I was lucky enough not to be asked any questions during the meeting, the plus side of being such a low rank seems to be that I'm expected to watch and learn, which is great considering I still have zero idea of what I have been thrown into.
"In conclusion, for now, Admiral Wurtz, please work on an actionable plan for an invasion through to Mimban. The staging system should ideally be Exodeen." The gruff man leading the meeting pointed his head towards another older gentleman opposite my seat who nodded in return.
I was glad to be able to put a name to one of the people around this table at least. On the other hand, it was remarkable how...well...normal that name was. Wurtz would not have been a weird name in either world I've been on.
I'm pretty sure I even interviewed a Wurtz for the 203rd at the beginning.
As the meeting wound down, the lady who guided me earlier motioned for me to follow her as she stood up. I looked around the table to try and remember faces but found everyone was already standing and packing up, or had begun speaking amongst each other.
I debated whether I should try and engage anyone in conversation before standing and giving the guide a nod. As she walked past my seat towards the door, I fell in line behind her, familiar with military behaviour regardless.
Once we passed the threshold of the door, she started to speak to me whilst maintaining her stride.
"How did you enjoy your first strategy meeting with the Navy?" She spoke softly but every word seemed to hold a palpable weight beneath them. She was very assured of herself.
"It was interesting, the man who led the meeting..." I trailed off, hoping she would correct me with a name.
She looked at me through the corner of her eye for a moment. "Admiral Yularen, and remember that. Not acknowledging him by name will reflect badly on me, and I do not need that." Her words were spoken harshly but quietly in the busy corridor.
"You were pulled from the academy for specific reasons, and whilst you are not privy to those yet, all you need to know is to do your job and assignments to the best of your ability." She continued, this time back to her earlier more reserved tone of voice.
"To get the privilege to join the Republic Intelligence is not something to overlook. Many work tirelessly to even get the opportunity, you were handpicked." She seemed partially annoyed, I couldn't tell whether that was the circumstances or if she thought I had special privileges.
She suddenly stopped. "Pay attention, follow your orders and above all." She turned towards me and suddenly her presence intensified. "Do not fail."
"Good night Lieutenant, I will fetch you tomorrow." She then motioned towards the door we had stopped next to, and I recognised the nameplate next to it as reading "T. Degurechaff" in those weird symbols.
"Good night ma'am." I returned back to her, keeping my voice level and monotone.
"It's Captain, Lieutenant. Captain Lardi since you seem to be struggling with names." Her voice returned to its earlier harshness. "I'd advise you to read back up on the manuals you were sent to read on your datapad before joining us on this base, I will only allow you this embarrassing display since it's your first day."
Suddenly the anger I had pushed down since being transported here flared back up. I hated feeling incompetent or being made out to be stupid, but I had no choice but to accept this mercy. At the very least the manuals seemed a good start to figure out what I was meant to be doing.
"Understood Captain, and thank you." I barely managed to maintain my earlier decorum and keep my voice level.
"Hmph." She barely acknowledged, before walking away.
As the sound of Captain Lardi's boots faded down the corridor, I turned to face the door of what I supposed would be "my" room. T. Degurechaff, etched into the door's nameplate in strange symbols. It was odd seeing that name attached to such foreign lettering—yet here it was, unmistakably me.
I suddenly realised I had no idea how to open this door until I realised there was a circular hole that seemed like it might fit the cylinder I had on my chest. I reached up and took it off my tunic and pushed the end into the hole I'd seen and suddenly the door opened and I stepped inside.
The room was stark and utilitarian. A narrow bed, a small desk, a few drawers, and a dim mirror attached to one wall next to a wardrobe of some sort. I crossed the room in a few short steps, before trying to figure out this new, weird jacket.
After a few seconds, I figured it out and tossed my new uniform tunic on the bed before pulling what I assumed to be the datapad from its pouch. The glossy, dark surface felt cool in my hand. I slid my finger along the side, and the screen flickered to life. This at least was a familiar design, similar to a tablet from my first life.
Lines of text sprawled across the display as I accessed my assigned files. Directives, personnel charts, and schedules—it was all here. But as I flipped through, a file titled "Lt. Degurechaff - Orientation" caught my eye. I tapped it open, my interest piqued.
Role: Tactical Analyst, Republic Intelligence attache to Navy FLEETCOM.
Assignment: The primary duty is to analyze and assess enemy movement, providing strategic recommendations for field operatives and fleet movements. You are expected to act as a liaison between Intelligence and Fleet Command and to support ongoing campaigns as per orders.
A cold smile tugged at the corner of my lips. Tactical analyst, was it? Hardly an unfamiliar role. The irony of it was delicious—I'd been a soldier, an officer, an operative in the brutal theatre of war in my last life. And here I was again, shuffled into another battlefield, another hierarchy. Except now, I was supposed to be playing a silent observer, hidden behind lines and desk terminals.
On one hand, wasn't that always the goal? A nice position far from danger? On the other, the idea of settling for that now, after being screwed over by that creature again?
It seemed Captain Lardi also expected me to blend in as another cog in the machine, quietly filing reports. I could already feel the itch in my fingers at the thought of that, but I needed to figure out how I wanted to play this new game.
Suddenly, I glanced up, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror. For a moment, I froze. The person staring back at me was… different. She was older—still unmistakably Tanya von Degurechaff, but with a maturity that seemed to have deepened the sharpness of my gaze and hardened my expression. My hair was longer, coiled in a tight bun, and my posture was straighter, more deliberate.
"Well, Being X," I muttered, reaching up to touch my cheek, tracing the contours of my jawline. "It seems you didn't leave me as a child."
The face staring back felt unfamiliar and yet hauntingly close at the same time. I was taller, older—a version of myself that might have emerged had I lived long enough and not abused those formula stimulants that halted my growth. It was like some cosmic joke: a twisted version of what might have been if I'd aged naturally in that world.
The longer I looked at the face in the mirror, the more foreign it became, like gazing at a mask worn by someone else. I had adapted to that youthful, piercing stare—the reflection that stared back at me through the hell of my second life. That cold, calculating look had become part of me, a constant companion, an identity forged from nothing but sheer will and defiance. And now, it was gone. Replaced by… this.
I pressed my hands to the cool surface of the mirror, gripping the edges as if that might anchor me to something real. But what was real anymore? I wasn't the soldier I had become in the Empire. I wasn't the disillusioned salaryman from my first life, either. I was… nothing. Every life I'd built, every step forward I'd forced myself to take, was torn from me in an instant. The foundation I'd struggled so hard to rebuild was ripped away once more, leaving me lost.
It was like being unmade, piece by piece. Every sacrifice, every order, every moment of that gruelling existence—the sacrifices, the camaraderie of soldiers who depended on me, who trusted me, who understood me even if they hated me at times—all of it was gone. Stripped away as though it had never been real. The life I had carved for myself, no matter how warped I and it had become, was all I'd had. And it was gone in an instant.
A sick laugh slipped from my throat, half-choked and bitter. Two lives. Two entire lives torn apart as if they were nothing.
I clenched my jaw, but the tremors were already starting, each breath catching in my chest as the weight of it sank in. I'd been robbed of the life of a salaryman, yes. But I'd done the rational thing, I'd moved forward, and created something from the ashes of that loss. And now, as if even that life wasn't mine to keep, I'd been flung here—another world, another time, with the few things I had left wrenched from my grasp.
"Who am I now?" I murmured my voice barely a whisper, swallowed by the empty room. I'd already struggled with the image of myself, the salaryman and the child soldier.
There was no one left to answer. No faces to recognize, no voices to steady me. The faintest memories flickered before me as if I was afraid to even remember: the dull hum of an office, the late-night exhaustion of endless reports, the hard-won loyalty and trust of soldiers who I'd tortured and made into who they were, who eventually fought alongside me. I was left with only myself, a hollow shell that didn't even match the person I thought I'd become.
I pressed my forehead to the mirror, attempting to stem the involuntary shaking. I could feel the faint vibration of my heartbeat thrumming against the glass, a dull rhythm that felt distant, removed. This face—a face that had no past, no connection to anything I'd once known but an aching familiarity of who I'd been. No sense of the battles I'd fought, the lives I'd left behind. Nothing. Just an empty echo in a universe that didn't even know I existed.
I tried to hold it in, I didn't need this now. But no matter how intelligent, no matter how ruthless, I was still human. A tear slipped down my cheek, unbidden. The quiet, hollow grief clawed up, leaving an ache I didn't want to name. I wasn't supposed to be feeling this. I was meant to survive, adapt, push forward.
For what felt like hours, I stayed there, my forehead pressed to the mirror until the tear tracks dried and my breathing steadied. The hollow ache still lingered, a reminder. But slowly, I straightened, my reflection meeting my gaze once again.
If I was nothing, if everything had been taken—then I would be nothing. I would endure without attachment, without history, without the burden of a past. Let the world try to take what little remained. I would make this existence my own, however empty.
I straightened, the datapad still clutched in my hand. I would play their little game, for now. I'd read their documents, memorize their expectations, understand their hierarchy—until I figured out where the cracks were. Until I found the angle I wanted to push.
A ping from the datapad caught my attention—a message, something labelled Tomorrow's Briefing Prep. With a sigh, I settled onto the edge of the bed and began scrolling through the briefing notes, reminding myself to approach this new role with the same cold precision as usual.
The notes were nothing particularly surprising, there was an agenda with a file attached to each for review before the meeting. The Captain had also highlighted sections for me to read up further on, which was surprisingly helpful but she had probably only done it for her own sake.
The briefing prep file was divided into sections, each one accompanied by a thick dossier of information I was expected to sift through and memorize by morning. It covered everything from Mimban's planetary conditions to intel reports on Separatist forces suspected to be stationed nearby. I skimmed over most of it initially, noting key points rather than diving too deep. My attention was caught, though, by the extensive detail in Admiral Wurtz's proposed invasion strategy.
Wurtz had laid out a meticulous plan: a multi-pronged approach using Admiral Yularen's recommendation of Exodeen as the staging ground for a swift strike. A series of reconnaissance ships would monitor a route through the surrounding space, allowing heavier forces to advance undetected. Once in position, the fleet would launch a coordinated assault, overwhelming enemy defences before they had time to react. There was even a contingency for a diversionary assault to draw the Separatist fleets out of hiding, weakening Mimban's direct defences.
On paper, it looked solid. Admirable, even, in its efficiency. But as I continued reading, I noted a few concerning details. Wurtz had factored in heavy losses, particularly among the forward strike teams meant to secure the outer defences. It was a calculated trade-off: they'd take the brunt of the enemy's initial response, buying time for the main fleet to position itself for the decisive strike. Efficient, yes. But it reminded me all too much of the cold, utilitarian mindset I'd grown accustomed to in my second life. Sacrifice a few to secure the many. Simple. Rational.
Still, it didn't sit right with me, though not for that reason. There were inefficiencies, unaccounted-for variables that could shift the entire battle if ignored. For instance, if the initial reconnaissance failed to evade detection, the entire fleet's cover would be blown. Or if the diversionary strike was less effective than planned, Mimban's defences could hold out longer than predicted, straining the forward strike teams and logistical efforts beyond their breaking point.
I made a mental note to try and find a way to review any tactical models the Republic Intelligence had for this kind of assault; I needed something to compare Wurtz's numbers against, to confirm my suspicions. The meticulousness of this strategy meant Wurtz was either ruthlessly practical or dangerously overconfident. A useful distinction, once I knew which.
The datapad continued with the agenda. There was a section on resource allocation, the kind of dry yet critical data that affected everything in the field: fuel supplies, medical logistics, and emergency extraction teams, all dispersed across Exodeen and other surrounding systems. I scanned the notes, ensuring I'd be prepared to answer questions about potential bottlenecks or weaknesses. It seemed like the kind of meticulous oversight I was here to handle, a way to bridge the gap between high command's ambitious plans and the practicalities of putting those plans into action.
I glanced over the rest, noting that Captain Lardi herself was slated to present the next steps for Intelligence involvement in the Mimban campaign. Likely why she'd wanted me so prepared for tomorrow's meeting. As I scrolled further, I found a few additional files she'd highlighted. No doubt another pointed hint that I was expected to contribute.
I leaned back, watching the datapad's screen flicker slightly as it dimmed. This wasn't just a simple assignment; there was clearly a gap in their system, and it was my job to patch it, to tighten their methods. If I approached this strategically, I could use their weaknesses as leverage—find my footing.
For tonight, though, all I could do was prepare, focus on what I knew how to do, and try to distract myself so I didn't fall back inside my head.