Moral Economics, Revised Edition
Posted on Mon Feb 7th, 2022 @ 10:01pm by Reave & Bomoor Thort & Amare
2,923 words; about a 15 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter VI: The Last Bastion
Location: Shuttle Calparion, Leaving HELIOS Base, Bastion
Timeline: Late Afternoon (Day Three, Week Four)
OLD
Moving slowly forwards, Bomoor looked at the individuals in this control centre, all of whom turned to offer a nod of respect before returning to monitoring their screens. They wore a slightly different Imperial uniform, which he assumed identified them more as technicians or engineers than naval officers. However, they also bore a patch with an emblem, which was also repeated several times in this room as well as emblazoned in the centre of the floor below, surrounded by the numerous pods.
"Clones, remote battle-suits and a gigantic relay," Bomoor commented, turning back to Haig, "This CROSS project clearly synthesises all number of scientific and technical marvels, but just what is it, Leftenant?"
"Well," Haig began, "I am not the best-versed in the strategies and goals of our overlords, but-" The officer paused as he spotted an approaching figure, and he stood a little stiffer to attention at the approaching man. "But Commander Tarses will forgive me for stating, I'm sure: he is much better-placed to explain the intricacies of the endeavours to you..."
NEW
A different pilot now accompanied them during their flight back to the Bastion capitol from the HELOIS base, a young woman holding an ensign's rank and generally appearing disinterested in her charges, despite their alien and arguably mystical nature. Again, they were travelling under the anonymity of trainees, in light of the secrecy still accompanying the project spearheaded by the grand moff's own son.
Reave, in a surprising twist of fate, had been quite quiet since their tour of the base and the revelation of the secrets, legacies and plans within. How much of it was really understandable to the Jawa was somewhat unknown to the others, but he had seemed more reflective than typical. Rather than tinkering or interfering with the equipment on board, like their journey to the base, he was instead examining and polishing the thin bandolier that was typically slung about his small frame.
Bomoor himself had been sat in thought, poring over the elaborate details of the CROSS programme as well as its curious director. It had been a surprise to find that Tarses' son was not only Force sensitive, but had used that sensitivity to develop technologies that allowed him to overcome a crippling affliction that had left him blind and paraplegic as a young child. His research into manipulating electronic components through the Force is what led him to his remote prosthetics project, known as "Scarlet Night", which eventually became the CROSS programme when his father recognised the potential for the wider Empire. This vast satellite array was merely the latest development in a tremendous project that could see Bastion operatives deployed across the galaxy in the form of mechanised troopers without leaving their home soil.
Few individuals are blessed with the level of intelligence and Force potential that Symon Tarses must require to manipulate mechanical circuitry with his mind. Perhaps that is why the universe also took so much from him as well. It has taken him years to translate what he developed as a child into a format that could be used on such a scale.
And then, there was also his supposed prophesy.
"So, the Sith leading the Empire to victory once again," Bomoor summarised Symon's description of the younger Tarses' childhood visions, "I believe in the power you and Thane hold in the Sith way, but this man's visions may be no more than a fantasy of a glorified old Empire that is better forgotten. But at least it helped us gain their trust. He certainly seems convinced that we are key to seeing his vision of Bastion to reality."
Amare, seated opposite of Bomoor, browsed and reviewed the fresh memories of the CROSS facility's tour again and again. From the hologram of the ancient Imperial Grand Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo--better known as Thrawn--greeting them with a brief quote on leadership, to the reveal of the remote warfare linking stations, and finally the appearance of Symon Tarses himself, it left the young Nautolan with a tremendous load to process and consider. She couldn't ignore her wonder at what it must have felt like to be a man trapped in a hovering cybernetic throne whiched tended to all his needs via the multitudes of medical tubes and network links connected to the visible upper half of his decrepit pale body.
Symon, who revealed himself as the person behind the codename, "Agent Palidor", confessed his only means of experiencing physical freedom was through his CROSS suit. The original idea started with merely only being able to see and hear the environment around the suit, but he found a way to create a closed loop of consciousness between his real body, and the mobile mechanized infantry armor through a combination of a cloned organic simulacrum installed in the suit itself and harnessing the power of the Force. Cutting-edge technology provided remote control of the suit's systems, but the Force (through the clone puppet body) made it feel like he was really there, essentially becoming the suit itself. A true merging of man and machine without risking the man at all. If the suit was lost or destroyed, it could be replaced with no need to find and train a new soldier.
And in spite of the innovations, Symon stated with no discernable duplicity that the entire thing was created all because of one single terrifying vision given to him long ago by the Force whilst he suffered with crippling neurological diseases as a child. CROSS was never intended for Bastion's ambitions. It was designed entirely to be an extension of the wrath and power of the Sith, and no one else.
Amare merely nodded as she sat hunched forward, arms on her legs and hands clasped together as she stared down at Bomoor's boots, lost in wonder. All this time she thought it was just happenstance and luck that got her this far, but now she was the subject of a man's prophecy...a man gifted in the Force just like her...a man who foresaw the return of the Sith long before Amare even knew she had powers of her own. It was confounding, horrific, and exciting all at the same time.
What was perhaps most disturbing of all was Symon's awareness of her real identity. When Bomoor and Reave had left, Symon had asked for her to stay a moment, and he said, "I know whom you once were, the girl that was called Zaracoda, wife of Jett Versetto, daughter to a Jedi. Let us not speak of it now, but later, I should like to know what it was like to die..."
Symon's holoprojector displayed an image of her on board the Red Raptor, floating in a fetal position inside the Sith-created fluid of her chrysalis.
"...and be reborn."
It was then that something gently tickled her water-breathing gills and the back of her head. It was enough to shutter the wonder, lift her gaze, and look for something amiss.
Raising his neck from its resting position upon his palm and turning his gaze out the window, the Ithorian continued, "Sith or no, it seems to come down to eliminating the motion within the council of Moffs to oust Tarses in favour of those who favour GalactaWerks. From experience I can say that any planet is better off without their interference."
He suddenly squinted slightly, seeing a tiny shining dot growing to the starboard side of their transport craft. His eyes widened as his precognition kicked in and he jumped up just as he watched Amare sense it too from opposite him.
"Pilot, there's a projectile heading towards us!" he shouted, "Drop us lower immediately!"
Their less-esteemed return pilot did not act immediately, instead choosing to check her console.
"I don't think so, sir," she leaned backwards, looking at her tall passenger over her visor, "This equipment is extremely sensitive..."
But before she could finish, they felt the foreseen impact and the resulting explosion, which tore through the outer layers of the craft and threw everyone backwards as the starboard thrusters instantly failed and sent the transport spiraling downwards while sirens blazed and smoke began to cloud their vision.
Bomoor was conscious for just long enough to feel them impact the ground before he was thrown down once again and knocked out.
The dull sound of shouting in the distance and with the all-too-familiar taste of blood in his mouths, Bomoor slowly opened his eyes as he felt himself being prodded by a tiny finger. He saw the shining yellow eyes of Reave glaring down at him from below his wide-brimmed hat. The Jawa’s thick clothes were singed but the mysterious sentient within seemed relatively unscathed as he jabbered something at the dazed Ithorian.
“Reave?” Bomoor coughed, “We were in the transport. Where is Amare?”
The Jawa scuttled over to Bomoor’s periphery and seemed to be gesturing over in that direction as he continued to jabber. The former Jedi shuffled himself up slightly onto his elbows so he could peer down to where Reave was pointing. There he saw the smoking remains of the front half of their transport vessel with the cockpit section almost completely peeled apart by the impact of that tiny shining projectile he had spied in the sky. He could just about spy the charred remains of their confident pilot. Laying splayed out on the dusty ground between him and the wreck was his blue Nautolan companion.
Bomoor painfully twisted his neck around to see the back half of the craft some way behind them. They must have been torn apart by something on the way down and peeled out of the transport like beans from a can.
He perked up as he heard that shouting getting louder. It was a single voice that seemed to be barking orders over the sound of a rumbling engine and metallic thumping on the ground. Something told him it was not an Imperial rescue party on their way to save them. Summoning his power, he soothed his aches and pains and willed himself to stand and hobble over to Amare.
She was alive and breathing, with no loss of limb but had some unpleasant-looking scratches across one of her sides as she was likely thrown across the ground. She had probably injured her arm on that side too.
“Amare!” Bomoor’s voice was commanding, although his concern shone through, “We must move quickly.”
“Halt!” the Ithorian heard the voice ring out again, very close by now. The metallic stomping stopped but the drone of the engine continued, “I hear someone out there.”
In a more hushed tone, Bomoor urged, “Come on Amare, get up.”
He placed a hand upon her, now projecting the healing essence onto her. He knew it was dangerous, given her propensity to drain more than her fair share from other’s essences but this was an urgent situation.
Amare began to stir, her eyelids slowly started to part open as she moaned in grievous pain. In her confusion and disorientation, she whispered with tears seeping from her deep fathomless dark eyes across her dirty and moderately lacerated face, "Capo? Haa...have you...have you come to take me home? I...can't see you. Can't see anything. Ungh...it hurts so much..."
The thumping had grown louder and could be felt reverberating through the ground, along with more barking from the voice. Now closer, the crisp Core-ward accent was obvious, although it held slightly different inflexions from the typical Bastionite accent they had been subjected to since their arrival. A few clipped synthesised voices were also being carried on the wind, although the flames from the downed shuttle continued to crackle near to the party.
Reave had held his head up at the sounds, cocked to one side with glowing eyes narrowing. Having now spent some time with the wily Tatooinian, it was clear he was preparing for further conflict. He had already scavenged the dead pilot's weapon, seeming to not care about either the corpse or the stench of the burnt flesh, and had slung it about his small person with his own massively-oversized repeater.
He made a series of jabbering demands to the two Force users and jabbed a gloved finger towards one of the nearby larger pieces of debris, indicating they should hide. True enough, any greater cover was too far to immediately reach - the crash of the Calparion had damaged a great deal of the nearby foliage and trees, destroying a lot of the potential cover.
"Yes, Reave, of course," the Ithorian was more than happy to follow the small sentient's instructions when he was speaking sense (or at least he assumed as much having little to no understanding of Jawaese).
Bomoor knelt down and scooped up Amare's form with his naturally strong arms, trying carefully not to allow her broken arm to swing around, "I'm sorry about this Amare, but we need to get to some cover."
"Bomoor...?" Amare softly recognized her friend's voice, her thoughts and memories in disarray. "I'm sorry I failed you...ow...I...tried to fight her. She's too strong..."
As quickly as possible, Bomoor carried the injured Nautolan away towards the rear section of the Calparion, where some of the debris looked like it would provide some cover until they could assess the danger. A wide portion of the outer hull had been peeled backwards like a strip of Sohli bark and the three survivors ducked behind it just in time to avoid detection. Bomoor peeked just one eyestalk out to get a view of the newcomers.
The stomping machine that they had all heard now finally presented itself at the vanguard of a sizeable troop of combatants, revealing a GalactaWerks Martial Defence Walker - typically called 'Madaws' or even 'Mads', by the defeated Outer Rim Alliance from wars past - with its cockpit entirely devoid of protective screens, exposing its pilot and inhabitants. Stood proudly between droid workers was a man garbed in pale-tan variation of the distinctive uniform of a GalactaWerks intendant, which had gone unchanged for many decades, and evoked classical imagery of big game hunters and other conservative and historical stereotypes.
Faint blond hair that was both thinning and giving way to white stretched back beneath the intendant's pith helmet, with large moustachios, well-tapered, protruding from his sneering lip. A large rifle was slung casually over his arm, its barrel ballooning at its muzzle, with a series of small lights flickering along its frame. Completing the ridiculous and exaggerated appearance of this self-important figure was a velvet shoulder cape, but rather than the traditional green colour, it was a blazing red.
"Well struck, I do say!" The man jeered proudly, eyes alighting at the crashed Imperial shuttle. "Ha-ha! The finest marksman in all the Company. Who'd have thought we'd find such sport on this twisted little world, eh?"
When the droid pilot he was addressing made no response, being one of the more primitive One-Series GW machines, the intendant scoffed miserably and dramatically. "Still, must be sure of our kill!" He peered over the edge of his walker, eyes locking onto the heavy Three-Series and Four-Series destroyers that gathered below - much more recent additions to the GalactaWerks arsenal. "You there, machines: check the wreckage and execute any of the beasts still breathing. One of the creatures may have limped away!"
As he gave the order, the wannabe hunter began preparing to lower himself to the ground as well, clearly thinking there was no real danger. Whilst he began his descent, the heavy droids began marching towards the distended and broken segments of the transport, whilst the destroyers, engaging their shields, daintily stepped behind them, their miniaturised cannons primed and ready for combat.
One heavy battle droid halted at the body of the crispy pilot, its central and circulate optical sensor spinning as it examined the body, using whatever advanced software and hardware to draw some mechanical conclusions. Within a couple of seconds, it warbled in some form of low-tone droidspeak to its companions.
"What?!" The intendant demanded, catching his breath following his descent and now standing nearer by to the droids and ship. "In Basic, please! Like any self-respecting being, I don't speak that computer nonsense. Ridiculous machines; need I tell you again?"
"The pilot lacks a weapon. Non-conformity to Imperial protocols," the droid addressed its commander in a very strict spoken manner. "Non-Human organic matter detected - not match for pilot." The droid turned its bulk, warbled in communication with the other droids examining other portions of the wreckage, and looked back to the master. "Two distinct organic detritus detected." The optic sensor spun in different directions as its data was examined, some clicking audible, even from the hiding space of Amare, Bomoor and Reave. "Species: Ithorian. Species: Nautolan. Light external injuries - percentage eighty-seven per cent. Non-fatal - percentage ninety-one per cent, internal injuries inconsiderate."
A look of fear briefly passed over the older Human's face, but it was quickly replaced by narrowing eyes. He raised his energy-blunderbuss back at and primed its cartridge. "A-ha! A hunt! A hammerhead, no less!" He spun around to the other heavy battle droids and destroyers, gesticulating with his elbows and shoulders, in spite of holding a weapon of his own. "Platoon! Search patterns, weapons armed for stun; these trophies shall be mine!"
"That man..." Bomoor whispered to his cohorts, "I know that man from Onderon."
TBC
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