Garqi's Open Terrain

Wotan sat with his hands around the flask, leaning forward. It was a tender moment, There was so much goodness in life that flowed from family. Methuuzla, the oldest female in the colony, was everyone's grandmother-(even if she occasionally forgot names) but still the bond between her and Freya, the granddaughter of her flesh, was especially close. Wotan's bond with her was similarly close, given their history.

He felt something slide and land in his pocket. He froze, stupefied for a moment as the sensation registered in his tipsy brain, before he reacted slapping his hand on his pocket like lightening.

WHAP!

His slap made skin-on-skin contact and he heard a sound. He looked over his shoulder. In the shadows behind him, he felt movement but couldn't see anyone there.“Oi!” He called out as he sprung up, whirling to face the shadows, hands up at the ready. (“Assassins?”) With a flick of his wrist a concealed blade found its way into his hand with the soft hum characteristic of a vibro-blade. Wotan, the Tal-galaar's master of shadows, hissed. (“'Uuzla! Freya! Someone's here!”) Wotan's mind raced, skin on skin contact: poison? Planting contraband? Explosives? His free hand checked his pocket where he felt two medallions, his own and... someone else's. From beginning to end, Wotan's reaction might have taken several seconds, but now a smile broke across his white bearded face. Facing away from the glow of the furnace, his smile might not be apparent.

Across the forge where Freya and Methuuzla had once again embraced, Freya pulled a face. How could there be anyone here in the forge, besides them at this hour? (“BESOM, idiot! we're having a MOMENT here!”)

Wotan looked up from the medallions in his hand and more carefully searched the darkness and numerous shadows from the light of the forge and glint from the world tree over their heads. A second later as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw someone crouched in the shadows near the large wooden stump he had been sitting on. With a flick of his wrist, his blade retracted into his sleeve. “Ah, HA HA!” He exclaimed as he spotted the crouched form. (“There you are! Well hid!”)

Freya and Methuuzla looked over to Wotan. Methuuzla stood up with her robe hanging from her waist and bare from the waist up, save for the strips of cloth that bound her withered breasts against her ribs. (“What little critter has the mighty Wotan caught?”) Methuuzla called from across the forge.

Wotan held up the medallion, tossing it to Freya. The back was roughly engraved. “Meshurok,” She read to herself. Freya pulled her robe up; it had been hanging slack from her waist. With her arms now in the sleeves, she adjusted the front to cover her halter top and bare midriff.

(“I believe I found a youngster with an affinity for shadow.”) Wotan addressed the crouched form in basic, just in case she had difficulty with Mando'a. “It's ok. Come into the light! What is your name?”

“He, Manny- he bravely gave his life for his comrades. I'm not allowed to talk about the operation we were on, but...” He lied through his teeth and continued to lie, unable to stop himself. A part of his mind turned off and turned on the surroundings. Rango found himself in a modest homestead, clean, functional and tidy. He sat across from Manny's mate and child with a cup of steaming caf on the small table infront of him. He tried not to think about how Manny looked that last day, how he had been so cheerful over their morning meat ration (which had a reputation for being of questionable quality). He tried not to think about the truth...

The truth was that Manny died in a training accident. Their group was taking cover from simulated blasterfire behind the leg of an AT-AT providing heavy fire support, and without warning the AT-AT reversed on their position and nearly crushed their fireteam. Rango, Bethla, and Zeenok were able to dive out of the way, but Manny didn't get free of the giant footpod and his upper body was crushed. Some dipshit driver cadet wasn't paying attention.

All the sudden he could see it again. He was back there in the mud on Corulag. Rango could feel his nostrils flare as he could smell the place: the mud, the rain, the AT-AT lubricant, the smell of ion discharge. The worst part of it: having to dig... his friend... out of the mud and putting the pieces of his body in a bag for burial. Some bits stiff, in one piece, sandwiched between the flattened front and back plates of his chest armor. Other bits there, they just scoop up... like red mud. And then they went on to finish the training operation. And then the team, they were all there after the exercise, packing up his kit at the barracks... not a word between them, still in shock at what happened...

“Rango?”
“...-?” Rango blinked in surprise, staring at the concerned face of Manny's widow. “I, uh, ah.” He didn't know what happened in his brain. It had been 4 months since Manny died, and he had spent that entire time putting it out of his head on mission after mission, and just now all of the sudden, all the memories of Manny's death came rushing back as if no time had passed at all.

“I'm sorry, I was thinking about...” He thought for a moment. He began again. “Manny, er, I mean Mandok, so heroic, he-.” He looked into the eyes of Manny's widow and he just couldn't do it. He gritted his teeth.
“There was no mission, it was a training exercise, and some dumb fuck crushed him. With armored units, you see... We were training for-... It, It was an accident. There was no greatness. There was no honor. His death meant nothing, but his life meant everything.” He winced. “To us.” 
The change in Rango's narrative came out of nowhere and Manny's mate looked confused.
"I am sorry I lied, but I just wanted the way he died to somehow match the way he liv-."  he didn't finish before he started talking again, babbling, really.  “It was never how we thought we would... I mean we'd talk about how we thought we would die, in the evenings over rations... But we'd been in combat so many times, and-. We never could have guessed that the best of us- (I mean he was the best of us) could have been stomped by a fucking-.... I mean, fuck!” Rango shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry.”  As an afterthought, or perhaps something better to do with his hands, Rango reached into his satchel and pulled out a datapad. "This was his datapad. It's already been scrubbed, so no worries about operational security but... you should have it.  I think he would have wanted it. With you, I mean." 

“Thank you for your life-mate's service.” A black-clad imperial officer stood outside the home of a widower that just learned that his spouse had died.
Three storm troopers stood in a row, standing at ease, in their white armor. In the dusty road behind the officer, a speeder hummed loaded with a number of large wreaths; ferns and decorative foliage of the distinctive purples and violets of Garqi, wrapped in black cloth and lace ribbon.
The officer made a motion and one of the troopers turned and pulled one of the wreaths from the speeder and gave it to the officer.

This son of the Tal-Galaar colony, stood emotionless in his doorway as the officer presented him with one of the wreaths.

“The First Order values her sacrifice. Please accept this wreath as a token of the empire's grief at her loss.”
“ATTEN-HUTT!”
The storm troopers snapped to attention, and one lifted a comspeaker that began to play the Naval March. The officer also snapped to a salute as soon as he handed off the wreath.

The widower forced a half-smile and mechanically accepted the wreath. Once it passed to his hands, he looked down at it, his eyes hollow as if there was no recognition that he was holding a mourning wreath and had just been visited by the imperial mourning detail. Still in silence, he turned to go back into his home.

The officer lowered his salute and the march stopped. “If there is anything we can do for you during this trying time, please do not hesitate to ask.” The officer touched his cap and backed away, before turning to the speeder. Behind him he could hear the door of the home slide shut with a swoosh.

By the time he and the troopers were back in the landspeeder, he was already thinking about plotting his route to get to the next house. He scrolled through the datapad on the speeder controls. It looked like the next one was on the other side of the colony. He rolled his eyes internally. It was such a bother that they did these in alphabetical order instead of geographical location. If he was promoted to commandant he could probably get the mourning duties done in half the-.

SMASH!

Commander Garvutt's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass coming from inside the home he just left. His eyes shifted to the door of the home, and then back to the datascreen. With a sigh, he shifted the speeder into drive mode.

Commandant Ronway did not have long to ruminate. His thoughts were interrupted by Port Commander Pewsy buzzing his office door.
"Come in." The commandant took his feet off his desk and sat up as his subordinate entered.
"Sir." Pewsy saluted as he entered, breathless from his brisk walk over from the dock.
Ronway returned the formality from his seat. "It seems there is news."
"You've heard?" Pewsy was surprised, "I heard there was a change in fleet management. I came here to tell you to contact Task Force Command. I recalled the Gozanti, Benbow, to orbit and the captain said you should contact TFC."
"No. I haven't heard anything official." Ronway was nonplused.  "Why did you recall the Benbow?"
"As a precaution.  An approaching transport was... uncharacteristically slow in transmitting its clearance.  Said a trainee was involved."  Pewsy knew the Commandant wouldn't punish prudence. 
"Ah. Yes. Good call."  The security of Project DarkWing could not be compromized.  He stroked his chin. "I'm not surprised that I haven't heard anything official, yet."  Bad news often traveled slower for the intended audience.  It allowed measures to be prepared to prevent units or... commandants from going rogue. 

"The Benbow seemed reluctant to talk on the comm." 
"Once again, unsurprising." There was no use hiding it. "Word is that control of Project Darkwing had been transferred." Ronway reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of purple liquid: a Bastonian scotch vintage.
"Transferred?!" Pewsy couldn't hide his surprise. Darkwing had made significant progress under Ronway's leadership.  
"When word comes, it will be that we're no longer operating under our own authority through the Tandigang directive, but we will be incorporated into the 69th intelligence fleet at the beck and call of some admiral calling himself 'Magnetar.'  A code name of course." Ronway spoke with distain for the idea of an admiral unwilling to show his own face, or so secret that he only went by a code name.

"Magnetar? That's quite an odd name. Isn't that a type of star that throws magnetic field storms? I still remember that from my astronavigation course at the academy."
"Indeed. The very same."  A dangerous stellar object that wreaked havoc on ship systems if they came too close. 
"Well, at least you'll still have control of the Tal'Galaar..."
Ronway shook his head.  "I am almost certain to loose my operational command authority. The 69th will be primarily manned with the Tal'Galaar as space marines." Ronway smiled. "That's what I would do if *I* was in Magnetar's position."  Cutting the commandant out of the chain of command helped retain some normalcy in a transition but prevented the commandant from actually using the commando troops that he previously commanded.

"Without command authority, what does that leave you, Commandant?"  Pewsy asked, uncertain.  He had attached his destiny to the rising star of the Ronway family believing that it would also benefit himself, and now, his own future was as uncertain as the commandant's.
"As a glorified nanny for a colony of old, crippled, Mandos, and their children." 
Pewsy looked stricken. "But our plans! We were going to-."  He corrected himself, "YOU were going to lead the Tal'Galaar to side with the winning faction in the Civil War for the First Order!" 

Ronway stood up and looked out the window behind his desk. "I really should try to be more of an optimist. It is possible that Magnetar will not sideline me," he turned to regard his subordinate, "or you, until he has fully assessed our position and capabilities." He paused to think.  "Assuming that Magnetar earned his position, and isn't Piett granting a favor," He let his voice trail off. It would be very unlike Piett to owe favors or promote anyone but capable or exceptional commanders... but still there was always a first, given the unrest in the empire.  Piett did not seem involved in the thick of things, and seemed unlikely to join a side until the dust settled. It was unlikely that Magnetar was a position created to forge an alliance during the civil war. Ronway started again, "If I was this 'Magnetar,' I would immediately send an agent to review the project before making any changes."

Almost as if on cue, Ronway's desk console intercom buzzed. "Yes?" The commandant pressed his comm button.
His yeoman answered, "Sir, Imperial Intelligence is here to see you.  Agent Quasar, Fleet Command."
"Very well. Please show him in." He took his finger off the comm button, and smiled at Pewsy, as if to say, 'I told you so.' "See? I do believe Magnetar is likely competent. Come, stand ready.  Let us put project Darkwing's best foot forward to greet this ambassador from our new fleet commander. Perhaps we can find out more about Magnetar."
"Quasar?" Commander Pewsy wrinkled his nose as he stood and straightened his duty uniform.

The tour of the colony was comprehensive.

The small rural agricultural community coated with the violet mud of the planet made the buildings blend into the colorful terrain. The duracrete buildings were of prefabricated imperial colony design and maintained in good repair, decorated in a simple and spartan fashion, with an insulating coating the colorful adobe mud. The community was laid out in a grid pattern with administration building, school, medical dispensary, stockade and other municipal buildings located in the town center. The center was then surrounded by residences, and mercantile, maintenance, and agricultural buildings and barns circled the whole community's outskirts.

A discerning eye would make out symbols, unknown to the Empire at large, and a perceptive ear would occasionally hear a Mandalorian word or phrase interspersed in the galactic basic used by the populace of the colony. A plaque on the administration building proclaimed the colony's name: Cuyan'yaim – and beside it the translation, “Survivor's Home.”

On one edge of the town, there was the small starport, that Agents Quasar and Tyna arrived at. The port had a space traffic tower bisecting two landing pads. Around the port was a network of warehouses and silos for storing outgoing produce and incoming supplies. The port was clearly marked with the Imperial insignia of the First Order, and the small Garrison there provided security-- primarily for the imported supplies bearing the Imperial seals of First Order agricultural and manufacturing worlds. There were few outsiders and little crime on the colony, and most security had grown used to this fact.

In the tour, while Commander Pewsy made a big show trying to be loud enough to alert any negligent security forces to look alert, Agent Quasar noted more than one instance where they caught a guard loafing or in a state of un-readiness. The worst part for Pewsy was Quasar's lack of reaction. He expected the agent to issue a diatribe of abuse on the guards, but there was no comment.

Beyond the edge of the community, for several miles surrounding the town, the native forest of the planet had been cutback and hills were terraced to create level, well drained, workable farmland, free of erosion. The speeder drove the perimiter, kicking up a trail of purple dust. In the fields, imperial worker droids labored on rows and rows of Caf bean plants under the watchful eye of a number of teenage colonists and a much smaller number of adults and even smaller number of elders.

"Everyone here is young. Like me." Agent Tyna observed, interrupting Pewsey's monologue descriptions of the sights they drove by.