Acting considerately is even more important
than reasoning wisely.
(Cicero).
***
Elizabeth Marie-Noir burst into the barracks with an energetic stride. Since their regiment, the Brave Boys, had arrived on Donovia, they'd only participated in a few patrols outside the base; for the most part, however, the militiamen stood guard within its walls. Yet no one was particularly eager to wander through the mountains and forests—there was no sign of civilization out there anyway. And the natives were friendly and even supplied the Republic with meat and fruit. How the Jedi had negotiated with them was a mystery, but the fact remained: it was one big bore.
When the euphoria of the first few days had faded, the regiment's soldiers and officers split into two camps: those who were always sleeping and those who were always playing sabacc. Their commander, Colonel El Johnson, belonged firmly to the first category—and now she found him lying on his bunk.
"El Johnson, get your ass off the bunk!"
"What's the rush?"
"There's a meeting coming up at headquarters."
"Marie, if you want to go, go ahead. You're our chief of staff, so it's your job. No big deal," the man replied with a lazy grin, stretching and yawning dramatically.
"It's always like this—they dump all the paperwork on a defenseless girl!"
"Correction—you're not defenseless. And you're not—"
"Shut up."
"Already."
The rest of the regiment's officers laughed as they watched their commanders bicker. Marie-Noir lifted her chin dramatically and swept out of the room with exaggerated dignity.
"Gregory, why don't you want to go?"
"What new information am I supposed to learn there? We'll be securing the perimeter inside the base, just like before. Or do you want to wallow in the mud in the trenches?"
"No, thank you."
"Then I don't see the point of your nitpicking, Elizabeth. So don't disturb the commander's sleep."
"Yes, sir," the officers barked in unison.
"Clowns," El Johnson muttered.
***
Ntor Ragnos, captain of the Marat and de facto commander of a seven-ship task force, was in good spirits. All attacks on both Donovia and the fuel plant had been repelled, and General Vikt had finally returned. However, his arrival brought new complications. As the Jedi himself reported, a large-scale assault was expected soon. In addition, a request had come through to transfer two young officers to the general's headquarters.
The Zabrak sighed quietly, unnoticed by the others. He had already assessed the potential of Second Lieutenant Li Noriega, but he understood that there may be even more problems "on the ground", and that the general was eager to fully utilize every available resource to ensure the mission's success.
"You called, Captain?"
"Sir," midshipman Mirro saluted smartly.
"You two are being reassigned to General Vikt's headquarters. Pack your things—the shuttle is waiting in the third hangar."
"Yes, Captain!"
A clone midshipman approached. "Sir, Artkainen is on the line. Captain Fokker wishes to speak with you."
"Put him on the screen."
During their service together, the two officers had developed an easy rapport and often discussed everything from tactics to politics.
"Captain?"
"Ragnos, what's the situation?"
"The general claims the Separatists are preparing an offensive—you know all about enemy intelligence yourself."
"Poodoo! So what are we going to do?"
"The plan's not finalized yet, but the rough outline is that we'll leave Donovia's orbit and join your position. We'll guard the fuel plant."
"What about the ground troops?"
"They'll hold the line until reinforcements arrive. A request's already been sent to Sector Command."
"Help is good."
***
Ten hours. Any droid could tell you precisely how many minutes or seconds that was. Was it a lot or a little? On the one hand, it was only half a day (a day on Donovia lasted twenty hours), but on the other, it was more than enough time to get a great deal done.
Some orders were pure formality, and their execution was routine—such as appointing Blam as deputy corps commander; he had already been running most of the base anyway. Other orders, like the creation of a new headquarters, required considerably more effort.
Still, everything was ready, and the enemy had yet to appear—but I could feel the threat. It's hard to describe, even to myself; my thoughts on it are a jumble. It's all instinct, intuition. You just know the enemy will attack, and that knowledge doesn't make it any easier. There's danger—but where, when… that's when you begin to understand how Yoda missed Palpatine.
I chose the large hall with the tactical table as the headquarters' main operations center. It was already listed as a backup command post. The rest was just logistics—moving some of the equipment, relocating operators and communications officers, and powering up the systems. The odd part was that this hall was more spacious, more comfortable, and better protected, being located deep inside the building rather than at the top.
Everyone who was supposed to be there had gathered. Marshal Commander Blam. Four former regimental commanders, now brigade leaders. Second Lieutenant Li Noriega, busy handling the daily logistics and ensuring the smooth operation of the headquarters. Ensign Mirro sat in one corner, hunched over a large communications console, surrounded by the staff communications officers. Everything was running smoothly.
Unfolding a map of the area on the table, I used telekinesis to pull one of the crates from the corner toward me, then sat down cross-legged upon it, scanning the hologram with a focused gaze. Our plan wasn't particularly original. Of the twelve regiments stationed on the planet, ten were distributed around the perimeter of the base, manning trenches and fortifications. Ten regiments sounded like a lot—but for a defense line over sixteen kilometers long, it wasn't nearly enough. Still, with the number of guns at our disposal, there was no real cause for concern.
The base's standard armament alone included more than two hundred different laser and blaster cannons; on top of that, a significant cache of captured weapons had been repurposed to boost firepower. For example, twin E-5s mounted on self-propelled carriages, operated by the same B-1s. Anti-aircraft coverage was excellent—beyond the base's standard batteries, there were heavy installations such as the SPHA and J-1, as well as light, mobile anti-aircraft platforms based on the same carbines, though configured as quadruple mounts (similar to the old Maxim quads I'd once seen in historical exhibits).
Two regiments, including the Brave Boys, provided inner perimeter security for the base—just in case. Almost all AT-TEs were kept in the base hangars, while captured AATs patrolled the area, serving as a mobile reserve.
The entire battle, then, was expected to unfold from a defensive stance, given the prepared positions and the unknown size of the enemy force. There could be a hundred thousand of them—or five million.
A thought flickered in the back of my mind: What if…
In one of the infocrystals, I'd come across a description of a fascinating technique called Battle Meditation. It was a complex technique, and the document detailing it was boring and painfully verbose—it felt like Yoda himself had written it. Still, I'd already experimented a little with the preliminary exercises; meditation had never been a problem for me, and… it resonated. That resonance told me I could master it, given time.