In one of the many offices of the Joint Command Headquarters of the Twelfth Sectoral Army, several officers gathered around a small table to discuss their next moves.
Rear Admiral Lewis Surabaya glanced at those assembled: General Jeremy Klapka, commander of the Lantilles ground forces; Captain Roy Fokker, commander of the heavy cruiser Dreadnaught *Artzainen*; Colonel Gregory El Johnson, commander of the Brave Boys regiment—5,000 strong—and his deputy, Major Elizabeth Marie-Noir. They all knew each other well from past campaigns, so the atmosphere was, as they liked to say, "no formalities."
The Lantilles armed forces differed slightly from other planetary armies, whether mercenary regiments from Trandosha and Gossam or the "parquet" army of Naboo. There was no place here for the pursuit of loot or glory, nor for lofty slogans or false ideals. The soldiers of Lantilles understood perfectly well what they were fighting for.
Located in the Mid Rim, Lantilles had risen over millennia from a mossy colony to a thriving technogenic world. Naturally, not everyone was pleased with that. Warlike neighbors—the Skakoan cartels of Metallorn, the Techno Union dealers, the Hutt syndicates, pirates and smugglers of Mitanor, Trandoshan bounty hunters, and the Trade Federation, formed three hundred and fifty years ago—all had, in one way or another, set their sights on Lantilles. Meanwhile, the natives themselves had become colonizers, settling several worlds, including Avenel—a flourishing resort planet that had become home to many wealthy citizens of Lantilles and Randon—and Uyter, an independent agricultural world whose products were distributed throughout the region.
In such conditions, Lantilles had to keep pace. It possessed an impressive fleet by regional standards—hundreds of ships, from cruisers to frigates to corvettes—and a well-equipped army composed solely of its citizens. Naturally, they were well paid, but they were not mercenaries. Each one knew that if they lost, if they yielded to persuasion, the old order would crumble. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but the alternative was far worse.
"Gentlemen, your appointment was somewhat hasty, but—"
"Ha, that's not the word, Lewis, that's not the word," Fokker muttered. "I understand this is temporary, of course, but what kind of *gzhazh im turnuk* have you subjected us to, Jedi?"
Meanwhile, Klapka listened to his subordinates.
"Hey, old man, have you lost your mind?" Elizabeth jabbed him in the shoulder. "Why are they sending us to the ass-end of Hutt space? Va aart is such a hole—somewhere on the border with the Mid Rim, if I'm not mistaken."
Marie-Noir and El Johnson, seasoned officers both, exchanged a glance. Johnson had taken part in several "misunderstandings" (read: armed conflicts) with Techno Union mercenaries, while Elizabeth bore several scars from neutralizing pirate roosts. Their opinions were not to be dismissed lightly.
Surabaya wagged a finger jokingly. "What are you thinking, criticizing your superiors…" Then, leaning on the table and steepling his fingers, he continued: "But seriously, it's necessary. The Jedi's sitting at a strategic point—managed to wrest a fuel plant from the Federates in that system—and he's holding it like an owl on a branch, regularly supplying us with fuel. According to intelligence reports, the CIS planned to invade the Core Worlds using fuel from that remote facility, and this 'general' ruined all their plans. And you know full well our reserves will last ten months at most—a year, if we stretch it—and then that's it, game over! His plant refuels half the fleet, which has grown significantly, and your ship, Roy, is now part of the Sectoral Army's supply chain. Not to mention that we get all of it completely free of charge!"
"And still—"
"Come on, Fokker. No one's sending you to chase anyone down. If the Jedi isn't a cocky idiot—and he doesn't seem like one—he won't run your 'iron' around like a mangy bantha. He'll use it to cover his planet. You can think of it as a vacation." Lewis glanced at the infantry officers. "Palm trees, sun, beach…"
"Drinks, girls—hell no!" El Johnson snapped. "I don't like this, I don't like it one bit."
"There's nothing I can do. The decision's already been approved up there." Surabaya pointed upward.
"Okay, Lewis, okay. But don't expect me to kiss up to this 'general,'" Fokker grumbled.
After the guests left the office, Surabaya leaned back in his chair with a groan. "Damn war, damn Separatists, damn Jedi… damn them all. I'm too old for all this poodoo."
The morning began… badly. I was literally torn from my sleep by a wave of calm. I woke standing on the cabin floor, my lightsaber ignited in my hand. My eyes were still closed—the dream hadn't completely faded yet. Forcing them open, I checked for immediate threats nearby. Damn, my nerves are really starting to play tricks on me. Not good. Not good at all.
I automatically began recalling yesterday. Dragged myself to the ship around midnight, with Ahsoka laughing at my drunkenly staggering carcass, then collapsed in my cabin. I'd definitely overdone it—a mix of fatigue, lack of practice, and this new body… damn taste-tester. I could already hear Snips making jokes about it.
Then the cabin filled with the unpleasant buzz of the ship's internal comm system. Approaching the console, I hit the right button. It was a call from Captain Ragnos.
"Yes, Captain?"
"General, urgent call to headquarters!"
Here we go… What could possibly be so interesting that they're calling me this early? And this damn thing too?
"What happened?" I asked.
"No idea, sir. They just said it was urgent."
"When?"
"Now, General. Now." The Zabrak smiled. "The speeder's waiting by the gangway."
Damn it…
"I'll be there in five minutes."
Reaching the bathroom, I quickly stuck my head under the tap. Good. After freshening up, I made my way through the ship's corridors toward the speeder, chewing on a nutrition bar and washing it down with some local headache remedy I'd found in the first aid kit.
Something about these 'visions' bothers me. No, it's not a bad thing—it's like seeing the future—and my so-called 'knowledge' could easily be attributed to that. But, damn it, does my head have to split in two every time it happens? Nox said it was a side effect of the battle meld: to fuse your will with your soldiers and help defeat the enemy.
After making myself at least somewhat presentable, I felt a bit more human, my thoughts finally clearing. A little fresh air, and I'd be back to normal.
As I exited the ship, a four-seater speeder of unfamiliar make was waiting, driven by a clone trooper from the local garrison. The Zabrak had already taken his seat in this "taxi."
The clone saluted. "General, I have orders to take you to headquarters!"
"What happened?"
"I don't know, sir. But everyone at headquarters is moving fast, sir."
I didn't understand… what is he talking about.