Garqi's Open Terrain

In the courtyard of the stockade, two teenage boys at the cusp of manhood, were locked in a struggle. A crowd and other youths looked on with rapt attention as they fought.

The fighters separated and one swung his stun saber at the other, narrowly missing his head. The other countered, but the blow glancing off a shoulder poltroon as he dodged.

“Keep your guard up!” A seasoned Alor'ad, (elder), barked, looking on at the young men sparing. The Elder's face was disfigured with one good eye. His other eye was milky white and set in a brow deformed by a horrific head injury. “Iago, Strike higher! Igor, keep your arms in tight! They are sticking out out like Mynock wings!”

In the ring of spectators, several children were playing a game of hide and seek, where they would attempt to detect the others playing the game and “tag” each other, while at the same time seeking a talisman with a leather loop. Those that were tagged would have to leave the crowd and make a chalk tally mark “l” on a wall. The Talisman was to be secretly placed in the pocket of bystanders, and then found and removed without detection by other players, who would then attempt to hide the talisman on another bystander. Each time they found the talisman and re-hid it, they could put a line through a tally mark and turn it into “+”. It was a game of stealth and finesse, to teach the youngsters how to pickpocket, hide in a crowd, and sneak up on a target, all while in plain view. Being caught by a bystander with the talisman required adding a diagonal, “/”.

A group of four Alor'ad, gathered behind the battle scarred veteran supervising the stun saber match.

“I always ask, is it good to set vod, brothers, against each other for their final training bouts, Nestrok?” One old woman spoke.

“There is no other way for them to learn each other's true nature. To be able to rely on each other in combat, they must be brothers in combat, Brunna” Nestrok's voice was calm.

“This ba'jur is how we prepare them to follow Tal'galaar Resol'nare, their duties to the Aliit.” Wotan added, with his arms crossed as if not enjoying the repeated conversation that Brunna seemed to raise when family faced off in the Stockade. “Griffir and his, they train them well.”

“Tal'vod by birth, only become kad'vod, Saber-brothers, through tracinya.” Methuuzla, a wizened matron intoned in her thick Mando'ad accent, “Aliit ori'shya tal'din. This is the way.”
“This is the way.” The others repeated, nodding.

“Ori'jate! Very good Iago!” The battle master crowed.

The elders' attention was turned back to the combat.
One of the brothers, Iago, had managed to bind his stun saber with his opponent, Igor, and then disarm his brother. Iago confidently held the captured saber high and turned to look to Griffir, the battle master.

Griffir's face changed to stone. “The combat is not over, Iago.”

Suddenly Igor slammed into Iago. Igor had seized upon Iago's distraction to close the distance and tackle his brother, with a yell, sweeping his legs and executing a take-down. Igor transitioned into a mount and began striking. Iago flailed, unwilling to let go of the stun sabers. Igor was soon able to isolate one of Iago's arms in a lock and force a submission.

“Jate! The combat is complete. Victory is Igor's.” Giffir motioned his gloved hand towards Igor.
Igor climbed up off of Iago and extended his hand to help his brother up. Iago angrily refused the hand, and climbed up himself, tossing Igor's stun saber on the ground.

“That wasn't fair!” Iago fumed. He rubbed his sore arm and turned to Griffir. “I won! I took Igor's saber, I defeated him!”
“You only took his weapon. You did not finish the combat.” The grizzled veteran did not have time for the arguing brothers. “The time for speaking is over. You are dismissed. Clear the floor.” Griffir turned to the other youths waiting for their matches. “NEXT!”

Shonar was silent for a moment as his sister consumed the steaming refreshment. His thoughts dwelled on his training session, which had consumed the entire morning and the first half of the afternoon. The days until he deployed off of his lifelong homeworld in the service of Solyec Ke'gyce were fast approaching. He was eager to prove his worth and to repay the Imperials. It was exciting to finally put all his training to use in actual combat that meant something. But there were things he would miss ...

=Meshurok=
"Galar (pour, as in of ale) for your thoughts, ner'vod?" Iviin'yc said into the silence, smirking at his distraction. "How was training today?"

... And one of those things was the girl standing right in front of him. "It was hard." He said, matter of factly, not as if this were a bad thing. "The Alor'ade have not been testing us against each other quite as often this week, nor are we focused on strategy or weapons. Our primary focus is learning how to use all of our new besbe (kit), and how to comply with Imperial regulations and command structures." He slapped his durasteel breastplate. "Like this. That's why I have to wear this around the clock, so that I get used to it." He grinned. "You know the best part? It makes me feel more like a Mandalorian, and more connected to our past, and to our cuyan'nari." His armor had been upgraded with a high-tech vacuum-rated lining, but the outer shell was of traditional Mandalorian design.

=Meshurok=
She raised an eyebrow slightly and tilted her head. "Wearing armor is part of the the Resol'nare, after all."

If his sister speaking favorably of the Old Ways alarmed him, Shonar didn't show it. Clearly, he was used to such comments. He took a sip from his cup, and motioned for her to follow him back toward the center of the town, his buy'ce clanking as it slapped against his thigh. "Today's workout was repelling. And I don't just mean doing it like some adiik (child). They wanted us to do it in squads, covering each other, and synchronizing our descent based upon commands from our designated squad leader."

The warrior wiped his brow, and some grime came off. "Tomorrow I think we get to do it again, with simulated zero-gee added in."

=Meshurok=
The teenage girl was captivated now, and her eyes shone, imagining herself performing the same exercises with her peer group. "I can't wait until it's my turn. Don't tell the Alor'ade I said so, but our lessons have been boring for weeks now."

Griffir passed through the halls of the administration building antechamber into the Elder Room.
“I don't think we should delay...” He stopped speaking when he saw the chamber was empty but for Brunna. “Where is Nestrok?”
“He is practicing the dark walk.” Brenna motioned towards the shadows.
Griffir scanned the room.
Nestrok emerged from the shadows, on the blind side of Griffir's lost eye. “While you were busy at the stockade. Ba'buir Methuusla entered the forge room...” Nestrok's voice trailed off.
“She often goes there. So what?” Griffir was impatient.
“She has been there with Wotan.” Brunna answered. "I think she means to raise a sixth alor'ad, elder."
“How can we be sure?" Griffir asked, furrowing his brow.
"My sources indicate this is so." Nestrok responded. He had access to the security feeds across the colony, as well as informants.
"Besides" Brunna shrugged, “Wotan put the armorer medallion in my pocket.” Brunna held up one of the medallions used by the children in their stalking games. “and used the chalk on the wall to spell out 'forge,' after he let me catch him.” 
“That... old man.” Nestrok laughed.
“Freye will be there, and perhaps with Rango.” Brunna offered. “I think she has been teaching them the old ways.”

“Old ways, always the old ways! Where were the old ways when we were dying of starvation!?” Griffir's outburst was sympathetically shared by the other two. “The empire saved us, and we owe the debt. The new ways are what has allowed us to prosper and regain our strength. Our future is with the Empire; let the old ways die.” Griffir finished his speech.

The Empire had been good to them. Long ago, after the Catastrophe, the Imperials intervened with supplies, medical care, shelters and other relief. The colony in all probability would have perished. Though he was young himself, when it happened, he could recall to some degree their dire predicament all those years ago. The empire asked for so little in return: only military service. Griffir himself had proudly fought for the empire, and his son, the Ori'alor, Tohbruk Romm'el, now led the BloodHawk Legion, the “Night Walkers” abroad in battle. The Empire respected the clan's military training and achievements, but insisted on providing a modern education, that ultimately displaced the traditional Mandalorian stories and “old ways” of the clan. Griffir, like anyone his age, knew of the old ways, but he was never aware of how songs or stories could fight and win wars.  Only trained soldiers did that.  

Around him, Griffir knew that Nestrok, and Brunna felt the same. They were older than him, but likewise recognized that the advances in technology, agriculture, and trade ensured the clan's survival and, what was more, ensured the clan's slow but steady course towards prosperity. Each year brought incremental increases in harvests, and the empire graciously bought everything the colony produced, while still providing everything the colony needed. While the Ori'alor was away on campaign, the elder counsel ruled in his stead, hoping to guide the clan further along the path towards prosperity.

“We should go to the forge.” Nestrok took the lead, and they left the elder room to head into the basement of the administration building.

Methuuzla looked up from the flames, handing her pair of gloves to Freya. (“I called the Alor'ade here, to announce my successor.”) Her mando'a was elegant and perfect from a life well spoken. It was also free of pleasantries and small talk. (“Let us begin.”)

“So abrupt.” Nestrok responded in basic: “I wonder what the empire would say about the inefficiencies of this forge.” Nestrok intimated that forging was perhaps, not an essential craft anymore. Nearly all of their tools and weapons came from the empire; what use was the forge or an armorer?
(“It is the way. I do not need the Empire's permission to practice my craft.”) The old woman retorted motioning to her tools on the wall.

“It is her right under our union with the empire, to speak the old ways and select her successor, though to all others it is forbidden.” Nestrok could probably quote the exact language from the imperial charter.
(“You would run to the empire and ask permission.”) Wotan mocked.

“Yes, the forge is yours by right.” Brunna quickly spoke. “No one would say otherwise, but couldn't this process be automated?” She was subtly questioning whether it was necessary to raise another Alor'ad. An elder that Nestrok, Griffir and Brunna feared might favor the empire less.
(“As automated and lifeless as the metal laborers in our fields?”) Wotan asked about Brunna's agricultural droids, as he slowly worked the bellows.

“Droids have taken much of the work of the harvest, allowing us to focus on war. Perhaps you should teach your technique to a droid to ensure your knowledge survives your passing.” Griffir jabbed at the fact that Wotan had not yet named a formal successor. With advances in technology, older stealth techniques seemed to take a lot more time to master, in comparison to the time it took to cloak a ship and jam transmissions.

Wotan opened his mouth to answer that insult, but Methuuzla was done with their talk. With a beten, sigh, she let her hammer fall onto the anvil. The loud musical clatter silenced everyone.

(“My meeting, my talk.”) She motioned a wrinkled hand to the metal tree branches along the ceiling of the forge room. (“Behold The World Tree, engraved with the lineage of the clan. Each branch I add, I forged, like my buire and ba'buire before me. This is made from beskar. It cannot be destroyed. But if we lose the ability to read it, read the stories, what good will it do us? We will lose its protection. Should we forget how to forge new branches to tell the tales of today's heroes?”)

The tree, on close examination, was made from finely crafted paper-thin sheets of beskar foil to resemble branches with leaves, and each mark made in the bark was writing in a mando'a shorthand that likely predated the modern mando'a script.

“That tree never saved a soldier. How can it provide protection?” Griffir was skeptical.
(“See? That's what a lifetime of forgetting can do to an Alor'ad.”) Wotan muttered to Freya.

(“The first Mandalorian was raised in the shadow of the World Tree. He ate its fruit, gird his loins with its leaves, and would hide in the branches from danger. From its wood he made an unbreakable spear called Lightning. The fruit he ate slowly turned his skin to beskar'gam, a skin of iron.) Methuuzla spoke slowly and simply as if speaking to children, somehow finding the patience. (“We owe as much to the World Tree as to Mandalore. So you see, if we forget our metal, then how can we survive? We cannot be his children. We will lose our roots, and be strangers, dar'manda, or worse, aruetii.”) Methuuzla's words were full of double meanings. (“loosing our roots” referred, both to forgetting the clan's history as well as referencing the world tree's roots which grew deep into mandalore, and became the veins of Beskar for armor.)

“Trees give wood, not beskar.” Griffir stubbornly insisted, clearly unfamiliar with the full epic of the World Tree.

“Methuuzla called us to the forge, for a meeting,” Brunna tried to rein in Griffir.
“...Not for story time.” Nestrok snidely commented.
(“If you ask a child's question, you get a child's answer.”) Wotan snorted. (“For an Elder, you forget so much. I forgive Griffir, he was young when the empire arrived, but you, Nestrok, Perhaps you need a Mandalorian education.”)

“Or a better secretary.” Brunna chuckled at Wotan's threat to Nestrok, before directing the discussion back to Methuuzla. “You announce a successor. Who are you proposing?” Brunna asked.

Methuuzla twisted the shaft of the hammer to point to Freya. (“Freya, becomes an Alor'ad, and will wield my hammer in my stead.”) She made eye contact with the others, as if daring them to challenge her decision.

“Does Freya know the Armorer's craft?” Griffir asked the most important question.
“How long has she trained?” Nestrok, wary of surprises, wanted to know more about Freya's training: Methuuzla had trained other apprentices, but the most advanced apprentices he knew about did not survive their military service. The natural conclusion was that Methuuzla trained Freya in secret. Such a thing made the younger Alor'ad uneasy still further.

(“She knows the craft. She minds the old ways.”) Methuuzla was deliberately conservative in describing Freya's knowledge. (“She has been training longer than you have been an Alor'ad, Nestrok.”)

“(“Minds”) the old ways?" Nestrok asked, unfamiliar with the phrase and struggling with the meaning of the mando'a (“minds”).
(“My apologies, Nestrok, I am old and do not speak basic as well as you.”) Methuuzla meant it as an insult, but knew that Nestrok would take it as a complement. She looked to Wotan. (“Wotan?”)
“Tacitly aware?” Wotan offered his translation with a shrug.

“It means she can forge Beskar'gam, the way the Tal'galaar has traditionally done it.” Brunna's translation was narrow, but sufficiently close to the mark.

“Let her speak for herself.” Nestrok asked. “Freya, what say you? Are you an Armorer?”

“I am. My heart is metal.” Freya confidently stated. She motioned to Wotan to give up his position at the bellows so she could better watch the heating beskar in the furnace. She switched to Mando'a (“My iron skin is as strong as our ancestors.”)
(“Well spoken.”) Methuuzla nodded.

“Show us. What have you forged?” Griffir asked holding his hand out. “What token do you offer the Alor'ade of your mastery?”

While still pumping the bellows, Freya reached an arm behind a pile of circuits and produced a helmet, which she tossed to Griffir. “See ori'haat for yourself.” (The absolute truth).

Griffir caught the helm and examined it. The helmet was a beautifully crafted example of traditional style but with additional decoration. Along the crest and crown, it had intricate runes engraved into the surface. Griffir had to ask for the meaning since he couldn't read it. It was the same type of script as engraved on the World Tree. “What does it say?”
“It is a family prayer of protection.” Freya did not offer to read it.

Griffir raised an eyebrow, skeptical of prayers, and continued his examination of the helmet. It was too small for his own head, but he worked the electronics inside. Everything functioned properly.
“I will test your beskar'gam.” He put the helmet on the anvil. “Who is it for?”
“My son, Rango. It will not break.”
Methuuzla handed Griffir the two-handed beskar hammer. (“Don't go easy.”)

Wotan, Nestrok, and Brunna covered their ears. Griffir lined up the hammer with a test swing. With all his strength, the battle-master swung and connected squarely with the helmet. Beside the very loud musical klang as the hammer and helmet rang like bells, the helmet and hammer both survived with no marks.
“And blasters?” Griffir handed the hammer back.
Methuuzla produced a hologram and played a recording showing the helmet deflecting a blaster shot at a shooting range.
Griffir nodded. “Satisfactory. Anyone here would be honored to have this fine helmet.” He passed the helm around the room.

Nestrok looked around the room. “The matter is submitted for consent. I am troubled about the beskar; I am reluctant to approve of Freya. Who else approves?”

Griffir signaled his approval with his hand. “The helmet is excellent.”
Brunna likewise found the helmet to be compelling. “I cannot withhold my approval.” She stated after handling it herself.
Wotan added his approval. (“I approve.”)

“What about the beskar?” Nestrok asked looking to Griffir and Brunna to back him up.
“Well,” Griffir looked at his hands, “Beskar is superior to durasteel. We always could use more.”
Brunna agreed “As long as the clan is protected and no one knows.”

Nestrok took note. “Well, though I am reluctant, I approve of your work, your record, and your family. The only thing I object to, must remain off the record, and therefore my objection must remain off the record as well.” He gave a sour expression. “I approve. As administrator, I will record the decision. Welcome Alor'ad Freya.”

Griffir, Nestrok, Brunna, and Wotan each clasped Freya's arm in turn. She accepted the congratulations as she continued to work the bellows. Moments later, she saw the telltale signs that the metal in the furnace was ready. “Ba'ba'buir, the beskar is ready.”
Methuuzla cackled with delight and rubbed her hands. (“Perfect timing!”)

Freya addressed her fellow elders. “Please excuse us, we must get back to work.” Methuuzla had already turned her back on Nestrok and was digging in the furnace with the tongs.

Seeing nothing else to discuss, the counsel adjourned. Nestrok, Griffir and Brunna left. Wotan stayed.

(“Know what I need? A good drink.”) Wotan pulled a flask from his shirt with an impish grin and gave it a shake. (“Hmm! It's full!”) He uncorked it and took a swig. (“Ahh! Refreshing!”) He had, no doubt, filled the flask to celebrate with Freya and Methuuzla.
(“Ba'vudo! It's bad manners not to pass!”) Freya laughed waving her hands for Wotan to toss her his flask.
(“Prettiest first!”) Wotan threw the flask to Methuuzla, who caught it and took a swig.
(“Such thirsty work!”) She said with a wink, then passed the flask to Freya.
Freya took a good gulp. (“So this is what it's like to be an Alor'ad? I don't feel any different.”) She wiped her mouth on her arm and tossed the flask back to Wotan.
(“Just wait until something goes wrong and it's your fault. Or we have to make a hard decision. Then, you'll know why I carry the flask.”)
(“Aye. It's easy enough when everything goes right. But the only thing you can count on, is that nothing ever goes right.”) Methuuzla hung her tools back on the wall.
Freya listened, turning her head from one to the other, hoping to learn a little wisdom. (“What's the hardest decision you've had to make?”) She asked.

Wotan looked over at Methuuzla and passed her the flask. They both already knew.
(“Not the hardest to make, but it's been the hardest to live with.”) She took the flask from her old friend.
(“What has?”) Freya asked, using the towel to wipe off the sweat and grim from her face and arms.
(“Swallowing my pride.”) Methuuzla took a drink.
(“Ya know, our whole clan might have died, and it didn't.”) Wotan scratched the stubble on his chin.
(“We might have survived, perhaps.”) Methuuzla spoke. (“If not, we'd only have become better friends with death.”)
(“We can't judge an alternate past, and no one blames you.”) Wotan's response was quick, as though he had had this conversation with Methuuzla before.
(“They should.”) The old woman seemed small, as she cradled Wotan's flask.

(“I don't understand,”) Freya wasn't sure what they were talking about.
(“We're talking about the Catastrophe, Freya.”) Methuuzla sighed, with regret.
(“Isn't that subject taboo?”) Freya asked.
(“No one talks about it because I decreed it to be so.”) Methuuzla took another swig.

(“What? How? Ba'voda, what is Ba'buir talking about?”) Freya looked to Wotan, lost. (“There is nothing about the Catastrophe, even on the world tree.”) She pointed at the beskar branches over her head.

Wotan said nothing, but looked over to Methuuzla. She took another drink and after a pause, gave him a nod.
Wotan slowly inhaled and began, (“ 'Uuzla... was Ori'alor during the Catastrophe.”)
(“You were Ori'alor during the Catastrophe?”) Freya was wide-eyed as he spoke to her grandmother. (“The most honorable deeds must be remembered and celebrated! What greater deed is there than saving the clan?”) Freya threw up her hands.

(“I doomed the whole clan.”) Methuuzla looked away.
(“The Empire found us and we accepted their help.”) Wotan continued, quick to temper his old friend's version of history.

(“I accepted their help.”) Methuuzla emphasized her sense of personal responsibility in the matter and took another drink before bowing her head. (“I took on a debt that has killed many times more of us than the Catastrophe ever did.”)
(“You merely accepted their help and the corresponding debt that our honor demanded.”) Wotan insisted.
(“I exchanged a quick death for a slow one.”)
(“You did what you thought was right-- at the time.”)

(“Didn't Wotan, and the other elders advise you?”) Freya was puzzled, since she knew Wotan would never abandon Methuuzla to make such a decision alone.
(“No, by that time the whole counsel had died. All thirty of them.”)  Methuuzla spoke as if she wasn't in the here and now. Maybe it was the booze.
(“I wasn't an Alor'ad yet.”) Wotan nodded to Freya, before Methuuzla continued, squinting her eyes as she thought back... (“I appointed you, Wotan, the day after you buried your wife, and I... buried my husband.”)

(“I think I still would have advised you to do the deed. The others would have likely agreed.”) Wotan gently spoke. (“What else could have been done? Everyone was dying around us. You saw the suffering and you led us, and we are alive today: survivors in Survivor's Home.”)
(“I have sacrificed-”) She halted, (“We will sacrifice generation after generation to the aruetii war machine.”)

Wotan softly insisted, (“I ask again, what more could have been done? We were a step away from digging our own graves and laying down in them with our families to wait for death.”)

Shonar laughed. “I don’t understand you sometimes, Iviin’yc.” He teased. “You’re always curious about our history until you’re required to study it, then you call it boring.”

=Meshurok=
“Oh, Sho, don’t be so dramatic.” She leaned playfully into him as they walked, bumping shoulders. Her eyes drifted to the dark, yawning entrance of a side alley for a second before she continued. “We are encouraged to practice stealth, are we not? When I do, I see things, I hear things. What use would I be if I didn’t develop those skills?”

Draining the last of the caf from his mug, her elder brother shook his head slowly, showing an edge of real concern for the first time. “Careful, sister.” He lowered his voice. “The Alor’ad have their reasons. They teach us what we need to become cuyan’ade, to be focused, and not distracted. You should mind their wisdom.”

=Meshurok=
The girl eyed her brother carefully, trying to judge whether the reprimand was sincere, or simply more teasing. But his expression revealed nothing. She knew her tendencies to talk flippantly about the old ways made him uneasy -- but that was part of why she did it. “Fine.” Rolling her eyes, she looked straight ahead.

After a moment’s silence, Shonar, sensing his point had been made, changed the subject. He didn’t necessarily disagree with her interests, but he knew she was courting trouble by pursuing them. They were approaching one of the open courtyards near the middle of the walled community. “If lessons were boring, how about we spar a few rounds before dinner?”

=Meshurok=
“That hardly seems fair, with all your fancy new Solyec Ke'gyce training.” She complained, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away.

“Oh really.” Shonar laughed, and gave her a shove, sending her stumbling backward into the middle of the courtyard. “I’ve been training all day. You might actually win.” Since she was not armored like one of his peers, he set his helmet aside, and it was on.

At the starport, the control tower commander, Commander Pewsy, watched an imperial cargo vessel as it was being loaded on one of the two prefabricated duracrete landing pads. Binary load lifters worked to load and stack pallets of Caf beans into cargo containers, and then slowly lift and position the cargo containers in the ship's cargo bay. From his perch in the tower he could look out over the two pads, as well as the two AA turrets and the network of warehouses and silos surrounding the port.

“Breeeep! Boop boop boop boop boop!”
The tower commscanner squawked alerting that a ship was dropping from hyperspace. The ship's trajectory put it on course for Garqi and the colony. The scanner reading was not accompanied by a ship transponder.
“Sir, unidentified vessel entering the system via the Borosk Route. No transponder.”
Commander Pewsy looked over to the scanner technician. “Notify the Cruiser Benbow of the situation. Request assistance.”
The technician notified the Benbow, a Gozanti Cruiser with its four TIE fighters. “They acknowledged and report they are enroute from Agamar.”
“Very well, Proceed.”
The technician turned back to his scanner screen and hailed the unidentified vessel. “Garqi control to unidentified Vessel, turn on your transponder and identify!”

“Imperial Golf November Whisky thirteen Heavy, Garqi Control Tower, we are on approach to Garqi orbit, bound for colony-1.”
The tower comlink crackled with the encrypted transmission. After a moment's delay, the vessel's transponder showed up, identifying the vessel as an imperial military cargo hauler GNW-13.
“Tower to GNW-13, we see your transponder. Please transmit security clearance.”

. . .

After a long pregnant pause the commlink crackled.
“GNW-13 Heavy: Garqi Tower say again, repeat last request.” 

Pewsy personally responded, “Garqi Tower: GNW-13. Transmit security clearance or heave-to and prepare to be boarded.” It was a tense moment. Commander Pewsy was bluffing while the Gozanti Cruiser Benbow was still in hyperspace and 15-20 minutes away from entering the Tadrin sub-system. Moments later, the tension released as the vessel transmitted its codes.

“GNW-13: Uhhhhhh,Tower, clearance code transmission sent. Please confirm.”

The commscan terminal routed the transmission to the imperial code databank. The databank returned the code as valid, with a green light. Commander Pewsy relaxed and let out a breath, suddenly realizing that he had been holding it. He gave the order and returned communication back to the technician. “Clear their approach, and carry on.”

“Sir.” The technician nodded to his superior and immediately carried out the order. “Tower: we read you, GNW-13 codes received and confirmed. You are cleared to begin orbit and approach.”
“GNW-13: Tower, entering orbit and starting approach, requesting permission to land and unload.”
“Tower: GNW-13 transmit cargo manifest.”
“GNW-13 Heavy: Garqi Tower, manifest transmitted.”
“Tower: GNW-13, Manifest received, please standby.”
“GNW-13 Heavy, Garqi Tower, We copy: standing by.”

The manifest uploaded to the tower datascreen. The technician quickly scanned it: “Nutritional and medical supplies, parts, fuel, powercells, and MISC NOS. It all checks out. Do we clear them for final approach?”

The commander was watching and knew that “MISC NOS” or “miscellaneous, not-otherwise-specified” was a predetermined designation referring to the mandalorian commandos the colony supplied to the empire. Cargo transports ferried them from … where ever they came from, or where ever they were going. The destinations were restricted codenames and Pewsy was professional enough to never ask for information above his pay-grade.

With the commander's nod, the commscan technician resumed communication. “Garqi Tower: GNW-13, You are cleared to land, Pad Left, Repeat P-L. Over.”
“GNW-13 Heavy: Garqi Tower. Roger, landing at Papa-Lima. Interog: Um, what is the recommended approach vector for altitude 100,000, range 40,000. Over.”
“Tower: GNW-13, What is your status? Is your navigation malfunctioning? Over.”
“GNW-13: Tower, Negative, status is normal, we just have a trainee, and we are confirming his navigational inputs and calculations.”
“Tower: GNW-13, We copy that. Status, ok. We recommend descend to 10,000 at oh-five-niner mag, then approach at 90 degrees mag by -15 degrees, copy, over.” The path would bring the cargo ship through a gap in the high mountain range that surrounded the long narrow valley containing the colony.
“GNW-13: Tower, Roger, descending to 10,000, zero-five-nine magnetic, then proceeding at zero-nine-zero magnetic, by negative fifteen. ETA 5 mikes.”
“Tower: GNW-13, affirmative. Lowering port shields.”

Moments later the commscan technician called out the arrival of the Gozanti Cruiser in the system. “The Benbow is dropping from hyperspace and requesting a status.”
“Send them the commscan log.” Commander Pewsy turned to the holoterminal and a hologram of the torso of the captain of the Benbow materialized.
"Comander Pewsy, Sit-rep?"
“Captain Tate, I am sending you a commscan record. Our status is presently normal. Nevertheless, I request that you take up station in orbit and deploy TIE fighters to patrol the area. Continue monitoring the system and notify Task Force command if there are any irregularities.” Normally, Imperial Intelligence had a patrol ship stationed in the system. It spooked commander Pewsy that GNW-13 coincidentally arrived on the one day that the patrol was absent. It usually paid to be cautious in Imperial Intelligence. After all, Colony-1 was a secret facility.

The hologram of Captain Tate turned to someone. “Deploy a patrol.” He turned back to Pewsy. “If you have not heard, there was a change in fleet management.”
Commander Pewsy had not received any orders. “I was not aware of that.”
The captain continued. “In a couple days-...” Tate suddenly stopped, catching himself. “Please inform Commandant Ronway to contact Task Force Command, ASAP for his orders. The Benbow will remain on station. As always, remember to use encrypted channels for official communications. Long Live the Empire!” The holotransmission ended abruptly.
“Long live the empire.” Commander Pewsy sat back thinking. A change in fleet management. Huh. The commander would do his duty regardless. “Make a note in the log, inform the Commandant of the Benbow's arrival, and let him know to contact TF4 as soon as he can.”