Pulling the helmet from his head, Billy Booker sat down on the frame of a burnt-out car, one of many hundreds scattered around the area. The former parking lot for wheeled transport now represented a massive altar for sacrifices.
Melted and twisted metal, every millimeter of which was covered in ash. A stench that penetrated even through the filter. A ghastly mixture of aromas from burnt plastic, fur, fabrics, tibanna, oil, local gasoline.
And, of course, the corpses...
The hellish stench of a thousand corpses. Burnt flesh, smoldering bones, the bone-deep repulsive scent of skin and hair.
On the way here, Billy had more than once heard that vile, soul-sinking crunch under his feet, flinching at every meter he walked. Reaching the edge of the parking lot, where as if by a divine hand a line had been drawn between heaven and hell, he sat down right on the border, facing the "monument to freedom."
Placing his helmet on the hood, the young man hunched under the weight of the past days. Two days of heavy, non-stop fighting, filled with the deaths of thousands of living beings, had taken a toll on everyone. And he was one of many who now wandered aimlessly through the remains of the slave cities.
Booker's eyes involuntarily rose from the black earth back toward the wasteland, where against the backdrop of a burning and destroyed world... a celebration was taking place. A real holiday, full of laughter, merriment, and joy. Happy smiles, for the sake of which bones crunched and blood flowed under the feet of the Helldivers.
Hundreds of thousands of sentients of all species were now united in a single impulse, celebrating the victory over the evil that had tormented this planet for so long... No, not just the planet, but all the neighboring sectors.
Blasters were fired into the sky, music flowed like a river, and the lights of massive bonfires, where every former slave threw their collar, blazed, it seemed, to the very heavens.
A huge, practically scarlet flame thrashed in frenzy, as if it were rejoicing along with everyone, exalting this victory.
Pulling the glove from his right hand, Billy wiped his sweaty forehead with a simple movement of his hand, running his fingertips over the crown of his head. Feeling several new bumps and scars, the young fighter for freedom chuckled sadly, feeling that he had torn a scab and thin streams of blood were now trickling down his short hair.
"Shit..."
Spitting thick saliva onto the dirty asphalt covered with a thousand corpses, he swallowed a lump with difficulty, turning away from the horrific picture that wouldn't let him go, constantly returning him to those minutes of battle when the dead enemies were still alive.
Reaching with his other hand inside his jacket, Billy pulled out a metal flask. Without delay, he pressed his lips to the opening, consuming "Liber-tea" in large gulps, trying not to think about how he had acquired this personalized flask.
A groan escaped his throat. Almost choking, the guy let the container slip from his hands, and with an annoying clang, it fell to the ground, instantly changing its color from noble steel to ash.
"Damn... Sorry," almost falling to his knees, Booker carefully picked up the flask, feverishly brushing the dirt off it. Wiping it with his fingers, he didn't take his eyes off the inscription appearing on it with the personal number and callsign of the owner.
Reading the inscription, Billy's pupils dilated, and unable to withstand the surge of emotion, he hurled the flask at the nearest car with all his might, leaving a small dent in the latter.
The hum of combat vehicle engines sounded in his ears. The buzzing of combat drones overhead and the roar of assault aviation descending from the sky.
Every second, Billy sank deeper back into that horrific feeling, gradually leaning lower and lower until he practically pressed his face into his own knees.
His trembling hands clasped his dirty head by the back of the neck, and the guy himself began to slowly break into sobs—releasing everything that had accumulated over the last few days.
A quiet, strained weeping, with heavy breathing, spread across the former parking lot. Shuddering with his whole body, Booker's head occasionally jerked to the sides when particularly horrific moments of the war surfaced in his mind.
Images rolled in stronger and stronger, like a crazed vision; they mercilessly attacked his slowly failing mind, forcing him to lose himself...
But then, everything stopped.
Freezing without movement, Billy listened to his surroundings with doubt, questioning his own senses, but there it was again... Someone patted him on the head. Slowly and gently, but extremely persistently, forcing the Helldiver to interrupt his soul-searching and raise his eyes from the ground.
Taking a heavy breath through his mouth, Booker was already about to rudely dismiss the uninvited guest, but he froze mid-sentence, looking at three children of different races who had gathered around him.
Very small, barely reaching his waist, the little ones stood before him, while behind them, nervously clutching the edges of an old, worn dress, stood the nanny watching over them. A young Togruta, apologizing, made the sweetest expression. Her orange cheeks flushed playfully as she bit her lip; the girl was afraid that the clearly distraught guy might do something bad or hurt the little ones.
This acted like a bucket of cold water on Billy. Pulling himself together and wiping away his tears, he tried to force a smile onto his face. Getting off the car, the young man noted with surprise that he had been sitting here for several hours and the sun had begun to sink slowly toward the horizon.
Dropping to one knee before the children, Booker took a closer look at the young intruders of his solitude.
Two little Twi'leks of different skin colors. Dressed in simple gray dresses, they darted their eyes fearfully at the battered soldier, hiding behind the back of a human boy who, overcoming his fear, stepped forward.
As if he had swallowed a rod, the child walked closer with a wooden gait, then suddenly leaning forward—extended his arms. Everything was done so abruptly and quickly that Billy was afraid for a moment the kid would break his back...
But all of this—the behavior, the slight fear, the resolve, and the boy's confidence—brought a sincere smile to the Helldiver's face, which instantly made the state of all four visitors better and more relaxed.
Ruffling the boy's short hair, Booker shifted his gaze to the gift, and his face transformed in surprise. Even opening his mouth slightly, causing the two little Twi'leks to break into quiet, ringing laughter, the Helldiver accepted the gift from the child's hands.
A wreath...
The most ordinary wreath of flowers. A bit crooked, slightly slanted to one side, and missing flowers on the other. Clearly made by children's hands, the wreath was even visibly a bit small.
Looking at it from different sides, Billy saw a couple of bright ribbons tied in bows. A small bell was attached to the other side, but it was so pressed down by the plants that it didn't even ring.
Accepting the gift, Billy stared at it for a couple of seconds with an uncomprehending gaze. His heart beat faster, and his nose seemed to forget how to breathe.
Staring at the simple childhood gift, Booker again felt tears welling up in his eyes, ready to pour down in a cascade...
"You don't like it?" The question from one of the girls knocked him out of his stride. Looking up and finding the speaker with his eyes, the Helldiver caught that the entire quartet was staring intensely at his face, trying to decipher the freedom fighter's emotions. The nanny's tense face, the frightened and disappointed eyes of the girls...
But the stubborn, though forced, gaze of the boy. The boy held himself together, pursing his lips and as if holding himself back from running away. Disappointed in his best feelings, he still looked at Billy from under his brow, his back slightly bent.
"I told you soldiers don't like flowers..."
"Sorry, we didn't know you didn't like flowers..."
The children began to chatter, arguing with each other and slowly raising their voices. Tearing his gaze away from them, Booker looked at the crooked wreath again while the children's words rushed by in the background. The nanny had already managed to intervene, trying to apologize and calm the children at the same time...
"What does this mean?" Feeling like a fool, Billy said the first thing that came to mind. But his hoarse, tired voice quieted the chattering quartet, drawing all attention to the battered soldier. "What is this for?"
Exchanging uncomprehending glances, the children stepped closer again.
"It's a gift. For saving us. All of us..."
Billy's heart skipped a beat. His jaw, aching with pain, was no longer felt, and his hands, trembling again, almost tore the wreath. Feeling his head grow hazy, he tilted his head back to the sky, trying to breathe and calm down.
"Right... Saved everyone."
A heavy, forced chuckle escaped his mouth. First one, then another, and more and more, until a satisfied and happy laugh was heard in the parking lot.
Returning his gaze to the worried children and the even more terrified nanny, Billy waved his hand apologetically, then sat on one knee before the disappointed boy.
Holding the wreath back out to him, Booker didn't give the boy time to say anything. Tilting his head, he patted his dirty crown, where a second later the small crooked wreath was placed, scratching slightly on the side of his right ear.
"Thank you," straightening up, Booker patted the beaming boy on the shoulder, then nodded to the others gathered, "now you are safe..."
Nodding suggestively to the nanny, Billy watched with pleasure as the girl quickly gathered the children into a group and led them back to the celebration in a friendly crowd, occasionally turning back and smiling apologetically.
Still remaining on his knee, Billy watched them go for a few more seconds when one of the Twi'lek girls timidly looked back and waved her tiny hand at him.
A new smile outlined the grim face. Yielding to an impulse, Booker waved back at her, and now the whole flock of children was waving at him, with difficulty yielding to their nanny's persuasions.
"Ha-ha... Yeah. It wasn't all for nothing," getting up from his spot, with a much more confident and straight gait, Booker reached the flask he had thrown in anger and carefully picked it up from the ground, "isn't that right, old man?"
Gently running his fingers over the inscription on the flask, Billy poured the contents onto the ground, drenching the skeletons and machines with a wide sweep of his hand. Then, as if feeling a sense of relief and a light tap on his helmet, he sheepishly rubbed the back of his head and hung the flask back on his belt.
Glancing toward the unfolding celebration, where figures in black-and-yellow armor were easily recognizable among the former slaves, he let out a tired exhale and walked toward them, listening to the peaceful clatter of the container against his hip. The last ray of sunlight illuminated the former battlefield and seemed to linger on the inscription that shone proudly on the flask.
"Nineteen - One. Balance."
****
Rick Dicker adjusted the sling on his broken arm. The damn limb ached constantly, but the Judicial Forces investigator could do nothing about it; no matter how much he wanted to get rid of the injury, there simply wasn't enough of the best medicine, Bacta, for everyone.
Surveying the lines of wounded laid out in neat rows on identical cots, the man tiredly reached for a pack of cigarettes, then stepped aside—so as not to disturb his subordinates—and lit up.
The aroma of fruit cigarettes hit his nose; grimacing slightly at the thick smoke, Rick took his first drag while his gaze drifted smoothly over the temporary camp of those who had survived this mess.
Huddled together as if hoping it would help close all the emotional wounds caused by the loss of comrades and friends, the Liberators of Orvax helped one another, quietly and without conflict.
The Shackle Breakers were organizing the distribution of food and warm clothing for the former prisoners of the slave planet. Recruiting hundreds of volunteers into their ranks, they were growing before his eyes—transforming into a major force that would carry the winds of freedom further across the galaxy.
Joyful and inspired by such a great victory, Naulo Shikra's subordinates remained in their euphoric state, infecting everyone around them. Every day, without sleep or rest, they rushed across the planet, searching for escaped slaves, organizing debris removal, and setting up aid stations.
The Freedom Warriors were grim soldiers working closely with the Jedi. They crowded around their leader, who was feigning grumbles at the worried people. Covered in fresh scars from a nearby mine blast, the Nautolan demonstratively behaved as usual, as if not noticing his missing eye and the cluster of fractures along the entire left side of his body.
The Gray Paladins were meditating and struggling with their passions. The gruesome essence of the Dark Side of the Force had nearly saturated this planet through and through, and after such a bloody and horrific battle, these brave and noble warriors were trying to calm their raging emotions and feelings so as not to fall to the side of evil.
And, of course, the Helldivers—those thanks to whom this victory had become possible. Paid for with the blood of their soldiers, who had generously soaked the cities and lands of Orvax with it.
Exhaling a stream of smoke, Rick trudged through the camp with a sluggish gait. Yielding to his sensations or a Force Vision, as some like to say, he bypassed important people, gatherings, or events, slowly heading toward where the majority of the Helldivers were congregated.
Walking beyond the camp's boundaries and stepping onto the dry earth, the man was forced to stop a couple of times to answer questions from subordinate Spectres who had also descended to the planet to assist their allies.
Bypassing all obstacles, Dicker finally arrived where Sam Altman's soldiers spent most of their time.
A massive, excavated wasteland dotted with communal headstones. A giant burial site where the ashes of all fallen and cremated Helldivers were brought.
Created in haste, it nevertheless perfectly reflected their essence, showing that warriors who died in battle were buried in this place.
Squinting his eyes against the abundance of torches and bonfires, Rick peered at the neat rows of the Helldivers, frozen at attention and waiting for their commander to ascend the improvised stage.
Everything around was permeated with a somber triumph, except for the statue itself—from the cold monuments to the headstones standing in dense rows in a semicircle. Nearly four meters high, each slab was decorated with a hundred names of fallen Helldivers who had given their lives to destroy slavery on the planet.
Closing in from two sides, they stood flush against a monument assembled from armor, metal, and thick chunks of granite torn from the palaces of the planet's chief slave traders.
The granite stood at the base, and on each piece was a name. The name of a slave trader who had fallen at the feet of the Helldivers. Atop the granite, they had installed the remains of the first pod to land on the planet. Ironically, it was one of the few that had survived by the time the fighting in the cities ended.
At the very top stood a Helldiver himself, proudly clutching the new banner of his squad, which fluttered in the wind. This was in contrast to the torn and dirty one that the solemn Helldivers intended to place in a glass case to preserve for ages as a tribute to memory.
Snorting, Dicker pulled out a new cigarette, watching the backs of hundreds and thousands of soldiers who had thrust clenched fists to their chests.
The roar of the movement frightened the slaves and other fighters in the camp, so now, not far from the investigator, a crowd began to gather, seeing for the first time what these freedom-crazed fanatics—who let no one in here—were doing.
But finally, the head of this entire operation appeared on the stage, and Dicker looked anew at the boy who had once seemed a promising partner for collaboration. The head of a small mercenary gang—now transformed into a force to be reckoned with by all small players and mid-sized companies in the Outer Rim.
Sam... who had taken the surname Altman. Trading his favorite red cloak, the young man was dressed in Helldiver armor, likely so as not to distance himself from the group...
"Or, considering how much work has fallen on his head, he probably even shits and sleeps in it."
And Dicker understood him, as did the other commanders of large units, for they themselves looked no better, constantly jumping around in the same gear without a chance to rest.
"Comrades, friends... brothers." For a moment, it seemed to the investigator that the wind had stopped its race, and among the thousands of figures, others appeared—all those who had died on the battlefields of Orvax and elsewhere—now they stood alongside, listening to the final words of their commander. "We have suffered great losses. Every second brother of ours... will remain forever in the dry soil of Orvax, eternally guarding this planet from slavery and the oppression of freedom..."
Not listening to the speech, Rick drifted in his own thoughts while the world moved around him. Gradually, one by one, having finished listening to the speech, the soldiers began to walk around the columns, searching for the names of the fallen.
Then they left this somber but solemn place, slowly trudging toward the camp, heads hung or forcedly feigning high spirits.
And Rick just stood there smoking, looking at the massive burial slabs and the neat, dry lines of names that had fallen victim to a good cause. Thousands of names.
Dark thoughts drifted in the investigator's head. Dilemmas and questions arose one after another, but no matter how he viewed them from different angles, the answer was always the same. Success was worth all the blood spilled.
With every minute, Dicker convinced himself more and more that this was the way—through loss, death, and pain—that salvation could be brought.
Hundreds and thousands of victims, and this was only the first serious planet they had managed to save.
"So many deaths..."
Tossing away another cigarette butt, Rick resolutely crushed it with the toe of his boot, suppressing his final doubts.
"And for the sake of the Galactic Republic... there will be even more."
****
***
Read early on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan