March 19th, 2008 by Kyle Maxwell
“The Last Full Measure of Devotion”
The tall blue Twi’lek stared into his console intently. A waterfall display flickered in front of him as he quickly made mental calculations before answering the deck officer.
“Sir, all sensors are operating within nominal parameters. We are ‘go’.”
The bustle around him signified a warship that was clearly at general quarters, a call that had been ordered by the fleet admiral as the supply ships had finished replenishment and were returning to the orbital depots around Sullust. Colonel Kupyi Labe had been assigned as an intelligence officer to analyze Imperial starfighter assaults in the impending fight over Endor.
For just a moment, he allowed himself the small luxury of a deep breath and recollection of all that he had sacrificed for this day: his family on Coruscant with all the wealth and privilege that that had implied; his wife and son; the lives of his comrades and, indeed, nearly his own several times; even his left arm. Many of them had been far better soldiers, pilots, and leaders, but they had given their lives in the cause of galactic freedom and liberty.
Today, the Alliance intended to bring that cause to completion, striking at the very head of the Empire. Mon Mothma, Ackbar, Madine, Cracken… they had made the decision to roll the dice.
The admiral’s voice echoed from every speaker in the ship, conveying at once confidence and competence. “Proceed with the countdown. All groups, assume attack coordinates.”
Labe reviewed his equipment one more time. This was not the moment for a lack of preparation to cost them anything, as hard as they knew the Empire would fight once surprised.
“All craft, prepare to jump into hyperspace on my mark.”
As the fleet entered hyperspace a few moments later, he straightened his uniform, adjusted his seat, and poised himself lithely over the controls. All was in order, as he’d expected given his own personal inspection of the analysis software and sensor schematics. The large ship shuddered around them as they re-entered realspace, and a hush fell over the crew. Gleaming before them was a green moon, beautiful and nearly untouched.
The deck officer’s voice quickly shook them from their reverie. “All sectors, report in.” Every member of the intelligence crew crisply announced their readiness, just before Ackbar spoke once more in time-honored tradition.
“May the Force be with us.”
Labe pushed his feelings about that phrase down inside; this simply wasn’t the time. Once the Empire was defeated here, the work of truly restoring the Republic could begin. But this time there would be no need to mix in an elite religious order to the government; the beings of the Alliance military had proven their devotion to maintaining freedom everywhere without asserting special privileges. The imposition of the Jedi did not need to return, threatening the liberties of all in the Galaxy.
But this was indeed not the right time. The battle needed to be won first, and he returned his attention to his console. Alliance fighter squadrons flashed by and, deep inside, he wished he was joining them. He had served along many of those pilots, flying his Y-wing and then X-wing from Rori, but orders were orders and he was needed here.
The static on the display confused him. Hadn’t he just inspected the equipment? This was no time for system failure. The curses of his fellow officers, though, told him something more was at stake. Even before the first blasters and torpedoes had been fired, battle had been joined in the endless play of electrons and magnetic fields that had such a direct impact on every fight.
Undoubtedly, the Alliance fleet had somehow lost the element of surprise. The groundpounders assigned to destroy the shield bunker had evidently failed in their mission; Labe had seen General Solo before and was distinctly unimpressed. A fine pilot, to be sure, but his arrogance led him to take unnecessary risks and endanger his missions. That cocksure human should simply not have been entrusted with a mission of such importance. Whispered rumors spoke of some sort of relationship with the Alderaanian noble Leia Organa, and a friendship with Luke Skywalker that predated their association with the rebellion.
A few moments later, the fighters split, as General Calrissian reached the same conclusion and finally issued the requisite orders to save the fighters.
“All craft, take evasive action.” Ackbar was reacting a bit slow as well, perhaps due to the immense amount of data he no doubt had in front of him.
As Labe’s fingers fairly flew across the console controls, he began to resolve a few larger craft. Retuning the resonant frequency of the sensor crystals, he peered at his display and rapidly informed the deck officer of enemy ships in Sector 37.
The murmurs of the crew agreed with his own fears: it was a trap. Somehow, the Empire had expected them and prepared for their arrival, flanking the incoming Alliance fleet. TIE fighters streamed across his display; he’d never seen so many in his life. A three-dimensional ballet commenced, but far deadlier than those he’d seen in his youth on Coruscant. For every Rebel fighter that flickered out of existence on his display, four TIEs did as well… but the odds were worse than that. Five squadrons against TIE Interceptors seemingly without end? They’d need far more than the Force to win this battle.
An explosion far down one of the corridors startled Labe, and a nearby bulkhead automatically sealed. The officer next to him muttered a dark oath, then announced that a fighter had impacted on the cruiser.
Labe saw something just then. An incoming TIE squadron from an unexpected sector flashed onto his screen. Pursing his lips together, he sent an emergency alert to the fighter squadron leaders. The tactical display on the wall in front of them told a grim story, however. Despite their best efforts at relaying information to Fleet Command and the fighters, and the heroic efforts of the pilots around them, little true progress was being made. The battle was, in fact, being lost, and with it the hopes of the entire galaxy.
A nearby Duros officer spoke up. “Sir, I’m showing armed turbolaser batteries on the Star Destroyers, but they’re not firing.”
“No? What could they possibly be…”
As Labe glanced at a porthole and saw the green lasers forming in the dish of the Death Star, his last thought was, “we failed.”
Milliseconds later, the Liberty and all aboard, including Colonel Labe, were vaporized.
EPILOGUE
A small wreath was launched into space at the last coordinates of the Liberty. Mon Mothma bowed her head, speaking quietly.
“Twenty-five millennia ago, our fathers brought forth in this galaxy a galactic republic, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all beings are created equal.
“We have been engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that republic can return and shine its light across the galaxy. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that republic might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
“But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate… we can not consecrate… we can not hallow… this ground. The brave beings, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The galaxy will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us… that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this republic, as the Force wills, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the galaxy.”
March 19th, 2008 by Kyle Maxwell
The glare from the unblinking corridor lights was harsh and sterile, like everything else from this damned government. It reminded Joron of his brief time on an Imperial vessel many years ago, before being unceremoniously dumped on the Outer Rim… now, things had turned around.
Once praised for having testified as state’s evidence against pirates, now just a number in the Imperial penal system.
Once serving as a personal security officer for a Republic Senator, now sneered upon by sadistic guards in the deepest bowels of an asteroid prison.
He’d long since lost track of how long he’d been here, though the face that looked back at him during the morning hygiene period told him it had been far too long. Prison Base 475-10376 floated around some nameless star in some unknown arm of the galaxy—unknown to him, at any rate. Locked away for what he thought were relatively minor crimes, he had wasted these years with nothing to show for it.
There was a disturbing lack of new prisoners over the last several years, and rumors floated around that somehow the Empire had forgotten about the prison. Late at night, when the guards weren’t making their rounds, it was even whispered that perhaps it had fallen.
Joron knew better than that, though. He’d seen the idealists that had been fighting their pathetic little rebellion, even worked with them a bit—their credits spent as well as anyone’s—and he knew they didn’t have what it took to beat the Empire. Wasn’t happening.
The faded orange jumpsuits all around him matched his own, some a bit nattier than others but no one looking particularly fresh. His cell block was being escorted to the mess hall with little incident, as happened three times a day, when a scuffle broke out behind him. He’d learned not to look back or get involved, as the guards seemed to take a special interest in punishing him. Most of them were rejected stormtroopers and all seemed to have inferiority complexes, so they relished every chance they got to wield their stun batons on his hefty frame.
The sound of the brawl drew closer and the shouting grew in volume. Grim-faced guards ran past him as he did his best not to look back.
When the shiv entered his lower back, it came as little surprise. So many enemies in his time, the only real shock was that it hadn’t happened sooner. He tried to look behind him to see his slayer, but his jaw was gripped tightly and the blade cut across his throat with brutal speed.
As the world spun around him and he dropped voiceless to the ground, there was a grunt and a mumbled message.
Too bad he was dead before he could figure out who’d taken their vengeance out on him.
March 19th, 2008 by Kyle Maxwell
Part 1
Joron eased back the throttle as he approached the Tatooine station. There wasn’t much in the way of patrol or enforcement up here, but he’d had a few close calls and didn’t want to end up having to buy another new ship or worse. His comm crackled as freighter traffic, legitimate and not so much, maneuvered into the landing station.
“Station, this is *static*lmet, requesting emer*static* vector, over.”
That didn’t sound good. He leaned forward in his seat, fiddling with the gain and trying to get a better read on the broadcast.
“Negative, emergency caller, you are breaking up. Retransmit, over.”
Good, it wasn’t just him. The weary pilot kept adjusting the comm settings to possibly hear a little better… there.
“Repeat, station, this is Digital Helmet, requesting emergency landing vector. We are inbound and declaring an in-flight emergency.”
Hmm, that could be interesting, he thought quietly to himself. Mechanical problem, or something a little more exciting? Here in the Outer Rim, there was always a chance somebody would want what you had and would be willing to kill you for it, even just to check. There hadn’t been too many reports of pirate activity here of late, but you never knew…
“Digital Helmet, this is Tatooine Station. You are cleared directly into Mos Espa Starport. All other traffic, maintain present vectors until otherwise instructed.”
Joron snickered, but complied. No point in causing trouble unless there was at least some kind of reason for it. He glanced over his display screens until the stricken freighter was located. It was the only one bending orbit at the moment, so it was easy to pick out. The vector was changing raggedly, clearly indicating that the thruster controls were out, or that the thrusters themselves were sputtering. Almost without thinking, he started a tracking program to see if he could back-calculate to their source. If this was the first they’d adjusted orbit, he could check to see if their previous course intercepted a jump point or some other smaller station in the system…
…wait. Two other ships were breaking out of their current vectors, and sure enough, they stabilized on intercepts to the freighter. No business of his; he didn’t have any skin in the game.
“Contacts Besh-Four and Besh-Twelve, this is Tatooine Station. Return to your prior vectors or declare your intentions.”
No response. Starting to be even more interesting. Always something happening up here…
“Contacts Besh-Four and Besh-Twelve, this is Tatooine Station. The in-flight emergency is under the protection of His Excellency Jabba the Hutt. Do not attempt to…”
The broadcast broke off as the two contacts opened fire on the ship. Shields flared as blaster fire poured into it, and it began to attempt to dodge and weave, but whatever had caused its current emergency left it as quite a vulnerable target.
“Tatooine Station to all ships in the vicinity. Jabba will be offering his standard bounties for information or apprehension of the crews of Besh-Four and Besh-Twelve. Traffic may resume normal vectors.”
Joron quickly shook his head as he reached into the small cooler behind his seat. Hunting bounties wasn’t his gig; why go looking for a fight? Too much risk, not enough reward. However, clearly there was something on that freighter. The beeping of his navicomputer grabbed his attention and he glanced over the scrolling output. They’d come in from a jump point, no local station to investigate. Probability was that they’d jumped in from Naboo or that direction, so not much of interest there.
Tracking, though, showed the ship breaking up in the atmosphere, falling towards the desert floor kilometers below. It had managed to almost adjust its vector to Mos Espa, but… not quite. The wreckage would be west of there, maybe northwest.
He might not be a bounty hunter, but he sure wasn’t above taking advantage of someone else’s misfortune. If he could get there before Jabba’s thugs did, get whatever remained, and get out before anyone knew he was there, well then that might be a few extra credits. Joron grinned to himself, rippling the scars on his face, and throttled up. Just before requesting a landing vector, he fired off a quick encrypted message to some friends. In case he didn’t get there first, he wanted to be sure to get out of there vertically.
Part 2
“What are we doing here?”
A reasonable question, Joron supposed. He’d called a few friends to a house in Mos Espa before heading out to investigate, but evidently an Imperial squad had set up a check point nearby after he’d already arrived. No matter to him, his warrants were clear, but from the looks he was getting clearly not everyone was as comfortable as he was.
The old smuggler grinned and laid out the plan. He wanted to find that shipwreck, and though he didn’t know much more than the general direction, he figured he could find out for a price. Joron glanced at the ragtag group of smugglers and other family members once more before finally heading outside to his waiting cargo skiff.
T’aliara didn’t want to jump in for some reason; she was dead set on following in her swoop. No question, she was the moodiest of the bunch… no, that wasn’t right. She was just the most independent of all of them, frequently disappearing for months at a time and showing up later demanding to know why he hadn’t come looking for her. One of these days, he’d show her what it meant when he went looking for a Twi’lek…
He gunned the engine hard towards a small Jawa outpost just on the edges of town. Hopefully the engine roar would drown out the incessant griping of his former “significant other”. Hotari just couldn’t let go and blamed him for all the ills in her world, second-guessing his every move.
The skiff settled back down in the repulsor field as they pulled up to the small creatures. Joron and T’aliara approached, outwardly friendly but inwardly dreading the stink and the often-painful bartering. The flash of a few credits and suddenly he did know a little something, but not much. The Jawa’s boss, another stinky native named Nolar Fre’li, had talked about a new place to scavenge for parts. Joron groaned when he was informed that Nolar was back at the large Jawa fortress to the west, perhaps the single greatest concentration of flies on the whole planet.
As the cargo skiff strained up into the mountains, Joron became aware of an awful lot of suspicious glances. Evidently, Hotari’d been telling them something or other about him and they looked none too happy. All those ideas about “commitment” and “faithfulness”… right. That was going to bite him in the * for a long time.
As the skiff made its way around a sandcrawler, he peered through the dusty haze at a figure somewhat taller than the rest. Not a lot, but enough. Was that a girl? Here? What could she possibly be… oh. That’s right. She looked real familiar. He’d met her in Wayfar some time ago… wracked his brain to remember. She was not bad to look at, but so young not even this scoundrel was going to indulge.
“Hey, you! Cutie! You followin’ me?”
“No… Joron? Is that you? Clearly, you are following me, and I do not appreciate it.”
Tins. That was it. She was a nut. “Look, I’m here on business, so just stay back and let me work, okay?” As the others — K’enshin, Li, Theis — poured out of the skiff, he couldn’t help but notice the grins and pointing fingers. Once again, his reputation would be strengthened by something he wasn’t even doing. Namely, the girl.
As he kept talking to her, ignoring the catcalls, it became clear that not only was she there for the same reason he was, she’d tried and failed to get anything from the Jawas. Joron grinned down at Tins and shook his head. “Watch the master work.”
Joron strolled across the square to the area where he’d been told Nolar would be waiting. No, he didn’t have weapons to sell to them, and… no ESPECIALLY not ones Jabba didn’t know about. The Nar Shaddaa native shuddered at the thought of consequences from crossing a Hutt deep in his own territory. He’d been beat to hell once already for that and didn’t care to repeat it.
Finally, the flash of credits did the trick again, that and a magseal detector he had stashed away. Wasn’t that useful, but the little guys squealed and dove on it once he handed it over. Nolar pointed to the north and indicated some distance in their crazy little language. Joron reached up to rub the back of his neck while he converted; math was definitely not what he’d studied, growing up in those cantinas. Three kilometers, more or less. Yeah, the ship was there, but they hadn’t gone to scavenge it up yet. When Joron asked why, the crafty Jawa just giggled and shook his head. He’d just have to find out himself.
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