| abstract
| - Far from the hum of the capital city of Plaxton, in the vast Marin Mountain Range, this vacation spot serves Caspians all year round. In winter, skiing, snowboarding and sledding of the repulsor variety combine with cozy lodge surroundings and fine dining to make this an ideal getaway. Mostly vacant during the rainy spring season, in summer camping, carmteek riding, fishing, swimming and boating on Lukhas Lake are enjoyed. Swoop racing has recently joined the line up and can be found during any season. The lodge is a large, sprawling affair of breezepine log construction and filled with Sarian arts and craft decor. Of particular note is the collection of mythically themed tapestries perpetually on display in the lobby. The lake sits between the lodge and the mountain. The base of the craggy peak is surrounded by dense breezepine forest. => Admiral K. Moralis Rodriga => Commodore Lynae Caiton => Shael Oh the weather outside is frightful, especially to someone who's accustomed to climate controlled environments for the most part. The fire is most delightful, that is to say, the heat in the room is sufficient to thaw even the coldest of toes. And since she's no place to go, and the caf is quite good and reasonably priced and the service is quite friendly, Lynae is seated near the fireplace and enjoying the quiet and freedom to do so. Let it snow let it snow let it snow, and all that, as long as she doesn't have to trudge out into it. Despite regular responsibilities and a generally functional sense of danger, a lone white-clad figure strides his way across the leafy path that leads into Marin Resort. The arena here being the home of Team FLS, this human has never had an opportunity to appreciate the resort as anything but the stage for an away game. Now retired from the races, for the first time he takes in his truly scenic surroundings, noting the natural vibrance and lack of architecture so rare to a galaxy overrun with Coruscants and Corellias. Indeed, back home there is nothing even remotely like the Rasalas. However, the man isn't here to enjoy his surroundings. A gust of wind sends a chill down his spine and he shivers, clutching his arms and drawing his coat closer about him. The lodge doors greet him kindly, bits of snow melting off of his boots as he steps in. He's here only on a hunch, built from an hours-old tip and years' of building desire; the thirst for an understanding has built a fire somewhere in this man's chest which drives him now toward the fire without. This conversation may indeed be his last, but come whatever, it's something he simply needs to do. "Lynae Caiton," he opens without emphasis or grace. "I am Admiral Moralis Rodriga. You are responsible for the destruction of my flagship, the decimation of two of my fleets and the deaths of thousands of my men and comrades. I wish to parlay." Since entering the lodge, and dodging the Imperials, Shael has claimed for herself a cup of caff. Still beaming broadly, exhilerated from her recent race, she peers out the windows at the snow, watching people come and go, bundled warmly for the chill. Moralis's brisk entrance and beeline for the woman near the hearth catches her attention, however, and she turns her eyes from the world of white outside. Looking up from her contemplation of the aesthetic appeal of the dancing fire in the hearth, Caiton spots Rodriga nearly as soon as he enters the room, observing him as he moves through the room. Ironically, she finds his presence to be not at all surprising, though it should be. And part of her is simply astounded by the fact that they're in the same room, and no visible weapons are drawn, no violence offered. To that end she straightens ever so slightly in her chair, squaring her shoulders, keeping her hands calmly visible and curled around the cup of caf that's nearly empty at this point. Cocking her head slightly to the side, Caiton surveys Rodriga from this angle before speaking in return. "Ironically the very last thing you said to me was, 'A few other people will ask questions, and you will answer them, or I will open my mouth, I will whisper in your ear, and I will sing the song that ends eternity.'" Caiton takes the time to do a credible imitation of Rodriga's voice, a wicked mimic when she turns her talents to it. She lifts her cup to take another minute sip from the caf within, "I have long wondered what you meant by 'sing the song that ends eternity', Rodriga. Did you mean that you would personally find someone who had the balls to try to kill me? Or that you would do it yourself?" She frees one hand to gesture to the open chair directly across from her at the hearth, "But by all means, have a seat. Let parlay," she uses the word he selected. "Lets dispense with the personal animosity for the nonce and see where calm conversation gets us. If that doesn't work I'm sure we can arrange a quiet meeting, out of CDU territory of course, to discuss those other things, at length." Rodriga bows and sits. "Of course. I'll answer your first question right now, since it's a rather simple one and it would appear that this is going to be an otherwise complicated conversation. I meant simply that I would personally destroy you in the most unnecessarily drawn-out and painful manner imaginable to myself. Or, more likely, to our Mr. Stone, as he is more experienced in such matters. Not very Republican of me, to be sure, but you can understand if at the time I was rather emotionally charged and eager to cause you harm. You had, after all, recently destroyed several hundreds of thousands of Republic citizens, many of whom served with my fleet." Mora takes a moment to flag a waiter. "Corellian Red, seven. No, prior. Thank you." Folding his legs, he clears his throat and continues. "I am here to ask a straightforward question without a single answer, in hopes of bridging a gap that most would consider permanent, if not widening. Of course I refer to the gap between our two peoples. We will both attempt to blame our cultural issues on our respective leaders, but knowing that neither of us is in a position to do away with our leadership, I am more interested in understanding what lies beneath this endless conflict. So, from the perspective of my constant rival, my question is quite simply, 'Why?'" The pair seemed, well... Not quite tense, really. But something seemed a bit unusual. Taking another sip from her caff, Shael moves to a chair a reasonable distance from the pair, from which she should be able to hear what is said. Maybe she's imagining things. Or, on the other hand, maybe something very interesting is about to go down. Either way, she still had a cup of caff to finish off. Caiton nods in reply to his initial answer to the question she had posed. "Not very Republican of you at all, Rodriga," she says in a quietly contemplative tone of voice. "You are supposed to be above such things, after all. The New Republic is supposed to stand for and espouse all the things that are good in man, be they human or otherwise. Embody that which is noble and good, self sacrificing, selfless, all the things that are supposed to be the keys to inner happiness or something along those lines. I'm frankly astounded that you can make this admission, without being pressed into the conversation." She quirks a ghost of a smile, "I make no pretenses, of course, to the aforementioned things, at least, not for the reasons that you do." "I will presume, for the sake of the question and the topic of conversation, that you are entirely aware and fully briefed and educated on the political machinations that brought us to this point. I will presume that you are fully educated on the history of the conflict. The casualties, fatalities, losses, both economical and social along with resources, environmental, even the warping and altering of assets and new technologies that are turned to the use of this conflict instead of some other practical application. That being stated and agreed upon, as the premise from which we are working, and the stipulation that you are inquiring of me as to my take on the situation and as to 'why' this conflict continues, I can give you A answer, if not the One answer, that you perhaps seek." Lynae sets her cup aside, clasping her hands loosely in her lap, fingers laced together atop one knee, her legs crossed, one foot moving slowly from side to side. She takes a few moments of silent contemplation, her blue eyes slightly narrowed as she studies Rodriga's face, searching for something in his expression, his body language, something that would provide a key that would better explain his sudden curiosity, let alone as to why it would bring him to her. "Chaos. I can't stand it, personally. I cannot abide the mess that it brings, the trappings and bother and fuss that follows in it's wake. Chaos, disorder, discord, lawlessness. Reckless abandon of social functions, the break down of economy and structure. The increase of crime and filth, trafficking of drugs and flesh. The wanton, lewd, voting of the masses for bread and circuses. Why we fight is fairly simple: you believe that your way is the end solution to rid the known universe of these problems, these vices. We believe that our way is the solution to these problems. And every death on your side or mine only makes us more determined to make these lives worth it." She pauses, still surveying Rodriga's face, "Does that begin to answer your question?" "It does, but we already knew that. That's what irks me. We know we're both fighting for the same thing. The entire galaxy knows it, save for some of the more effectively conditioned peons on some Imperial worlds and what extremists remain on our side after Cochran. The only people who will say otherwise are the people pulling the strings, be they elected or appointed or whatever brought them to power." Mora is handed his wine. "You may join us, Ms. Winters. Eavesdropping does not become a woman of your stature, am I right? Come and meet the Commodore Have a seat, have a drink, it's on me." He turns back to Lynae. "Have you met Kara Winters, Commodore? Kara is our liaison to the ministry of taxation. She keeps the military funded that you and I might properly continue trying to blow each other up. And that's what I'm trying to understand. When did dying people become dead Imperials, dead Republicans, dead Rebels, dead Whatevers? Why can't millions upon millions of casualties simply be dead -people?- Because at the end of the day, that's all it is. Whether they fought for you, or for me, or for Caspar or Cochran or, I don't know, Sullust, all they are at the end of the day is one more person who died so that one guy in a black robe can stay in charge, or so that a bunch of folks in white robes can take that from him, and the truth is that if people could just stop dying for a while and get a nudge in the right direction they could probably take charge of themselves, and I think..." Mora has to stop to breathe. "I'm sick of it, Commodore, I'm dead sick of it. If politicians and corporates want to use guns to decide who's going to tell everyone else how to live their lives, fine. Let them do the shooting. Good people don't need to die so that other good people can be oppressed by Jan or Jef or Jak Galaxy. And you know why I fight for the Republic? You know the one reason why? Because when all's said and done I believe that the Republic is the most likely group in all this to get rid of all the bullshit and let people be people. And maybe you think people aren't capable of being people, or maybe you think people are inherently bad, or whatever it is that makes you think that dictating their lives is better for everyone, I don't know, but the truth is that there is good in people, there -is-, and I've seen it, and for once I just want someone to shut up and let them have that without being told why they need to or why they can't or why they never will." Mora breathes one more time. "Hi, Kara. How's it going?" Briefly, Shael gets that look children get when they're caught with their hand in the cookie jar. The guilty expression is quickly replaced by one of confusion, however. How did he know her name? Why is he inviting her over? And why is he calling her Kara? Oh well. Pushing herself to her feet, she moves to join the pair, drawing her shoulders up and back more properly, and standing straighter. Hopefully her rumpled pilot's coverall is too incongruous with this identity Moralis has shoved on her. Why can't tax officials race swoops as a hobby? Pulling out a chair for herself, Shael sits before offering her hand to Lynae. "Commodore," she says politely. "I don't believe we have met." Nodding towards this Kara Winters, Lynae offers a brief, "I'm quite sure that we haven't," she replies before supplying the rest of the introduction, "Commodore Lynae Caiton, Imperial Taskforce, and by all means, please join us," by way of greeting before turning her attention back towards Rodriga. Not one known for making quick leaps of illogic or speaking without careful consideration in advance, Lynae is a thoughtful woman. Not to say 'thoughtful' in the manner of 'oh it's your birthday! i picked this up two months ago, planning in advance'. But more to say that she gives things deep thought, contemplative time, careful consideration before just blurting out something half baked. To that end, she holds her silence long enough to sort through the assorted replies that present themselves to her. "I don't think that people are inherently bad. I think that people, by and far, are focused on making sure that they get along in life, and that those they immediately must tend to or be responsible for are doing well. Not enough people think on a large scale. Not enough people think in the grand scheme of things. Worry over the logistics of feeding and supplying an entire army. Let alone feeding and suppling the entire country, city, town, village, just the people on this block even," she says quietly. "Not enough people think of the universe, the inhabited worlds, as more than just abstract thought. Vague, ooh pretty light in the night sky," she says in a faintly disgusted tone of voice. "You think that people are basically good. I believe they are basically neutral until situations present themselves where they are forced to make a choice. As we are all given the choice. Do good or bad. Equal choice. Equal opportunities. What we do with our lives is entirely in our own hands." Looking up as her waitress arrives with a refill for her cup, Caiton murmurs her thanks again then reaches for her cup once the waitress steps away to handle other customers. "So, fight we do. For the cloaked man behind curtain or the robed man behind curtain B. The fellows behind curtains C D and E are mostly ignored except for when A needs a precedent or B needs support. And around we go, the round and round of it all, the merry killing dance. "But your idea of good is not the same as mine. Good, in your culture, is dying for the Order, an Empire which, as far as I can tell, doesn't really benefit anyone under maybe your level. Good, in my culture, is dying for freedom, to ensure that all will be free to have their say in how they are governed and all that. The thing that both of these concepts have in common is the notion of dying for the greater good. And yet your idea of the greater good is exactly contradictory to mine, even though both work toward the same end, in theory, and both are corrupted in the same ways in practice. And so you see the paradox which has troubled me for some time now." Mora sips his drink. "I will say that if it weren't for the oath-to-kill-each-other thing I suspect we'd have some very interesting conversations." "Since when is good defined by dying?" Shael asks quietly, holding her caff cupped in both hands. "I was under the impression that it was defined by living, by how we lived, and the choices we make. Death, dying... That in itself seems meaningless to me. We can no longer serve if we're dead." Tax official, Shael. Remember that, she reminds herself silently, keeping her posture straight in her chair. The conversation certainly was proving interesting, though. The things Moralis said even more so than what the Imperial was saying, strangely enough. The man seemed as if he was under some measure of pressure. Not surprising, really. "So far we haven't offered each other undue violence or painted the room in blood, let alone spilled so much as a drop of coffee or wine or anything else that's considered drinkable," Caiton says in a softly musing tone of voice, and wonder of wonder, she actually smiles. "A wise man once said 'If more people were willing to Live for what they believe it, and according to those beliefs, instead of Die for them, this world would be a better place.' ", Lynae quotes quietly still. She takes another sip from her cup of caf before continuing. "Dead bodies are just that. I was told, rather recently, that the purpose of soldiers is to die. I don't agree with that, but then, every soldier that is assigned to my taskforce is my responsibility, just as your soldiers are, Rodriga. I would think that we are on common ground when it comes to our sense of responsibility to those under our command. Our vow to never order even one of our soldiers to do something that we would not do ourselves. Be it hold the line, be the last one out of a sinking ship, or hold the blaster to the back of someone's head and pull the trigger, so to speak. We are not all that unalike, Rodriga, when we set the trappings of political machinations aside. Or the careful rhetoric of what we are required to adhere to in thought, word, and deed." "That's my point. But all they are to the Emperor is bodies and all they are to the Republic... a barrier, I suppose, between the Senate and the rest of the galaxy. Dying became the measure of a person's worth the minute somebody said, 'well, it's my galaxy now, and look, I've got a gun.'" Mora takes a sip of his wine and smacks his lips. "I wish I could make it all stop. I wish I could make all the blasters and knives and bombs and prisons and all of that just go away. I wish there were no Force for five people to use to dictate what the rest of us do with our lives. I wish we could just do away with the Empire and the Republic and look people dead in the eye and say, 'What's the right way of doing this?' and try to come to some kind of agreeable compromise without having to write any letters to the mothers and fathers of misguided 20-somethings with false images of heroism, who've charged out of trenches under the pretense that dying with a cauterized wound across your chest means honorable immortality, when all it means is dying. Have you ever considered that you and I alone in the galaxy actually have the resources at our fingertips to make it all go away? Have you considered the implications of that? When was the last time a coup d'etat was actually good for the people? No, I'm not suggesting that it's a good idea, but it's incredibly frustrating to know that the only person who really make a difference can't, for all the obvious reasons. And so we continue to try to kill each other. No, scratch that. We don't try to kill each other at all, we just try to capture pawns. There is no checkmate. We just capture pawn after pawn after pawn, and the occassional rook, but they're always replaced and we set right about getting them again. When do we get to call it a stalemate and stop capturing pawns?" "Even if we reached a peace accord right here and now, Rodriga," Caiton says in a quiet spoken reply, "the war would not end. We could shake hands, sign documents, make the formal announcement. Invite everyone to dinner, do up the whole diplomatic fest from all angles. And the war would not end. Neither your people, or mine, will stop fighting because we deem that the war has gone on long enough. You would be removed from assignment, as would I, and it would not change a thing. Perhaps a handful of people would not die, today, but they would die tomorrow." Shael tries to ignore the fact that the Imperial seems to be agreeing with her. Imperials aren't supposed to do that. It's just unnatural. That thought is quickly banished, however, as Moralis starts to ramble on about coup d'etats. Her eyes widening, she turns and stares at the military man. "She's right, you know." Did she really just say that? There seriously is something wrong with the galaxy. Or maybe this is only a dream. "I seriously doubt you should even be saying things like that, sir. You never know who's listening." Like herself. Does he have any idea who she is, or the sorts of people she works for? And how /did/ he know her name? "This is true. It's just frustrating. No matter what anyone does, this war is permanent, forever. Epic to an extreme." Rodriga sighs and stands. "Thank you for your company, Commodore. Ms. Winters and I have a meeting with some very high profile people in a few minutes. That's the main reason we're on Caspar, and as you can see, she isn't even dressed. But I do find your thoughts intriguing, to say the least. I hope you'll still be here tomorrow, that we might talk on a more personal level." Caiton tilts her head back slightly, surveying Rodriga as he stands, still speaking, and keeps silent until he's through. If there's one thing she does know how to do, diplomatically, it's not interrupt. "I concur with your assessment of the situation, Rodriga, and as unnatural as I'm quite certain this is about to sound, I agree to suspend our 'kill each other at all costs' vendetta for the duration of our discourse and what not. After all, I absolutely Hate it when a conversation is interrupted by untimely death. There simply is no good way to resolve a topic once that happens. Now," she adds, nodding towards Ms. Winters, "you have a meeting. Should you, per chance, be meeting with President Mahon, take with along my greetings with respect. If not, I'm sure I'll find time in my schedule to make those greetings myself. After all, it wouldn't do to be planetside and not make those formal calls. I'm sure you are entirely familiar with the obligations that go with the lovely office and extra vacation days per year. I will remain planetside for a while longer. Feel free to send word to our embassy when you're free again, to converse, that is." Shael stands when Moralis does, draining her caff and setting the cup aside, before folding her hands neatly in front of herself. It's an entirely unnatural gesture for her. But somehow she doesn't think shoving her hands deep into her pockets is in keeping with the personna she was attempting to adopt. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Commodore." Well. Not /exactly/ a pleasure, perhaps. But educational at least. "I can't imagine we'll be meeting again, though."
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