Chapter III

Will Bigger Burn

"I'll have him loading crates 'till his arms give out!" Thire ranted.

The move, so far, had been a disaster. When comms even reached the FOB through the thick blizzard, the news was never good: weapons going missing from the inventory; juggernauts breaking down in the tundra; disorganized soldiers wandering through town and getting robbed by desperate refugees; even a tale of a refugee who got caught in the wheelwell of a juggernaut trying to siphon thermal fluid. His legs had to be amputated.

The FOB itself was a shambles. Gaping holes in the walls revealed the wiring had been crudely ripped out with farming tools. Any electronic device that wasn't nailed down had been looted or stripped for parts. Even the plumbing had been dug up, leaving this galaxy-spanning military without running water.

The last thing the Colonel needed was unbecoming conduct.

"I'll have him court martialed, dishonorably discharged, and shipped off to Kessel! He's made a mockery of this man's army, and a mockery of our mission!" He sets his empty glass on the desk, and reaches for the open bottle. "And if he thinks his 'little prank' went unnoticed, he's in for a world of hurt!"

Johan stood across from the Colonel, holding his tongue. His legs ached from the cold, but sitting down would be seen as disrespectful. Things were bad enough without risking the ire of his commanding officer.

"Don't just stand there, Corporal. Make yourself useful. Go find Gomen, I have a job for him." He poured himself another brandy.

"Sir, permission to speak freely."

"Denied. And don't ask again. I've got enough shit on my plate without these headaches. Now do as you're told."

He hesitated, then marched out of the room, leaving Thire alone with his problems.

Holomaps of Ilum had not been updated since the Clone Wars. Nar Skocha, being founded by Republican activists during the Imperial transition, simply did not show up. The area was marked as a heavily fortified Separatist stronghold, no trace of which still remained. Local cartographers had since drawn more current maps, but they were crude, paper things that were difficult to read. A modern army took GPS systems for granted; it would be difficult to go back to classical navigation.

Thire checked his holomap, just to be sure. Predictably, it showed his feet hovering 20 meters off the ground, his head fused inside a Techno Union railgun, and 6,000 Battle Droids converging on his position.

Technology was not the answer.

Thire sipped his brandy. The alcohol warmed his fingers, making it easier to work in a building with no central heating system. The holomap terminated its interface, instead showing an incoming call from Coruscant. He put down his glass. "Accept call," he said.

The projector roared to life, displaying the visage of General Maximillian Veers, newly promoted from Colonel.

Thire stood and raised his hand in salute. "General."

"At ease, Colonel." The general returned the salute.

Thire sat back down, and subtly inched his drink away from the projector.

"I trust the 9th is enjoying its stay on Ilum," Veers chided, dryly, "You were well briefed on Imperial directives for this world, were you not?"

"Yes, sir. Keep the mines operating, and avoid any incidents."

Veers cocked his eyes toward the holes in the walls. "And yet, I'm already receiving reports of unrest. I take it the natives are restless…"

"Kahdah didn't leave us with a stable situation. The 212th deliberately targeted Twi'leks for reprisals. They're never going to trust humans in white armor again."

"And the Rodians?"

"Better. They've been in an ethnic feud with the Twi'leks since the planet was settled. To them, we're the enemy of their enemy. They trust us."

"Then the solution is obvious. The Rodians make up the majority of the workforce anyway. Simply stay the course."

Thire hesitated. He almost reached for his brandy, but clenched his hand to bury the urge. "Sir, if I may, I believe there may be a way to bridge the gap with the Twi'leks, and stop the violence altogether."

"You're not here to win hearts and minds, Colonel. You'll do well to remember that."

"Sir, the Twi'leks have a good reason to be angry. Their people have been slaughtered by Imperial forces for years, under Kahdah's orders. We could extend a Wroshyr Branch by offering simple concess…"

"Concessions are never simple!" Veers stated, loudly. "Blood feuds don't simply evaporate because you play a different side!"

"And how did 'staying the course' work for Kahdah? Hundreds of regulars buried in the snow? Partisans stripping the wire out of Imperial command buildings? The worst massacre in Imperial history? How did that work out?"

Veers exhaled.

Thire held his gaze on the General's eyes, careful not to let his emotions betray him.

Veers was first to blink. "I will raise objections with Grand Moff Tarkin, but I suspect he will decline to get involved. You are not under my command, and Coruscant has given you the inexplicable liberty to conduct the occupation as you see fit. We will know, in due time, the gravity of their error."

"You may be disappointed, sir."

Veers scoffed. "There is someone else who wishes to speak with you. Keep the channel open for the next hour."

Thire kept his face expressionless. He had won, but now was not the time to brag. "Yes sir."

"I pray you know what you're doing. Coruscant out." The hologram collapsed, as the projector powered down.

Thire breathed deeply, letting the cold air fill his lungs. He reached for another sip of brandy, which quickly turned into a loud gulp.

His course was set. Thire at least had the implicit approval to make concessions for the Twi'leks. He switched his commlink to record, and held it up to his mouth.

"Nar Skocha Reparation Plan; first draft. Preamble…" He dictated.

"Kiss me goodbye, hmm hmm hmm, while I'm gone…" Rori hummed to himself as he cracked open the next supply crate. The magseal, designed to survive orbital bombardment, gave way to the force of his simple crowbar, revealing a shipment of pre-cooked rations. Without thinking, he scooped the contents into a handcart and pushed them toward the storeroom. "Goodbye my darling, hmm hmm hmmmm. A hill to take, a hmm hmm hmm."

The path to the storeroom led Rori past a group of Rodian youths, playing with rocks, throwing them at small animals for fun. He couldn't help but compare them to the Twi'lek kids from earlier. One of the animals yelped and scurried away. The kids started laughing.

"Duba! Ay panu goya!" One of them yelled.

Rori simply walked by, depositing the cart in the storeroom. As he stocked the shelves, he heard the kids taunt their targets, making bets amongst themselves. A few minutes later, he emerged with an empty handcart, to find them standing over a wounded gizka, laughing and poking it with a stick.

This time, he said something. "Kids, I don't think that…"

"E chu ta!" The oldest bit back. He wore an orange safety jacket, likely stolen from engineers of the 212th, except it had rips in the sleeves, and an obscene drawing sketched on the back. He was the leader of the group.

Rori got closer. The gizka was pregnant, and breathing heavily. Its right eye was wounded, and its back leg was broken. "Come on, what did this poor thing ever do to you?"

The leader turned on his heel and pelted Rori with a jagged rock. Rori flinched, and the projectile ricocheted harmlessly off his arm bracer, instead of his unprotected face.

"Ca skrunee da pat, karking ootmian." He kicked the gizka to make a point, then pierced it through with his stick. It squealed in agony. "Cheespa bo koopa, ootmian. Bolla bata karking doma toma, da koochu kung."

Rori stood helplessly as the animal stopped breathing. The youth tossed his bloody stick to the side, and walked away with his friends, each one climbing over a broken fence.

The animal left a shallow pool of blood in the snow. It had curled in on itself before death, desperately trying to protect its belly.

Wine delicately splashed into Gomen's pre-warmed glass. The bottle was adorned with a gorgeous painting of Tarko-Se, the most famous of Cato Nemoidia's "bridge cities" that dotted its mountainous landscape. Of course, as with all things Nemoidian, this wine was not grown on Cato Nemoidia. Rather, it was derived from a specific strain of Meiloorun fruits that grew in the temperate regions of Dantooine. The fruits never fully mature before harvest, and were prevented from completely fermenting by added chemicals. The juice was then bottled, and stored in cooler climates, where it slowly produced molecules that, when exposed to atmospheric nitrogen, rapidly decayed into alcohol. Only after the bottle was opened did the process truly begin. The bright yellow liquid streamed into the glass, where it quickly turned a bright pink. Traditionally, the glass was then swirled, creating a marble effect that was said to enhance the flavor. Although a Dantooinian tradition for centuries, the Trade Federation acquired their vineyards in a stock buyout some 30 years ago. It was now their tradition.

Gomen wasn't looking when the wine changed color. He preferred to look his host in the eye as they poured: Baron Administrator Per Ullen of the Trade Federation. Ullen was an aging, distasteful Nemoidian, whose wrinkles stretched even deeper than is normal for his species. In the Clone Wars, he proudly worked for the Separatist cause, then defected to the Republic once the tide turned, selling out vital supply routes in the process. He was rewarded for his "loyalty" with lucrative government contracts, including Nar Skocha.

"It is my honor and privilege to welcome your battalion to our humble world, Colonel…"

Gomen tasted the wine out of respect, then left it to sit. "Gomen, and I'm just a Corporal."

"Oh? But I was told that-"

"Colonel Thire is dealing with logistical nightmares back at base. We go back quite a few years, so I'm here in his stead."

"Ahhhhhh, he trusts you, then!"

"You could say that, although I'm not sure he trusts anyone these days."

"Then, tell me this much…" Ullen recorked the bottle, and set it back on the shelf. The top layer had already changed color. "You two are both veterans, I understand?"

"That's correct."

"Yet you seem so much…" Ullen paused to look for a less offensive word than

"Younger?" Gomen offered.

Ullen nodded in resignation.

"I'm not a clone. Volunteer Corps from day 1. Technically I'm about 10 years older than him."

"The wonders of genetics!" Ullen chuckled as he sat down, wine in hand.

Gomen was briefed on Ullen's tendency to probe for information, before making power moves. He didn't believe he'd given away anything too sensitive, though.

Ullen fetched a ledger from his desk. "On to business, as it were. Your superiors will be pleased to hear that Kyber extraction has increased by 25% over the previous fiscal year, while operating expenses have dropped by 2%."

Gomen looked over the ledger; a Byzantine mishmash of charts, numbers, and PR speak. Even with a year of business at the Academy, it was about as intelligible to him as Jawaese. "That's… good news," he eventually said, adjusting his chair, "but it's nothing that wasn't in your report. Now, I'll be honest here. This is going to be a tough transition. If you have bad news to share, it's better to let us know now, so we don't have any surprises in the future."

Ullen sipped his wine. "As you wish, Corporal. You may want to use the refresher first. This won't be… easy." He used a keycard to unlock the bottom drawer of his desk, then retrieved a datapad from inside, placing it in front of Gomen.

It took the latter several seconds to realize the image on screen was a Twi'lek… or it was, at some point. Her head was several meters from her torso; her lekku crudely chopped off, and used to violate her. He scrolled to the next photo, which was a close-up of the same scene, and showed her eyes still open, with bits of broken bone jutting out the back of her skull. Bloody bootprints casually trailed away from the scene of the atrocity. Gomen's vision started to blur. His hand trembled. His breathing quickened. The one after that showed snowtroopers disposing of Twi'lek corpses, beside a bloodstained wall. Those that followed offered no respite: soldiers stomping on a child, as he cowered in the snow; charred corpses left to freeze; Twi'lek women and children being pulled out of their homes; infants frozen in the snow…

Ullen continued to sip his wine. "This was the handiwork of your predecessor. Some were from the massacre that led to his court martial, others long predate it."

Gomen turned the datapad off, closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths. He could feel his stomach turn; the first image forever branded into his head. Blood raced away from his brain; each moment dragged as though it were an hour. Desperately, he opened his eyes wide and stared directly into the lamp overhead, as if to burn it out forcibly.

…Her eyes were still open

His vision blurred until the room turned pale white. His ears rang louder than any weapon he'd ever fired, drowning out even the bustling of the city with a single, cacophonous tone, as if a crowd of millions all sang it in unison. All sight, all feeling, all sensation was lost…

And as if it were never there, the ringing faded. Color returned. Only now, he found himself on the couch a few meters away from the desk. He could distinctly smell bacta, and felt its warmth on the side of his head. A damp sponge pressed above his ear, secured by a cloth bandage. In front of him, a cleaning droid dutifully scrubbed the floor with harsh chemicals. The Administrator simply sat at his desk, attending to business as usual.

"I apologize," said Ullen, solemnly, "You are but a soldier, unprepared for the realities faced by locals, however common they may be." He poured another glass of wine, and sipped it as he worked. "I trust you can show yourself out. A Corporal Johan came looking for you some hours ago. Best not keep him waiting."

…We're all heroes, in my book.

…Did what no one else would.

The vicious roar of repulsorlift engines flooded his mind. Dawn approached.

…Saved the Republic

"Sir, incoming message from Coruscant."

Thire opened his eyes to find T5-68 in front of him, metallic arms folded behind its back. A speeder had hit his head the night before, or so it felt. The culprit still stood on his desk, uncorked, water droplets condensing on the glass.

He shook his head to get his blood flowing, then retrieved the coat that had fallen off his back. "Patch it through," he said, buttoning the thick coat.

T5 left the room. The Colonel sat up straight, and swallowed the hair of the Gundark that bit him. Shortly after, the Holoprojector roared to life, donning the visage of a man in a disheveled uniform and a thin, untrimmed beard.

"Colonel Thire," the man said.

The voice sent shivers down his spine. It wasn't possible. "Who are you?" he asked.

"A friend, Colonel. You know who I am," the hologram intoned.

Thire held his composure. "You're dead."

"Is that a threat I hear?"

"You were executed yesterday," he said, to the ghost before him, "Kahdah."

"You can't believe everything you read on the Holonet, Thire. I'm an innocent man, after all."

Thire scoffed. "You bought your way out of it. I knew this would happen." White collar crime is hardly punished in the Empire. Two years ago, Senator Organa was caught with an unlicensed holdout blaster, and didn't even see a day in court. Kahdah going free isn't even a shock.

"Now, Thire, I still outrank you. Show me that well-learned politesse of your academy days."

"Frankly, General, you're not worth the shit I scraped from my boot. I remember what you did on Kashyyyk. You were a monster back then, and you're a monster today."

Kahdah stared confrontationally into Thire's eyes. "I was a hero on Kashyyyk. You'd do well to remember that. The Wookiee insurrection had to be put down, lest they threaten Imperial citizens."

"We both know that's not what happened."

The General casually walked away from the projector, although his voice could still be heard loud and clear on the other end. "Isn't it? Because the medal on my chest, the 10,000 men under my command, the news reports, they all tell the same story." The Butcher continued, "Imagine the scandal if a hero of the people was executed over a minor lapse in command."

"And what's your game? Why contact me? Just to gloat about how you got away with it?"

"You sound so confused, Thire. For that, I am sorry. What kind of friend would I be to ride into the sunset without a proper farewell?" Running water could be heard on the other end of the call.

"Just answer me this, General."

"I'm an open book, old friend."

"Why? Why did you do this? Why did you kill so many people? They trusted you, and you butchered them." Thire trembled, struggling to look into the eyes of the madman. "...Why?"

The projector stood silent for several seconds. Kahdah reemerged clean-shaven, a towel draped around his shoulder. "You are my replacement, Colonel. You stand in my shoes, breathing my air, eating my food, running my world." All expression faded from his face. "I trust you will find out soon enough."

Thire was taken aback. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You will know why." He pressed a button on the console. "Coruscant out."

The holoprojector powered down, leaving Thire alone with his thoughts. He reached for the commlink on his desk… only to find it missing. He patted himself down to make sure it wasn't in his pockets, with no luck. Something seemed to jut out the bottom of the holotable. In the hope he'd found it, he bent down further than his back, and his balance, could handle. A split second grab on the side of the projector is all that kept him from falling on his face.

"Is now a bad time?" Came an almost ethereal voice from across the room. Thire looked up to see Gomen standing in the doorway. "I can come back later if you're… indisposed."

Thire straightened himself up. "Just looking for something I dropped. Come in, Corporal. I have a job for you." He gave up the search. Fortunately, commlinks were cheap and easily replaced. Its contents, however, would have to be rewritten from memory.

Gomen walked in and took a seat, before dropping a datapad on top of the holoprojector as though it were a caf table.

"What's that?" Thire half-heartedly asked.

Gomen considered a vague answer. Something like 'you don't want to know,' or 'find out for yourself.' He was much too old to be childish about such things, though. A dramatic reveal served nobody. "Extensive documentation of the good General's handiwork. Our Neimoidian benefactor was kind enough to traumatize me with it."

Thire didn't bother to pick it up just yet. "That bad?"

"I've seen combat, Colonel. Don't patronize me." He leaned against the wall, and stared the other down. "I've seen my comrades get torn apart by spider droids. I've seen orbital bombardments turn human beings into thick sludge. I've stabbed Umbarans in the head, and watched the life fade from their eyes. I've seen my share of death. But I've never seen this sort of cruelty before. The Separatists never tortured women and children for fun. No wonder they hate us."

Now, Thire thought, would be a terrible time to reveal that Kahdah was still alive. In death, he is but a symbol of the past, to contrast a new way forward. In life, an avatar of evil, turning every Human on Ilum into an effigy to be burned. "Bastard got what he deserved," he mumbled.

Gomen exhaled. "Bastard didn't get nearly enough." He stepped away from the wall, trying to put this topic out of his mind. "You said you had a job for me?"

"Just a little one." Thire flicked a switch on the holotable, bringing up an orbital photo of the abandoned Juggernaut from earlier. It had no terrain markers, or other features expected from a modern holomap, but he was fortunate that the ISD Virtue cared to provide this much. "A crate of blasters was accidentally left behind in Bantha Seven. Thankfully, scavengers haven't found it yet, or we'd be in trouble."

"So go out, grab the crate, get back. Sounds easy."

"That's the hope. The crate's a little big for one man, though, so I'm sending the new kid with you to help out."

"New kid?" Gomen was taken aback. "You mean nepotism kid?"

"He deserves a chance to prove himself, same as the rest of us."

"He can barely hold a gun. He's going to get himself killed."

"Don't be over-dramatic. It's a blue milk run. You said so yourself."

"Damn it, Colonel. Anyone but him. What about Spinner? Butch? Able?"

"All busy, because this is a military operation, not a holiday. We can't all afford to sleep through the day."

Johan must have told him, Gomen realized. It's still petty to use something like that against a friend.

Thire narrowed his gaze. The Corporal admitted defeat, and left the room, cursing under his breath.

You know the old saying about 'friends like these…'