter antenna. Either that, or the signal was degrading for some other reason.
"Say again, Mynock. I couldn't read you. Over."
Gomen tried again, this time much slower. "I… said… we… could… fly… low. Just to scare them a bit. Over." The transmission was still garbled, but at least understandable.
"Negative, Mynock. We'll manage. Besides, I'm not sure it's a good idea to start this noble mission by scaring the shit out of some kids. They'll give up in a few minutes. Over."
"Myno… sa… sssstransmi… sssssshar… hearin…" The message was unintelligible. Johan started troubleshooting to the best of his ability, but it was a problem that likely needed to be fixed at base.
"Ootmian killee meekoota!" one of the youths shouted, loud enough to hear through the durasteel armor.
"What the hell are they saying?" a trooper asked, before a rock landed inches away from his ear. "Butch, you speak Huttese. Clue us in."
Butch let out a long sigh. "Roight. It's no' the same bloody dialect I know, but if I hadda guess…" He spoke with a very thick lower-coruscanti accent; common with the working class in most core worlds, only much stronger in his case. A low grumble permeated every word, and certain consonants struck out before they ever reached his tongue.
"Nee choo ootmian! Ootmian killee meekoota!"
Butch snickered darkly under his breath. "It means 'baby killers.'" The mood in the transport dropped sharply, silently. "We barely arrived, and already worn ou' our bloody welcome."
A thick, silent tension filled the transport. The only things one could hear were the steady purr of the engines, and the occasional sharp bang of the stones.
"Baby killers?" One trooper finally broke the silence. "Us?"
"I wouldn't le' it worry ye," Butch assured the young trooper, "Every system has a fair share of savages. Not a thing ye can bloody do about it."
"We need to work with these people, though. Rebuild their city."
"No, we need 'a keep our heads out the shit long enough to pull some bloody rocks out the ground. Stay alive and find a way 'a pass the time, I say."
"You don't care about the people you're supposed to be helping?"
"Haven't in years, mate. Be'er that way." Butch leaned back in his seat. "What's yer name, shiny?"
"I'm Rori," the kid answered, faking confidence. "I transferred to the 9th about a week before the move." He held out his hand, expecting Butch to shake it.
"A bi' of advice, Rori," he returned, leaving the trooper's hand awkwardly hovering in midair, "There's a nice whorehouse downtown. Pay a visit when ye ge' a chance. Best way 'a spend these miserable days in the service."
Rori sheepishly retracted his hand.
"Ye are old enough 'a use a whorehouse, right?" Butch joked. A few of the other men chuckled, at Rori's expense.
"I just don't see the point in wasting my valuable time and money on… that," Rori answered, embarrassed.
By now, the transports had long outpaced the youths, and stones had stopped hitting the armor. The occasional bump in the road was the only disturbance from here on.
Butch chuckled. "Oh I see how i' is." He leaned back and cupped his head in his hands. "Ye go yer way. That's fine."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I' means 'none a me business.' Ye do whatever ye bloody want. I go with me whores, you can go with…" He chuckled mockingly, "Somethin' more yer taste, mate."
"You know what, Butch? I'm-" Perhaps Rori had a comeback ready to go; or perhaps he didn't.
Either way, the chance was lost when Johan shouted back into the cabin. "Hate to break up a good shitshow, but we have an emergency here." The transport came to a sudden stop, and the ramp dropped to reveal the outside world.
Hesitantly, Rori unfastened his harness to take a peak. Sunlight reflecting off the snowy white canvas of the ground nearly blinded him, but he pushed forward to find the first casualty of the occupation. Bantha-Seven had broken down unexpectedly, and was leaking fuel in the snow. Several more troops filed out of both Bantha 3 and 7 to take a look at the damage, but unfortunately none of them were qualified mechanics. Johan and Butch even crawled underneath the behemoth to take a closer look.
Gomen's voice came over the commlink, suddenly unimpeded by interference. "Need a damage report on Bantha-Seven, over."
Rori looked into the sky to see four imperial gunships changing course to survey the accident, while the rest continued their escort route towards town.
Johan answered the commlink. "Looks bad, Mynock-Six. Massive internal fuel leak. Something frayed the injector lines, so even if we tried to push through it, the rear engine wouldn't get enough juice to keep moving. The fuel's pooling up in the back of the passenger cabin, and leaking out from there. Over."
"Any injuries? Over."
"Negative, Mynock. Everyone's accounted for. Four kliks left til we get to base, so we can probably just take everyone from Bantha-Seven and split them up into other transports. Over."
"And the vehicle itself? Over."
"Lost cause, Mynock. We'd need specialized equipment to fix it here; and if we try to come back for it later, scavengers will have already had their pick of the litter. Best to let the snow have it. Over."
"God damn it…"
"Alright, Bantha-Three. Colonel says you have the green light." Gomen adjusted his electrobinoculars to get a better view of the accident. Sure enough, a huge pool of black tar had formed underneath the juggernaut. Even trying to start it up would have been a fire hazard. "Move Bantha-Seven personnel to other transports, then get back on the road within the next 15 minutes. Mynock out." Gomen stowed his commlink, and watched the ground crew get to work.
"I'll keep low and slow in case there's any trouble here," Spinner added. "Crazy that we're already having problems like this."
Gomen put down his binoculars and sat by a munitions crate. "It's too soon. Feels like the planet itself doesn't want us here."
"Don't tell me you buy those legends, Gomen." Spinner scoffed, as if the very idea of superstition offended him.
"I don't know what I believe," Gomen defended himself, half-heartedly. "Jedi ghosts and force phantoms are no crazier than the shit we saw in the war."
"Is this going to be another 'war is hell' mantra? However bad it got, that's no reason to start buying old wives' tales and ghost stories."
"What about Dathomir?" Gomen recalled the fabled Battle of Dathomir, where the Separatists attacked a cult of self-proclaimed witches, who raised the dead in their defense.
"Datho-what? Do you mean Dantooine?"
Gomen's mouth hung slightly open. "No, Dathomir. You've never heard of Dathomir?"
"Never once. What's so special about this planet?"
Gomen told him the story as best he could. The witches, the hexes, the living dead, and how the Separatists lost thousands of droids trying to take it. Unfortunately, as the Republic was not present in the battle, much of it had been lost to time. Several battle droids had recorded footage of the battle when it happened, but the Separatists wiped all such records after it became clear they were going to lose the war. Much of what was known came from rumors spread by the few witches who managed to escape.
"That makes no sense," Spinner finally said, dismissing the story altogether. "There's no way the Seps would be able to divert an entire contingent to some backwater world in the middle of a Republic offensive. It's nerfshit."
It was hopeless. Gomen still believed the battle happened, but with so many details lost or foggy, it wasn't possible to convince a skeptic. Not without any evidence.
As the transports got back on the road, something else caught Gomen's eye. "What the hell?" Through the binoculars, he witnessed a snowtrooper, on foot, running up behind one of the Juggernauts, keeping pace with the massive vehicle. Gomen switched the commlink back on. "Johan, you seeing this?"
"Affirmative. That's Willy over there."
Gomen silently noticed that comms had cleared up from before. The terrain must have been playing tricks on them earlier. "I can see that. Shouldn't he be on the transport?"
Willy grabbed the nearest Juggernaut with one hand, and swung himself upward to get a firm grip on the chassis. The tank didn't slow down for even a millisecond.
"Wish you hadn't said that," Johan joked.
The trooper clumsily scaled the outside of the vehicle, bracing himself for bumps in the road as he reached the top and stood up straight.
"He's gonna get himself killed," Gomen stated, as Willy slowly found his footing.
"I tried to talk him out of this shit. Here, take a listen."
Gomen focused his binoculars on the scene below. Standing as tall as he could, Willy dropped his pants around his ankles, and held out both hands in obscene gestures. "GOOD MORNING, ILUM!" came his bellowing voice over the commlink.
"Son of a bitch," Gomen sighed under his breath.
Willy redressed himself, and started his climb down. The vehicle hit a bump on the road, and he fell harmlessly into a pile of snow.
"Thire's going to have an aneurism," said Gomen.
Johan replied, pensively. "You're telling me…"