Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Merely standing in the same compartment as the Countess Clysm made Ciena feel small, like there was some invisible force preventing her from looking straight at the Fleet Admiral. There was an insanity in the Countess’ eyes, a muted, contained horror that existed there behind grey irises that made you feel, without quite knowing why, that looking too long would cost you something.

“I want all of you to participate in an exercise,” the Countess’ voice was sleek, polished, and so unnaturally flat, “Assume Planet X. A temperate continental world, orbited by two natural satellites.”

Ciena felt even smaller by standing next to the large holoprojector table in the centre of an even larger room. Everything on the Independence was huge, as if everything down to the bolts in the bulkheads were upscaled from a smaller battleship. The crimson face of ARENA-8600 pulsed, and a three-dimensional grid bloomed outward from the emitter, filling the compartment's upper half with blue-lit space. An orb resolved itself in the grid's centre, its surface painted with seas and mountain ranges in fine enough detail that Ciena could make out coastlines. Two smaller satellites blinked into existence on flanking orbits.

A continental world with two moons.

STAR STATION INDEPENDENCE

Ciena frowned. A distant familiarity nagged at the edge of her mind. She could have sworn she had seen this scenario play out before somewhere, or something close to it. Was it the Emancipation of Eriadu? That was one of the most exhaustively studied engagements of the War of Independence. But artillery ships hadn’t yet been deployed at that time… and Eriadu only had one moon.

She glanced up from the table, wondering if anybody else felt the same. Twelve junior officers surrounded ARENA, though the massive thing had the circumference for thrice that that. On the far side, Cilghal stood with her eyes pressed shut, a line of concentration carved between her brow ridges, as the Countess' steady footfalls circled past her back. Beside Cilghal, a white-haired Bothan with three rank slices was worrying the fur of his chin between his fingers. Next to him, a navy-blue Twi'lek turned one of her lekku over in her hand, a gesture Ciena had come to recognize as deep thought. And there, immediately to Ciena's right, her batchmate Berisse Sai, whose eyes had gone sharp and still with a recognition that Ciena herself hadn't quite landed on yet.

“Assume Planet X to be one of your most important planets,” Countess Clysm continued as she circled the compartment, “It is a fortress world on a strategic spacelane, as well as a major tradeworld and a cultural and historical capital of your nation. The Enemy had attempted to take Planet X once before, and has returned to try again.”

Hundreds of glaring red pins sprang onto the projection at the hyperlane egress, all pointing directly at Planet X. Hundreds more blue pins appeared to answer them in equal numbers. Even more holoprojectors peered down from above, slaved to the ARENA, painting labelled each and every pin. Battleships, carriers, cruisers, battlestations and orbital fortresses.

“This time, however–” a pulsating red pin appeared, along with the blinking label: !ARTILLERY SHIP! “–the Enemy has introduced their latest artillery vessel to the AO. With two shots from the platform, Planet X’s planetary shields are overloaded and blown out of commission.”

Two pinpricks of light sailed clean through the assembled blue formation without so much as slowing and struck the projected planet. Its blue-scanned surface fizzled, the image distorting in rolling waves, and for a moment it looked as if the connection was unstable.

“You, as the commanding officer of the AO, are faced with a decision,” Countess Clysm’s steady footfalls stopped abruptly, and the room plunged into chilly silence, as if somebody had seized a metronome by its needle, “Do you surrender to the Enemy? Or continue the fight?”

The consoles and control panels beneath their hands chimed, and its lights flickered to green.

“Surrendering is the most moral choice,” Cilghal’s hand moved across her console, and all the blue pins began a slow collective blink, “As the commanding officer, we have a responsibility to not only our own soldiers, but to the citizens of this world. All it would take is another shot from the artillery ship to create an extinction-level event.”

“I agree with Sub-lieutenant Ackbar,” the Bothan cut in before the echo of Cilghal's last word had died, “but morality has nothing to do with it. The tactically sound choice is to surrender–at the same time seeding resistance and insurrectionist infrastructure planetside. Let the Enemy take Planet X on paper, and let Planet X become a poisonous salar. We can always retake a world. We can’t retake a tomb.”

“That is assuming the Enemy would fire upon Planet X again, sir,” Berisse pointed out, “According to the scenario, Planet X is not only militarily strategic, but economically and culturally strategic. An occupying force doesn’t profit from a ruin. They would not dare–”

“You don’t know that, Midshipman Sai!” the Bothan tapped a clawed finger against ARENA’s edge, “We do not know the ends of the Enemy; they could be…”

He stopped, and swallowed thickly. The words simply ceased, swallowed by a sudden awareness of his peripheral vision. Countess Clysm was standing directly behind him. He couldn't have seen her without turning his head, but it wasn’t possible to mistake her presence.

“Continue, Sub-lieutenant Kre'fey,” the Countess said pleasantly.

“...For all we know,” Sub-lieutenant Traest Kre’fey said, his voice recovering its tenor, “Planet X is not a world they want to take. It is also a cultural capital of our hypothetical state. The destruction of Planet X could deal a great blow to our morale, while strengthening their own. Surrendering first would deprive them of that opportunity. For the last two decades on the Firmament Frontline, there has been no precedent for an artillery ship firing upon a surrendering target.”

Ciena was nodding before she realised it. The introduction of artillery ships had fundamentally rewritten siege warfare; it was no longer a matter of who had more firepower, but a matter of who understood the other's intentions well enough to act on them. An artillery ship could blow out planetary shields with two shots–one to strip the shields themselves, and the second to destroy the shield generator beneath. All artillery ships are built with twin cannons for that reason.

A third and fourth shot? That was reserved for complete and total planetary annihilation. As Cilghar had mentioned, an extinction-level event.

And thus, sieges had evolved to become a mind game. The very mind game Countess Clysm was having them participate in now. It was a game of ‘will they, won’t they?’ Will the defender surrender? Will the attacker pull the trigger? Which was in the best interest of either?

If the attacker entered the AO with every intention to render the world uninhabitable, then it was in the defender’s best interest to surrender immediately. But if the attacker’s intention was to actually capture the world, then the defender is much better off fighting for every inch of land, confident in the fact that the attacker wouldn’t pull the trigger.

It was, at the very core, a game of bluff. And all games of bluff revolve around knowing the cards in your opponent’s hand.

“Admiral Trilm,” Ciena gathered her confidence and looked at Countess Clysm.

Countess Clysm looked back. At once, she was pulled towards those bottomless grey eyes, like staring into the infiniteness of an endless thunderstorm. Ciena saw the maelstrom contained in an iris, and a pupil of black diamond. A prism bordered by lightning, and the madness caged therein.

Nobody truly knew who the Countess was, and all those who did were either of rank beyond their reach, or unwilling to disclose what they knew. For junior officers like Ciena, all they knew was her name, Calli Trilm, and that she was, apparently, the Supreme Commander’s closest advisor aboard the Independence. Everything else about her had been completely erased from Confederate records. There was no classified data, no confidential documents–there was simply nothing.

No origin, no history; Countess Clysm didn’t exist less than ten years ago.

Ciena Ree didn’t care about all that, “–Might I ask who exactly is the Enemy?”

All she cared about was staying on the Countess’ good side. The fact that she was holding this exercise–and that Ciena was participating in it–was a favourable indication of a quick trek through the ranks. That the wargame was based on such a scenario; could the higher-ups be considering Ciena for a career in command, like she always hoped for?

Ciena continued, “Are they the Loyalists, Alliance, or maybe the Federation?”

Each of the Three Republics differed in siege doctrine. Finding out which enemy they were facing could go a long way with finding out which cards they were holding.

It was a good question, and Ciena knew it. There were nods around the table, and the Bothan was muttering something along the lines of ‘why didn’t I think of that?’ to himself.

Countess Clysm smiled, and it was a soft, manic thing, “What if they are Confederate forces?”

It was like someone punched her in the stomach.

“Uh–then,” Ciena tried to gather her thoughts, “what is the species of the Enemy commander?”

Unlike the Three Republics, the Confederacy had no single enforced siege doctrine. The Armed Forces of the Confederacy of Independent Systems held an… well, independent streak. The Firmament Frontline stretched over a hundred-thousand light-years, and the countless admirals and generals conducting their own little wars across the galaxy feel little to no obligation to follow any central doctrine.

Or rather, a Harch general would obey Harch doctrine, just as a Mon Cala admiral would obey Mon Cala doctrine.

A Human of the Core you could always trust to follow Human doctrine and Human morality in war. An alien of the Outer Rim? A Human of the Outer Rim?

The First ‘Tingel’ Fleet practices audacity on a daily basis, and the Second ‘Indrexu’ Fleet is all about honour and glory. The Third ‘Ettarue’ conducts itself with stringent rules of engagement. Of all the Fleet Groups, the Third Fleet holds itself to the standard of ‘clean’ warfare the highest.

The Fourth ‘South’ Fleet Group, on the other hand… there was a reason the Borderstar War against the Tapani Federation was so long and brutal. In fact, Ciena thought, could the scenario be based on the Battle of Noe’ha’on?

Seven years ago, the Fourth Fleet embarked on a massive colonisation drive into the Western Reaches as part of the Fourth Expansion. The core of the Fourth Fleet departed via the Great Gran Run; from Kinyen, towards Noe’ha’on, and from there, Takodana, Chalcedon, Cerea, and Endor. It was to be the greatest colonisation effort in the Outer Rim since the Third Expansion brought the Tingel Arm, and Ciena’s home Jelucan, into the Confederacy.

Until Jedi General Esterhazy of the Tapani Federation crossed the uncharted regions of the Freestanding Subsectors with five-thousand warships of the Freeworlds Common Navy and smashed into the Confederate Fourth Fleet’s supply line along the Great Gran Run.

Nobody could have expected it. Sailing such a massive fleet through the Unknown Regions–even if it was only the border marches–without any known hyperlanes was practically unheard of. With the Fourth Fleet deep in the Western Reaches, the fall of Noe’ha’on could potentially strand General Horn Ambigene in the west, from which he would be easy pickings for Federation forces.

The Battle of Noe’ha’on had basically been a race. A race between General Ambigene rushing back to Noe’ha’on, and the collective will of everybody in the Common Navy who had their fingers curled around the trigger.

“That,” Admiral Trilm’s voice struck Ciena out of her deliberation, “is unfortunately unknown.”

But the Battle of Noe’ha’on had the Federation on the attacking side. So that can’t possibly be it. In the end, the Borderstar War earned its name by being waged primarily in the wild marches of known space. Separatist and Federation forces raced to colonise system after system like a frenetic game of saigok, fighting over the skies of uncivilised and unaligned worlds.

The Borderstar War lasted four years. In the end, the Confederacy never got to fully colonise the Western Reaches.

Ciena frowned, placing her palms on her console and leaning over them. For us to be defending against the Confederacy… what is it for?

“It doesn’t matter,” the blue Twi’lek suddenly declared, “The enemy, the foe, it all doesn’t matter.”

“Lieutenant Bateen?” the Countess prompted curiously.

“We should never surrender,” Lieutenant Kaasha Bateen said so forcefully Ciena had half a mind to believe her out of spirit alone, “Planet X is a fortress world, economic hub, and a cultural treasure, simultaneously? Such a world should never fall into Enemy hands, no matter the cost. If the Enemy destroys it, they radicalise every soldier we have left. And if they attempt an invasion, then our oathsworn duty is to fight for every inch of ground until there is no ground left. This is our world.”

“That is certainly,” Countess Clysm’s smile was infuriatingly blank, “a choice to be made. Are you prepared to shoulder, then, the lives of billions living on that planet?”

“With all due respect, sir,” Lieutenant Bateen met her gaze with more conviction than Ciena might ever muster, “I have been prepared to shoulder that responsibility the moment I wore the Separatist Hex. That is the responsibility of every officer in command.”

“Very well. Is there anybody who would like to refute Lieutenant Bateen’s assessment of the situation?”

Ciena clenched her hands around the edges of the control panel in frustration. That’s right! I should have thought of that! There wasn’t any game, any stratagem, to be played. A siege boils down to one single question: can we afford losing this world, and the enemy taking it?

And the Outer Rim had sworn to never kneel again. On their honour, it was the duty of every Confederate officer to uphold that oath. She found that resolve within herself, and grabbed it with both hands.

“No sir,” Berisse said, to a round of agreement, “Lieutenant Bateen’s decision is the best tactical choice, and only moral choice. If this was a Confederate world, every upstanding Separatist citizen would find death to be infinitely more preferable than submitting to the yoke of the Core once more.”

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The Countess hummed lowly, “But in this scenario, the enemy is the Confederacy.”

“Then we must put ourselves in the defender’s shoes,” Ciena stepped up to support her friend, “And I believe their answer would be the same as ours.”

Berisse caught her eye with a grateful look, but Ciena could only meet Cilghal’s worried frown. Ciena understood that frown. Cilghal's instinct–to surrender, to preserve civilian life, to count the cost in bodies before any other currency–came from a real and not ignoble place. She wasn't wrong to think so. But allowing the enemy to take such a critical world would only cost more lives down the line. As an officer of the Confederacy, one must be ready to make the right decision for the Confederacy, no matter the difficulty, or pressure.

For her own sake, Ciena thought, I hope that transfer to the Medical Corps comes through.

“I have taken note of your opinions,” Admiral Trilm pointed a handheld remote, and the projectors overhead shifted, “Now, let us give Planet X its proper name.

PLANET X winked off the projection. CHANDRILA replaced it. The ‘Confederate’ fleet also received new labels: GALACTIC REPUBLIC–AZURE HAMMER FLEET.

“This was the exact quandary the Restorationist Republic faced,” Countess Clysm resumed her orbit of the room unhurried, “when Loyalist forces deployed the Onager-class artillery ship to the Chandrila Star System for the first time. It was, in fact, the first known active combat deployment of the Onager-class artillery ship–a fact that soon became overshadowed by what came next. Today, you have the benefit of hindsight, of precedent. Back then, staring down the barrel of annihilation, we could only wonder what Chancellor Mon Mothma was thinking–and what drove her to make the decision she did.”

Chandrila. Fortress world. Tradeworld. Capital world of the Alliance to Restore the Republic.

Kaasha Bateen and Berisse Sai definitely recognised it from the outset, which is why they were so confident in their choice. Ciena resolved herself to study more, until she was at their level.

Mon Mothma, Chancellor of the Alliance, was planetside when the Second War for Chandrila began. The Loyalists cracked her homeworld’s shields open like an egg, and threatened to open fire if she did not surrender.

Mon Mothma’s decision went down in galactic history. She stared down the barrel of annihilation, and the barrel of annihilation flinched first.

Death before Dishonour.

“What ensued was the invasion of Chandrila,” Countess Clysm toggled her remote again, and the projection played out the course of events. The months-long battle in orbit, and descent of landing ships, the fiery scrawl of shifting frontlines, “What we know as the Second War for Chandrila. Loyalist forces eventually captured Chandrila, after six-hundred and fourty-four days of surface combat, and the toll of half a billion lives. A planetary invasion of such length and scale has yet to be seen again.”

“Did,” the Countess stopped pacing, and swept a cold look over the gathered officers, “Mon Mothma made the right decision?”

“Speaking objectively, she did,” Sub-lieutenant Kre’fey’s fur rippled, “Those six-hundred and fourty-four days bled Loyalist strength in the Northern Core dry. The possibility of a further invasion of the Arrowhead died at Chandrila. Furthermore, she was able to relocate all Alliance government functions off-world in that time, while galvanizing every Restorationist citizen in the galaxy against Coruscant.”

The Countess nodded once. She moved to an open position at the table and navigated the console with practiced ease. The projection pulled back, away from the planet, away from the system's inner orbits, out to the empty distances where the star itself was a small bright point surrounded by seven orbiting bodies.

“Planetary invasions of that scale are rare now,” she explained, “After the Third Fleet's strategy proved effective in the Shipwrights' War, HQ has adopted their defense doctrine CAF-wide. According to Theatre General Atticus Farstar, the ideal siege defense takes place not at the planetary-scale, but at the system-scale.”

“Interdiction gates,” Cilghal offered.

“Interdiction gates,” Admiral Trilm agreed, “All fortress systems are required to possess a minimum of ten interdiction gates active at all times, while all designated trade systems are required to possess at least five gates that can be activated at any time. These precautions have increased transit times across major hyperlanes by a factor of five. But the effect is to relocate any engagement well beyond the collateral zone of the target planet.”

Twenty-eight apparently empty zones in the Chandrila System projection glowed green. Those were libration points; positions in-system where the gravitic pull of two opposing bodies effectively cancelled each other out, where a satellite or station could be anchored with minimal energy consumption.

And it was at those libration points–twenty-eight new pins blinked into existence–where interdiction gates were towed into place. The strategy was simple: force the attacker to extract from hyperspace as far as possible from their target, allowing the defender to intercept them before their artillery ship could be brought to bear and calculate a firing solution. The side-effect was that all affected spacelanes were now effectively chopped up, with civilian vessels forced to extract at the termination shock and cross each affected system at sublight, before inserting again once clear of the gates.

“Now then,” Countess Clysm was smiling again, but it was a sad thing, as if she laments even considering the possibility, “Put yourself on the other side of the table. You now are the attacker. The system is fully interdicted. How do you bring your forces into range before the defense intercepts you?"

HSSKASSI STAR SYSTEM

“What was that all about?” Berisse groaned, knitting her fingers together behind her head as the door slid behind them.

Their bunk received them the way it always did, with the low background hum in the walls, the familiar layout of four beds and four lockers, and the particular quality of recycled, too-clean air that Ciena had stopped noticing sometime around her third week aboard. She kicked off her boots, dropped onto her bunk, and stared at the ceiling. The exercise had left her something uncomfortable; not quite doubt, but nothing close to certainty either.

“Wargame,” she said. “That's all it was.”

They were common enough occurrences for those in the command track. Some were official conducts, most of them were friendly matches between junior officers.

“Wargames don't usually get run by the Supreme Commander's personal advisor,” Berisse said, dropping into her chair and spinning it once, “With no warning. On a weekend.”

Ciena said nothing to that. She'd been thinking the same thing since the moment Planet X had been revealed to be Chandrila. She glanced across the room at Cilghal, who was sitting on her own bunk with her webbed hands clasped in her lap, eyes lowered, in the posture of someone carefully not contributing to a conversation.

Ciena watched her for a moment.

“What do you think, Cil?”

The Mon Cala looked up at her with something that verged on irritation–Ciena had since learned to read aliens too–but quickly morphed into one more alike pensiveness.

“What… what you said in there,” one of Cilghal’s bulbous eyes swivelled onto Berisse, while the other remained fixed on Ciena, “Did you mean it? Both of you?”

Berisse turned her chair back around, “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’m not questioning your conviction,” her voice was even. Measured, more like, carefully picked and intoned, “I’m asking whether you genuinely believe it, that death is preferable to surrender. For… for every civilian on that planet. Billions of people who never wore the Hex, never wore any oath, never asked to be part of any siege.”

“That’s not what I said,” Berisse’s voice was equally even, and Ciena recognised it to be the tone she took on when speaking with a superior. Cilghal was their superior, but she was their friend first, “I said every Separatist citizen would choose death. And I believe that. Because I am one, and I would.”

Cilghal was silent for a moment, before turning to Ciena, “And you?”

Ciena sat up, elbows on her knees. She thought about it, genuinely thought about it, the way the exercise forced her to. She put herself in the shoes of the attacker and the defender, browsed through the library in her mind, of every engagement she studied and analysed before.

“You can’t expect Outer Rimmers and Core Worlders to coexist. It’s not just an astrographical border, but a societal one as well,” she said, tugging her curls loose. “This very star system was at war ten years ago, over something as stupid as whether it was called the Kashyyyk System or the Hsskassi System. The Umbarans are at war right now. Half of them believe they are Worlders, the other half think they are Rimmers. And they have been tearing each other apart for–for what was it, two-hundred days and counting? And they’ve dragged half the galaxy into their furball.”

“That's a very absolute position,” Cilghal said quietly.

“It’s an honest one,” Ciena met her eyes–the wide, dark, expressive eyes of a face she'd had to learn to read and now found she could, “Yeah, the borders remain open enough, and you can shake hands with a Corellian over a drink on the Wheel, but when there's an invasion force over your home… Worlders fear what Rimmers represent. We still remember what the Worlders have done. I don’t enjoy it, Cil. I'm not saying it should be that way. I'm saying it is.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Berisse leaned back in her chair, apparently satisfied. Cilghal was still looking at Ciena with that same careful expression, and then she said, so casually and so nonchalantly that it almost sounded like a question about what to each for lunch.

“What if it were Rimmers on both sides?”

So she’s known this entire time. Ciena looked at her. Cilghal had walked into that exercise already knowing what it was about. She'd stood across the holoprojector table with the answer already in her pocket and said nothing, and the exercise had run its course, and the Countess had done whatever she was there to do, and now here they were.

The words left her mouth before her mind caught up, “The Fifth Expansion?”

Berisse's chair stopped spinning. “I'm sorry?”

“The next great Expansion. The next Anti-Slavery Crusade,” Ciena kept her eyes on Cilghal as she said it, “It’s going to be Hutt Space, isn’t it? Am I right?”

Berisse stared at her. Then at Cilghal. Then back at Ciena. “You're serious. We’re really going after the slugs? I thought the National Expansions ended with the Borderstar War.”

Cilghal closed her eyes, held them shut for a moment, and exhaled in a long, resigned breath.

“The exercise wasn't a wargame,” she said. “It was an assessment. The Countess was identifying which junior officers aboard the Independence should be posted for deployment in the Fifth Expansion.” She opened her eyes. “I shouldn't know that. I want that noted. It's still in the planning stages, and nothing’s been announced.”

Berisse let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh–something between awe and incredulity–and pressed her palms flat on her thighs like she needed to hold onto something solid. Ciena sat very still on the bunk.

They were finally going to wipe out those repugnant worms from the face of the Outer Rim. She already knew this campaign wasn’t going to be like the others. The First through Fourth Expansions were colonisation drives into unclaimed and disparately unaligned microstates in the galactic frontier. The Borderstar War only happened because the Federation took offense to that.

But this Fifth Expansion? The Hutt Clans weren’t some unorganised, defenseless cabal of warlords, not since the Confederacy pried away their western vassals in the Second Expansion. They had their own government, decentralised as it was, and their own military, reliant on mercenaries as they were.

This was going to be a war. A real war.

Ciena could only think: I… I… I can’t wait!

Excitement bubbled up in her lungs until it burned, until it hurt to breathe.

She had been ten years old when the Fourth Expansion began–old enough to understand that something vast and consequential was happening somewhere beyond the edge of her world's sky. She remembered the way the adults on Jelucan had talked about it, in the particular hushed-and-electric tone that people used for things they couldn’t quite comprehend. The colonization drives. The new systems, the new routes, the reshaping of the Confederacy's reach across the Outer Rim. The war that came with it, savage and prolonged.

And the names that had come out of it; officers who had gone in as unknowns and emerged as heroes the galaxy would never forget.

She thought about Jelucan; her poor and tiny, recently incorporated speck of a homeworld, still finding its place in the Confederacy. She thought about what it would mean to bring something home that wasn't just a career or a commission, but a name. A record. Proof that an impoverished first-waver girl from the valleys could carry her world's name somewhere worth carrying it.

A smile was working at the corner of her mouth before she could stop it. She didn't try.

Finally, I have a chance to catch up to Thane!

“I’m going,” she announced, unprompted. “I’m going to be deployed, even if I have to beg the Countess for it.”

Berisse laughed, “Only you, Ree.”

“Aren’t you?”

“For you? Anywhere.” She glanced at Cilghal, “What about you, Cil? Or has the Medical Corps transfer finally come through?”

The shift in the Mon Cala’s expression was small and arrived very quickly, “The transfer was denied.”

Ciena frowned, “Denied? On what grounds?”

Cilghal was quiet for a moment, the kind that meant she was choosing between several answers– “My last medical evaluation turned something up. Elevated midi-chlorian levels.”

“...Well, but you’ve always known that, right?”

She looked frustrated, “That’s why I requested for the transfer in the first place. They said it was all but confirmed. I don’t know what changed exactly, but I’m willing to bet my plate it has to do with the upcoming campaign.”

Ciena believed in the Force, the energy that allowed people to become one with the universe. She might have even once dreamed of being such a thing called a Jedi Knight. The amazing tales the elders told of valiant heroes with lightsabers, who could bend minds, levitate objects. Powers that could move mountains and split seas.

She was content enough with believing it exists, giving lip-service to it, because her parents did, and their parents before them. But the Force had to be real, because it had been right in front of her since the day she boarded the Independence.

She once saw Cilghal convince–for she had no better verb for it–a broken leg to fix itself. There was a Mirialan regular on the leisure deck who has, apparently, has never ever lost a game of pazaak, or any other game of chance for that matter. There was this Trandoshan at the arcade who had made it his life’s mission to top the leaderboards of every machine on the floor–and then do the same in every flight and gunnery simulator aboard the station. And there were honest to Force Jedi Masters roaming the ship, in their long robed armours, full of stories from the old war.

The Force existed. It was everywhere. There were tests for it. There were classes and courses to master it.

“They made me do a cognitive test,” Cilghal leaned down and clasped her webbed hands together, “Apparently I have potential for… something about prediction. So I'm going to be transferred to astrogation. It’s got to be something important, because I know I’m not the only one.”

“It has to be something important,” Berisse said, with conviction Ciena was grateful for, because she was still finding her way to the right words and her friend had always been faster at that, “Don’t you think it has to do with the wargame?”

“I don’t want to be deployed to Hutt Space, though!” Cilghal looked at them desperately, “I… you girls wouldn’t get it. You were born after the Civil War. I– I was there when the Confederacy invaded my home. My dad was killed in the Quarren uprising; my uncle Gial hid me and my sister when the… when Admiral Merai arrived with his warfleet. He told us it would all be over soon.”

She was trying to hide her face with her hands now, but her barbels were quivering. Ciena moved across the room and sat beside Cilghal on the bed without saying anything. After a moment, Cilghal's shoulder settled against hers, and the two of them sat like that while the station hummed around them, indifferent and vast.

“The seas of Coral City were red with blood,” she whispered, “the way the bodies floated in the sky. The ocean feasted for days. Wild keelkanas, the krakanas and ilikiths tore apart the flesh, and swarms of mandelfish devoured the scraps. We hid for days, trapped in this little shark cage in the middle of hell.”

Ciena couldn’t say anything, didn’t know even what to say. What could she–anybody–say? Kay would know what to say, that moody Pantoran was much closer to Cilghal than they were. But Kay was gone. Has been for weeks. Her bunk was empty, as were her locker and desk, reserved for an incoming cadet who went by Leonia Ambigene. Thane had gone with her, with their starfighter squadron, to the Firmament Frontline. Where they would be made heroes…

Cilghal suddenly sat up, wiping at her face, and looked at the both of them with such severity and seriousness they couldn’t help but sit ramrod straight too.

“Listen to me, Ciena, Berisse, please,” Sub-lieutenant Cilghal Ackbar said, “My uncle Gial never came back. I don’t know what happened to him. He was Captain of the Royal Guard. If he wasn’t killed in the fighting, his survival wasn’t an option the moment Merai won. Do you think I want to be here? My sister and I are the last Ackbars left. Somebody has to restore our clan's lost honour. If it wasn’t me, it would have been her.”

She swallowed thickly.

“Everybody wants to go to war, right up until the moment you’re there.”

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