II. GENERAL
"Glory to Him who brings all things excellent, lightening darkness with his shine. Strength-winner, Treasure-finder, Life-bestower."
Finishing the common prayer, a gray-robed woman leading the small congregation closes the sacred scroll and tucks it reverently away. Thick, red-and-green jungle canopy hangs over the gathered believers as they bow their heads a final time – along with General Rian and Thalsa, his young trusty adjutant. Even here, far from the ocean and the coastal military bases, the faithful have to remain on their guard.
"Until next meeting, you all. Tread carefully, friends of Zu'mah," the priestess, Jy'At, reminds them after the service, using the local sakari title for the Maker. Actually, the general isn't supposed to know her name or any of the other's, and vice versa, but he thinks this knowledge could be of use if the Imperial scrutiny became a real threat. In fact, his own wife Hevsur encouraged him to learn this and more, hoping that he would serve as these people's protector should such a need arise. Dear, sweet woman, he thinks now with a small smile. Such faith in the magical powers of rank.
"Aye, they've been harsher than always, of late," Bal Theem, the assistant-priest, adds with a solemn nod.
Of course, they always means the Imperials. No wonder, the general surmises. In truth, just something to be expected since Moff Aolee was replaced – a harmlessly sounding euphemism that had involved one black-clad cyborg creep designated as Vader, he strongly suspects. After that, it's been even harder to worship without constantly looking over your shoulder. And in spite of his many flaws, Rian does miss that mellow, indulgent guy now – by contrast with his successor.
Soon thereafter, Iroc Industries, the largest local employer, was seized despite its CEO's feeble attempt at sabotage and reorganized into an Imperial consortium. Apparently this little sweltering planet has been of much interest for an "advanced weapons research team" in the higher echelons, although Rian cannot for the life of him guess why – then again, he wasn't granted any clearance to know the details. Either way, it's really the same everywhere: the First Galactic Empire's whole modus operandi. Unification, expansion, subjugation, storm and stress. Rule with an iron fist. All hail the Emperor beloved and obeyed by all.
And I take part in it myself, for what it's worth. How many times have the newsfeeds glorified my exploits? And what about all those glowing, carefully censored comments on the HoloNet? Or how many brainwashed youths regard me as a model commander?
"A true leader does not require others to make him strong," he recalls in his mind. "A true leader gives others the strength to stand alone." An old maxim of his arid birthworld, totally obsolete and potentially dangerous in this new era.
So far, surmises Rian, it's been mostly easy to bring the recently war-weakened galaxy to heel, even taking into account weaponry caches scattered here and there from the times of civil strife. Popular demand for law and order has been widespread even despite the islands of discontent. Even most religious authorities keep their voices down, fearing the new regime and its mighty apologists. They want us all to perceive them as real gods. Even though they're nothing of the sort.
But how would the lauded Imperial armed forces prove themselves should they encounter a superior foe one day, the general wonders? Yet to be seen, though Rian is pretty certain that he is destined to find it out for himself, one way or another.
"At least the Imps kicked the Hutts' wussy asses big-time," argues the local folk. Well, that is true to a degree, but it happened years ago. Nowadays, he feels with all his being as if something much worse, much more lethal is even now forming on the horizon.
All the Empire does is burn the past, and I am just one arsonist of many.
General Rian, one of the few Imperial senior officers that follow a now-proscribed religion in secret, leaves the humble forest shrine and, with faithful Thalsa beside him, starts walking through the jungle. On his way back to the shore he thinks of how most of his fellow believers seem to dwell on such remote fringes of the galaxy, where the Imperial rule hasn't yet become firm enough, though reportedly there are a few on distant Coruscant as well. He thinks of how the demands of his position are in clear contradiction with his faith but all he can do is accept this dilemma, all the while keeping not even a surety, a promise or a semblance thereof, but only a glimmer of hope. A hope that, in return for this devout faith, for those prayers and for all he has done secretly supporting the weak and the oppressed, his many horrible acts in the service to the Empire would some day be atoned...
If only.