The Rebel Faction

T4a-class Shuttle Contegorian Courage, Genon

“...some of the first duties of politicians is to try and educate the masses to not take medicine if at all possible,” stated the officer adamantly.

“Did you drink too much Cognac?”

The younger Lucerne smirked with amusement at his companion. He opened his mouth only to get interrupted by the pilot’s exchanged with Genon Flight Control over the intercom.

“This is shuttle Contegorian Courage, transmitting clearance codes.”

“Shuttle Contegorian Courage, the deflector shields will be down momentarily. Stay on your pre-planned course.”

“Roger that control. Courage out.”

The shuttle arced through the clouds. Ahead, a gray cloud seemed to shimmer: the local shield hex deactivating to allow the shuttle passage to the Confederation’s unofficial capital below. Unlike many governments, the Confederation had made it a practice to have their deflector shields up all of the time, except for when letting traffic in or out. Not only did this ensure that the Confederates couldn’t be caught with their defences down, but it also hampered smuggling and infiltration by less desirable elements. After passing through the small hexagon, the shields were immediately raised back up. The couple swayed in their seats as the Courage encountered a brief spurt of turbulence. The Rear-Admiral nodded.

“They seem to be doing their job all right.”

Christina let out an exasperated sigh. “What did you think? That the flight controller would let a novice pilot transport not only his commander, but a chief-of-state as well?”

The man shrugged, turning off the intercom with a flick of a finger. “You can never be too sure. Inspecting and observing subordinates work is always a good thing.”

She slowly shook her head. “If you say so. Try and explain why medicine is bad again for the people.”

“Medicine by itself is a wonderful thing,” stated the Kashan man, “We know that; Bacta produced on Genon could easily save the lives of many of the Coalition’s soldiers that wouldn’t have been savable before, and besides, we can even cure some of the citizens of diseases and injuries that wouldn’t have been possible before.”

“And that shows why medicine is a bad thing how?”

“It’s not. People relying on it is. People who think that a little drop of Bacta will make everything better is. People who think that medicines and dietary supplements can take of all of their health needs,” rambled the man, “because it cannot. Bacta doesn’t improve the conditioning of your muscles or organs of any sort, like your heart. It only repairs it to the extent of which it was originally.”

“Your point?”

“People should be taking more preventative measures, something simple as running a half hour every three days and eating decently. Not only would that keep their heart in good shape, it would them more physically fit, and consequently, in better condition than before, as well as heavily decrease the odds of contracting some disease; exercise improves the immune system as well.”

The brunette pursed her lips and looked at her partner questioning.

“I know you train with your crews in keeping them fit, but there’s more to it than that. You think this applies to the meeting somehow? I don’t think half of the department would survive a thirty minute jog, much less endorse it to the populace.”

He snorted.

“True, on both accounts. In essence, the body I was referring to is the military. Exercising the various forces in live-combat drills and simulations makes them more competent, more experienced. Given sufficient time and maneuvers, even the most inexperienced of the Confederate fleet will become like seasoned warriors, seeing the action, and knowing what to do without the losses, without the pain. The economy is like the doctor providing the Medicine, which is the replacement troops and vehicles, to the military. They won’t be any better than the old ones if our forces never drill or see actual action.”

“There are flaws with that analogy.”

“There are flaws with most analogies.”

“So what do you intend to gain from this meeting?”

“A proverbial shot in the arm.”

Nebula-class Star Destroyer Trojan, Abhean Shipyards, Abhean

“Captain on the deck!”

Nearly a hundred boot heels of the bridge crew clicked together. Out of the bridge foyer strode Captain Valeska, officer of the Abhean Navy. She was a lithe woman, yet her stride showed more of a military gait than most of her male counterparts. Affectionally known as the Iron Lady throughout the fleet, Valeska had previously been the instructor of naval gunnery at Abhean’s venerated naval academy. Some of the Confederation’s best shots came from that academy under her tutelage. Recognizing her expertise, the Rear-Admiral had recommended she not only be given an actual command, but to have her rigourously drill Abhean’s gunnery crews just like she did at the academy. Valeska had accepted the assignment with pleasure, and even while the Trojan was still being completed at the yards, she had arranged for her gunnery crews to practice on other vessels and back at the academy.

“At ease,” coldly stated the woman, turning her dark eyes to sweep the bridge.

“Captain,” shouted out a communication’s officer, “we have clearance from Fleet Control to launch.”

The pale-skinned woman nodded with appreciation. We’re finally here. She smiled. The first of a new wave. Valeska paced over to the bridge viewport and looked down at Abhean below. This planet has seen many ships come and go. The Chu’unthor. Those of the Imperials. The start of the rearmament and now the dawn of our era. More Nebulas are underway to protect that which has nourished us. She pivoted to face the helmsmen.

“Lieutenant, let us get underway.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The silver wedge of Abhean’s new star destroyer jerked into motion, leaving the yards which had shaped the vessel. Now behind her, laid the forms of other Nebula-class Star Destroyers in various stages of construction. Part of the new heart of the Confederation’s new fleet. Slightly over a thousand meters long, the Nebula-class Star Destroyer was a formidable design, sporting more firepower than a Pegasus-class Star Destroyer and most other similiarly-sized vessels. It was an older design dating from the times of the New Republic, and as such, was not nearly as complicated in terms of technology or materials compared to many of the other Confederation vessels. The result was Metalorn mass-producing many of the parts while Abhean assembled them in their orbital yards. A relatively fast and efficient process for a building a capital ship. It was rumoured among the fleet that Nebulas would probably at least equal the number of Pegasus-class Star Destroyers in service with the Confederation if not surpass them. The Trojan marched forward to join the rest of Abhean’s considerable fleet. In the midst of the fleet stood Abhean’s pride in the Navy: the modified Imperator-class Star Destroyer Valourous, flagship of the fleet. Valeska smiled. And now I have the second largest ship within the fleet…and the most powerful.

Valeska turned to one of her gunnery officers.

“Forty gun salute to the Valourous Lieutenant.”

The man nodded and keyed his comm.

“Aye sir. Topside forward batteries, execute forty gun salute.”

The forward heavy turbolaser batteries sent out a single, unified volley of conflagrated emerald bursts; bursts that just left the barrels, briefly bathing the white exterior of the star destroyer in a forest green light.

As the burst dissipated into nothingness, Valeska could only smile. Sometimes life is good.

Forard, Almas

Almas.

A twisted world.

A world with a dark past; the legacy of the Sith still marked the planet. A planet with poisonous atmosphere. Combined with its backworld location, it was a wonder that any life still inhabited if after the Revan’s demise. Yet hardy settlers had not only eeked out a living, but also in the tradition of Revan, endeavored into the world of hi-tech engineering; the engineering that had made Almas not only a habitable world, but also a productive one for the Confederation in which it belonged.

“Crop production is up President,” state the aide, ”it actually looks like we’ll have a sizeable surplus.”

Quee stroked her chin,”Mostly because of Kashan importing those CR-2 Harvester Droids. That’s why we can harvest and sow more than before. The surplus will be nice, and allow us to easily finance Bill 2342.”

Travis nodded. Bill 2342 was a bill set forth by the Contegorian Council shortly after the Imperial Incursion to Metalorn. Each planet’s legislative branch modified to fit the planet’s own particular needs. One thing common to nearly all the bills was the inclusion of full planetary shield generators to all planets that didn’t already have them. Almas was one of those planets that previously had not met that recommendation. With the surpluses from the crops, they would not only have the generators, but also funds to moderately increase the forces already stationed on the planet.

“I’m counting on the Genetics work with Project Utopia to get increased grants for our genetic research,” stated the President.

Travis grinned. “If the project actually works right, we could easily get just as many private investors to help finance the work.”

Quee nodded. “You may be on to something, although Investors will want returns on their products. Grants do not require that sort of thing.”

“Although if we do get results for them, they’ll expect to get them.”

“True, but grants allow us to investigate more riskier research without having to worry,” she snorted, ”investors could be nice for some of our less risky ventures. In fact, organize an exploratory committee to investigate it.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The blonde-haired woman looked out the transparisteel viewport towards the setting sun; the last vestiges of the binary star system’s rays beating down on the leafy orchards and fields of golden grain below. A cool breeze kissed her face as she opened the window. She heard a distant clicking and swiveled about to face it. A smile crept over her face. Some of us have to take a break from a hard day’s work. But droids like that keep on ticking tirelessly, even throughout the night. So our world joins the forces of industry.

Audacia

Songbirds serenaded throughout the vibrant forest; their song the only sound in the forest aside from the rustling of trees. The scent of tens of trees, flowers, and other plants suffused the air. Beams from Audacia’s sun beat down on the forest, bringing a heat that only was salved by the cool breeze winding throughout the woods. It was the perfect visage of natural serenity; untouched, unspoiled by the human, or alien, world. Or so it would it would seem to the casual observer. Throughout the woods, a new voice sounded.

“Atten-hut!”

Hundreds of boot heels clicked together, echoing throughout the forest valley, silencing the wildlife within. Yet no soldiers marched; there was no grand ceremony of formed ranks of Confederation; a practice common throughout the Confederation military. Instead, a pair of men wandered about, checking the terrain for the telltale signs of the two platoon’s presence within the woods. While neither of the observers wore a uniform as they hiked through the woods, they walked stiffly formal, as if on a parade. It was not a conscious habit, but one bred from years of duty.

“I must say Major,” stated Trutzig, ”I’m reasonably impressed by your unit. I’ve only spotted about a squad or so thus far.”

Major Clancy sighed at the General’s remark. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t be able to see any of them.”

Trutzig barked a laugh. “Hah. It’s not a testament to your men’s skill, but rather to my experience in these woods. Where do you think I trained 22nd Battalion?”

The other man frowned. “I could have swore they were trained in Soresu.”

“Officially, yes. And we were there some of the time,” agreed the Audacian, “But this is mainly where we did our work; that was before the Vong invasion. Nearly a decade ago, if you can imagine. These woods haven’t seemed to have changed much.”

The major nodded. Trutzig eyed the other men intensely.

“Your method of camouflaging our soldiers seems to have though.”

Clancy shrugged. “We still use most of the coverage techniques you developed.”

“But you’ve applied them differently,” commented the older man, ”the men I’ve seen aren’t covered in mud or use nets to carry foliage on them.”

The major smiled. “Times change. No, we’re using Creshaldyne Industries Scout armor these days. Pretty good quality, pretty effective, and above all, pretty adaptable. It even works all right in urban environments.”

Trutzig nodded. “That company has a factory on Metalorn, doesn’t it?”

“It may. I’m not exactly part of the logistics in the structure.”

Trutzig nodded. “Understandable. So tell me, can your men fight as good as they can hide?”

Clancy lightly chuckled. “After this? You’re going to drive my men crazy, sir.”

“What’s keeping you from doing that? Rumour has it that they’re better than the 22nd right now. What’s keeping you from the challenge? You’re not afraid of some older men being led by an older man, are you?”

The Major adamantly shook his head. “No sir, it’s not that. I imagine the name of the 22nd is worth any high-tech equipment we use this day; your men would cream mine.”

“Could they? We’re more experienced no doubt, but we’re not quite as fit as you youngsters. You could easily beat me in a mile run.”

“With all due respect sir, I’m not sure that’s quite a fair comparison. When I’m your age, I’d bet you’d beat in that.”

Trutzig laughed as he continued his walk with his protégé. “With that line of thought, I could argue that when your men have seen as much action as the 22nd, they’d surefire beat mine. You know that. What is keeping you?”

“The Elder’s orders for tommorrow’s work.”

The graying general frowned. “And what might they be?”

“To oversee the collection and transportation of grains and other foodstuffs off the planet.”

Trutzig scowled. “They use commandoes for simple security tasks now?”

“No, no,” quietly mused the man,” I imagine it has to do with all of the harvests coming in; there’s not quite enough men to oversee everything carefully; especially with you leading a lot of our army throughout the Confederation.”

Hans frowned, ”Sacrifices to be made I’m sure. Don’t they have droids for that stuff these days? It’s not like Metalorn hasn’t churned out any for around here…”

“They do, and we have some, but the Elders don’t believe they’re very good for communicating with freighter crews. By the maker, I’d imagine it’d be worse if we assigned them protocol droids to communicate with the Paladins. It would be ugly sir.”

Trutzig nodded. “I guess I can’t blame them then. That does make some sense.”

“Of course it does,” grinned Clancy, ”They’re just as old as you are. That means that they have the experience to know what to do.”

“Politicians,” growled the General, ”they’re just as likely to use their wisdom and experience for personal gain as they are to help Audacia. No integrity I tell you.”

“That seems rather cynical. Wasn’t the Rear-Admiral one of the political leaders on Kashan for a while?”

“Sure, but he is a soldier first, and then a leader. He was no politician; no politicking there. The people loved him as a hero, he didn’t need to delve into politics to that position. He didn’t ask to get that position.”

“Seems somewhat narrowminded to me, sir.”

“Dispense with the formalities. This is all off the record. Politicians…I don’t know, I just can’t trust them. Palpatine is a great example of that. You never know what they’re up to.”

“It’s a good thing that we have multiple politicians trying to check out each other’s powers, motives, and whatnot then.”

Hans snorted. “Sure, but in the process, they’re making them less efficient in terms of work. They’re taking up time they could be using to help our people rather than investigating the various rumors circling the council.”

“But this decision of their’s to have us help with the security is a good one. They can do stuff right.”

“Sometimes…”

Clancy nodded. “Sometimes…”