The Common Corellian

Posted on Sat Oct 17th, 2026 @ 5:02pm by Reave

2,851 words; about a 14 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IX: The First Verse
Location: Near CEC Facility, Corellia
Timeline: Evening (Local Time), Day Twenty-Two

Trent Graff had spent twenty-seven years learning precisely how long it took to reach the Corellian Engineering Corporation's northern industrial campus from the apartment he still insisted was temporary, and the answer had once been fifty-two standard minutes.

That had been before the strikes, before the demonstrations, before somebody in government had decided every transport interchange in the district required another security cordon and every political faction on Corellia had apparently discovered an urgent need to occupy whichever piece of public ground stood between Trent and the beginning of his shift. The journey had taken an hour and thirty-seven minutes that evening, and he still had another security barrier to cross before the factory proper. By the time he emerged from the elevated tram station into the broad industrial avenue below, his mood had deteriorated sufficiently that the sight of several thousand chanting demonstrators failed to alarm him nearly as much as it irritated him.

The avenue had once been designed primarily for workers. Two pedestrian levels fed directly from the transport interchange towards the enormous CEC complex, separated from freight traffic by barriers and raised walkways, whilst the lower roadway disappeared beneath kilometres of fabrication halls, warehouses, landing platforms and administrative towers. At shift change it had traditionally become a river of uniforms and work jackets, thousands of people moving in broadly the same direction beneath the cold white illumination of corporate signage and suspended advertisements.

Now, it resembled an occupied city. Temporary barricades divided the approaches into narrow channels. Corellian security officers in dark public-order armour stood at intervals along them, helmets clipped to belts or held beneath tired arms, whilst portable scanners inspected bags and identity cards that Trent had been presenting at the same gates since several of the younger officers had been children. Beyond the first line, two separate concentrations of demonstrators occupied opposite sides of the avenue beneath incompatible forests of banners. Coalition colours predominated towards the transit hub, accompanied by Alliance insignia, signs condemning the weakness of the Republic and placards bearing fragments of the Bastion revelations in letters large enough for the circling news cameras to read. Across the roadway, Centrality supporters answered them with Republican flags, portraits of politicians and increasingly inventive accusations that everybody opposite had become an apologist for separatism, corporate rule or another war.

The distance between the two sides had narrowed considerably since Trent had passed through that morning. He stopped near the foot of the pedestrian ramp and stared at the obstruction ahead.

"For kark's sake."

A middle-aged woman in CEC logistics colours beside him glanced over, apparently deciding whether he was addressing her, but Trent was already looking past her towards a line of security personnel struggling to keep an access lane clear. Someone had overturned one of the temporary barriers. A young man was shouting into an officer's face about the right to protest whilst three metres away another officer was attempting to persuade an elderly Duros to move away from the entrance. News cameras hovered above them like carrion insects, rotating smoothly whenever voices rose sufficiently to promise a confrontation.

Trent checked the time on his wrist terminal and felt another small measure of resentment settle into place. He had not been late for an evening shift in fourteen months. Naturally, nobody responsible for payroll would care that the tram had been held outside Coronet Junction for eighteen minutes because protesters had occupied one of the platforms. Nor would they care that the replacement service had terminated early, forcing several hundred passengers onto another line already running above capacity. There would be a number on the system showing when his security pass entered the site and another when he logged onto the freight-control network. Someone considerably younger than him, who had acquired a supervisory title after approximately five minutes with the company, would eventually ask why those numbers did not agree with the roster.

The thought carried him forward.

The first security officer barely looked at his identification before waving him through, but the second stopped him for a scanner check which Trent regarded as particularly insulting.

"I work here," he said flatly.

"So do about thirty thousand other people," came the terse response.

"But," he began, stopping himself from gritting his teeth, "I have worked here for twenty-seven years."

The officer looked exhausted enough that Trent's seniority failed to impress him. "Then," they began slowly, "you know how this works."

Trent considered saying something else, saw the dark crescents beneath the man's eyes and decided against it. The officer swept the scanner across his jacket, checked the result, then gestured him onwards before turning immediately towards the next worker.

Behind Trent, somebody began shouting that the security service was deliberately allowing Coalition demonstrators closer to the transport platforms. Almost simultaneously, from somewhere beyond the opposite barrier, another voice accused the same officers of protecting Centrality provocateurs.

Trent looked between the two crowds and decided that both were probably idiots. However, that did not mean he regarded them equally. He had been young enough during the Second Outer Rim Conflict to remember the casualty lists appearing on public screens and old enough to understand what they meant. Corellia had survived, as Corellia generally did, but the Alliance had never inspired in him the romantic enthusiasm it seemed to produce amongst people who had not watched trade routes close and military requirements swallow industrial schedules. The peace afterwards had always struck him as an arrangement devised by men who wanted credit for ending a war without admitting they had failed to settle what caused it.

Chancellor Paralles had subsequently spent years demonstrating, in Trent's opinion, that indecision could be elevated into a governing philosophy.

Still, he had no intention of standing beneath a Coalition banner. He had actual work to do.

Another surge moved through the crowd as somebody pushed against one of the barriers. Security officers immediately stepped forward, shields coming up with the weary coordination of people who had already performed the movement too many times that day. A bottle flew from somewhere Trent could not identify and shattered against the pavement between them. The response was abrupt; one demonstrator disappeared beneath two officers whilst another was driven backwards hard enough to collide with the barrier, and the crowd behind them erupted with furious accusations.

Trent flinched as a stun discharge cracked sharply through the avenue. For several seconds, it seemed possible that the whole line might collapse, but then reinforcements appeared from the CEC side of the district - and they were not public officers.

The private security contractors had become increasingly common over the previous week, ostensibly because the Corellian authorities could no longer provide sufficient personnel to protect industrial property whilst simultaneously policing the demonstrations. Trent understood the logic perfectly well. A company the size of CEC could not simply stop operating every time half the planet decided to argue in the street.

He disliked the contractors, anyway. Their armour was newer, cleaner and considerably less reassuring than that worn by the police. Some carried weapons Trent did not recognise immediately, though the angular housings and polished components had the expensive appearance of GalactaWerks-originated equipment. They moved without the tired hesitation of the public officers and watched the workers passing through the cordon with the same flat attention they gave the demonstrators beyond it.

One of them turned his helmet towards Trent as he passed, but Trent looked away first and immediately resented doing so.

"Damn cheerful lot."

Nobody answered him, of course.

Beyond the main security barrier, the atmosphere changed without becoming entirely calmer. The noise of the demonstrations diminished beneath the enormous mechanical presence of the industrial complex, replaced by the distant percussion of stamping machinery, warning klaxons, freight movers and the continual vibration produced by thousands of tonnes of equipment operating simultaneously. The CEC buildings extended beyond easy sight, their upper levels disappearing into a layered cityscape of gantries, towers, docking structures and suspended transport lines. Half-completed hull sections rested inside illuminated assembly cradles large enough to contain apartment blocks, whilst cargo lifters moved between levels carrying components which Trent could not have afforded if he worked another twenty-seven years.

Usually, the sight restored some of his patience. CEC was Corellia made industrial. It was old enough, large enough and sufficiently embedded into the planet's identity that Trent had always considered employment there something approaching a birthright. His father had worked subcontracted fabrication and his uncle had spent thirty-one years maintaining atmospheric seals. Trent himself had entered freight operations at twenty-two and spent the better part of three decades being informed that his experience was highly valued immediately before somebody else received the promotion.

That somebody else, he noticed, had increasingly seemed to come from somewhere else. He knew what people called that attitude, too. Now, Trent did not consider himself prejudiced - he had worked beside aliens his entire adult life and could name half a dozen non-Humans he would rather share a shift with than most of the Humans currently supervising him. His objection, as he privately understood it, was economic rather than biological. New contractors arrived from outside Corellia, accepted conditions established workers would not, filled temporary labour pools and were subsequently presented by management as evidence that local employees needed to become more "flexible".

It simply happened, Trent had noticed, that a great many of the newcomers were not Human. He did not regard that as his fault. The irritation had acquired another target during the previous fortnight.

The security gate inside Building Aurek had been altered again. A temporary barrier redirected ordinary shift workers through a narrower access point whilst an adjacent lane, previously used for high-priority freight crews, admitted a steady sequence of unfamiliar personnel carrying newly issued CEC credentials.

Trent slowed as one passed - Human, this time. Thirty perhaps. Close-cropped hair, heavy shoulders and the oddly colourless expression of somebody concentrating upon not looking at anything. His work clothes were new enough that the seams had not softened, yet his access badge cleared the security reader immediately.

A second followed him, then an unfamiliar Nikto. Neither joined the workers heading towards the ordinary changing facilities. They turned instead towards a restricted service corridor which, according to the notices Trent had seen two days earlier, now provided access to 'temporary workforce accommodation'.

That phrase had annoyed him every time he remembered it. Twenty-seven years with the company and CEC had never once offered Trent a bed when an overtime shift ended after the final tram. There had been occasions during industrial overruns when he had slept in a break room with his jacket beneath his head.

These people had apparently arrived recently enough that half of them still required directions, and management had found accommodation for them inside the complex.

"Must be nice," he muttered.

The Nikto glanced towards him and Trent returned the look for half a second longer than necessary before continuing towards freight control.

His shift supervisor was not at the terminal when he arrived. That was unusual enough to improve Trent's mood temporarily, although the absence was explained by a message instructing evening staff to report directly to their assigned sectors because of 'enhanced operational requirements'. A second notice advised that several normal freight corridors had been closed under executive authority and that certain cargo movements were not to be delayed for routine verification.

Trent read that twice. CEC adored routine verification. There were people employed exclusively to verify that somebody else had verified something.

He opened the evening manifest and immediately found three priority transfers that appeared to have bypassed the normal logistics chain altogether. One contained propulsion assemblies, another specialist communications equipment and the third nothing more specific than secured technical materials. The authorisations were valid. More than valid, in fact. Each carried executive clearance high enough that challenging it would probably result in an extremely polite meeting with somebody who had never visited a loading bay.

Trent frowned. The destination codes bothered him more. All three consignments were being routed into sections of the complex currently occupied by the temporary personnel.

He considered mentioning it, but then he remembered the last time he had pointed out an irregularity and how enthusiastically his supervisor had thanked him before doing absolutely nothing.

"Not my problem," he said to himself with a small shrug.

One of the automated loaders assigned to Freight Hall Seven stopped responding to the local network, forcing somebody to inspect the control relay manually. The nearest junior technician was apparently unavailable. Trent was, as usual, both experienced enough to fix simple problems and insufficiently senior to decline them.

By then the shift had fully begun outside. Machinery thundered through the surrounding halls whilst cargo sleds moved along illuminated guideways beneath suspended sections of unfinished starships. Trent crossed two gantries, descended a freight lift and discovered that the direct passage towards Hall Seven had been sealed by private security. The contractor at the barrier did not explain why.

"Maintenance access," Trent stated.

"Closed," was all he got in response.

"Buddy, look," he tried a small smattering of charm, "my loader is on the other side."

"Use corridor seven-C."

Trent glared back, before finally replying. "That adds ten minutes."

The helmet remained pointed towards him and Trent waited. Nothing.

"Very helpful," he hissed. He turned away before the remark could become professionally inconvenient.

Seven-C was narrower, older and ran behind a series of storage areas seldom used since the expansion of the newer freight levels. The noise of active manufacturing became muffled there, reduced to a low mechanical pressure transmitted through walls and deck plates. Several overhead lights had failed, leaving alternating pools of white illumination and shadow along exposed service conduits.

Halfway through the corridor, Trent noticed that one of the maintenance panels had been removed.

He stopped, and spied that a pair of small boots protruded from the opening beneath it.

For a moment, he assumed some maintenance unit had finally been sent ahead of him. Then, the figure shifted backwards far enough that Trent could see a compact body wrapped almost completely in layered cloth and equipment, a broad-brimmed hat brushing against the underside of the service housing as its wearer twisted around inside the machinery.

Trent stared, and the unfamiliar diminutive alien stared back from beneath the hat, two bright eyes catching what little light reached beneath the hood.

Of course. Of course management had apparently hired a-- whatever-this-is.

"You're not maintenance," he declared to him.

The small figure remained motionless for a second, one gloved hand still buried somewhere inside the open panel. Then came a rapid stream of something unintelligible, pitched low and impatiently enough that Trent required no translation to understand its general character.

"I don't care what they told you," he said. "That panel feeds the freight-control relays. You cannot just crawl inside it."

Another sequence answered him, shorter this time and considerably more dismissive and Trent's eyebrows rose.

"Excuse me?"

The small and angry alien made a small gesture towards the corridor behind him which might, in a more diplomatic species, have suggested that Trent continue on his way.

Trent, however, did not. Something about the absurdity of the situation hardened all of the irritation he had accumulated during the journey to work into principle. The protests, the checkpoints, the private soldiers staring at him through featureless helmets, the unfamiliar contractors wandering through restricted areas, the accommodations, the executive freight clearances and now some child-sized alien in a hat spouting gibberish dismantling CEC infrastructure while Trent himself remained a Grade Four logistics coordinator after nearly three decades.

"No. Absolutely not."

The alien's glowing eyes narrowed by a fraction.

Trent reached towards the communicator clipped at his belt. "I'm calling security."

The reaction was immediate. The alien emerged from the service opening with astonishing speed for something so small, one hand catching the edge of the housing while the other disappeared beneath its coat. Trent had just enough time to realise that the bundle of fabric contained rather more equipment than any legitimate maintenance worker required.

He took one step backwards.

"Now hold on...!" He blabbered quickly, as the alien barked something sharp and urgent in its own language. "What?" Trent threw back.

Another burst followed, accompanied by a violent gesture towards Trent's identification badge. He looked down at it and then back at this creature.

"No."

It produced a noise of profound exasperation.

Trent managed to form the beginning of another objection before something hard struck him just above the ear, and the corridor rolled sideways. He hit the wall first, then the deck, the impact arriving as a distant and curiously unimportant sensation beneath the sudden roaring inside his skull. His vision narrowed around the tiny figure standing above him.

"Little... bastard..."

The glowing eyes regarded him for a moment. A final sequence of nonsense followed, slower than the others and carrying such unmistakable satisfaction that Trent suspected, even as consciousness abandoned him, that he had just been insulted.

The last thing he felt was somebody unclipping his CEC identification badge.

TBC

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