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| - "Of all the foul, disgusting ways to pull my leg, he chooses this?!" It didn't take the Force to tell Palo that Kimba was not in the least bit happy about their predicament. While he couldn't exactly blame her for her near-constant state of high dudgeon, it had swiftly begun to outstay its welcome; things were not improved when what Palo had assured her was a vital piece of equipment had begun displaying rather graphic images of a lewd nature when Kimba had activated it. Their patron hadn't exactly been thorough in the briefing he had been given, and his partner had had to rely on only what he had been permitted to tell her, which wasn't much. Lord So-and-so, which was how he had identified himself when communicating via encrypted hypercomm, seemed to know already what the two were capable of. Despite his apparent penchant for practical jokes, why else would he have paired them up for such an essential task? Palo would have been lying if he told himself that he didn't care, but he also knew that the stakes were too high to get caught up on minutiae. The war was less than forty hours old, and they had been ordered to get this done before the week was out or don't bother reporting back. It had been his decidedly clear impression that "don't bother" meant "find a dark hole in the galaxy and hide in it for the next several years." The Wroonian picked up the trinket that Kimba had cast aside in her fit of disgust. Apparently her ken was more focused on tactics and highly-directed violence rather than the latest in subterfuge and technological wizardry. He supposed that was inevitable, after all; she was after all an ex-Marine who had been kicked out of the Corps years prior to the Mandalorian invasion, and thus had missed the chance for glory on the battlefield. Until their patron had come along, that is. For his part he had been a slicer and smuggler working the fringe in a patched-together hulk of a freighter, on the run from a clan of bucketheads he had swindled before running afoul of a Republic cruiser. Never would he have dared to dream that his attempt to explain away the cargo hold full of Mando tech and weapons in his ship as "doing his patriotic duty" would be taken seriously. And it went without saying that they only knew each other by codename, as palo was actually a Wroonian term for a truly bizarre act of sexual liaison that had been popular as an epithet some thirty years ago. He flipped the item over, which was about three-quarters the size of a standard datapad and gilded up like an elaborate portable holodisplay, tapping a tiny button just visible beneath an elaborate engraving with his fingernail. A small hissing sounded as the backplate eased away on a pair of miniscule hinges to reveal its true purpose: a scan-proof casing for a small, semitransparent black item shaped like a trapezoid. What had appeared to be an engraved pattern was in fact a circuit wafer, which when removed from its frame also took most of the backplate with it. "Ah, I see now," he said in hushed tones. "The button you pushed, it's a decoy." "Because if we'd been inspected more thoroughly, the instant the customs officers would have played it they would have dismissed it," Kimba replied, comprehension setting in. "Doesn't stop me hating that schutta's guts, though." "I do not believe he cares what we think of him," Palo replied with a smirk. "Only that we get the job done." "And you still haven't told me what the job is," she retorted acidly. "Only that I'm to keep your feeble skull out of trouble and whatever that is you've got out of the hands of Republic Intelligence." Palo smiled, genuinely this time as he extracted the trapezoidal module. "It is a holotap, my dear," he said as though presenting a finely-cut Corusca gem. "Its purpose is to wirelessly sample hypercomm channels for keywords, sending a carrier signal along the same path which will alert monitoring stations elsewhere to intercept any transmissions containing those words." "Assuming those channels aren't secured," she snorted. "Even I can figure that much out." "Ah, but that is what this circuit wafer is for," he said, gesturing with it before setting it on their work table. He placed the device next to the wafer. "This circuit contains a cipher for a very specific channel, which the stations I mentioned will be prepared to receive. All we have to do is hook it up to a public hypercomm terminal located near our objective, wait for it to activate and synch up with the holotap, and then remove and dispose of it. The infected terminal will be permanently unscrambled on that particular channel, undetectable unless one knows what to look for." "You make it sound so simple," Kimba deadpanned as she watched him work. "How do we actually get your trinket installed where it'll do any good? Other than amusing some adolescent with a xeno fetish, I mean." "Well, it's rather easy. First of all, I will need a block of halsa wood, twenty centimeters on a side and half a meter long. Then, if you can manage it, two sets of Republic Marine dress red uniforms." Kimba gave Palo the kind of look that could scorch transparisteel. "You have got to be kidding me." "Oh, I'm quite sure that you wish I was." — — — She hadn't always been a speeder jockey, but when Reeka had finally decided to take the plunge and try her hand at flying one, it had been love at first ride. This had been years ago, well before the Mandalorian war, while stationed out on the frontier and having to combat boredom more than anything else. To abate the sensation as best she could, she had cajoled one of the speeder scouts into letting her learn the craft, since she herself served in that capacity albeit with her feet planted firmly on the ground. The Elomin pilot had been quite surprised at how quickly Reeka had taken to the bike, almost like a flitnat to a warm breeze, beating out the proficiency scores of all four riders stationed there. Not long afterward, she had been assigned leadership of the base's speeder detachment, no doubt owing to her rank of staff sergeant. Zooming across the skylanes of midday Coruscant was worlds away from that old posting, however, but no less welcome for it. Reeka viewed the cityscape, with its narrow corridors and congested traffic lanes, as a fun diversion from her usual martial activities of navigating unforgiving terrain, hoping to find the enemy before they found her. Of course, she fully expected to be given somewhat of a different role upon her assignment to a line company. Platoon leader, if nothing else, but definitely not a billet which would allow for regular runs on such vehicles; with war having erupted once more, the Corps could use every combat veteran it could muster. That was why she had rented the flashy model she now navigated through noontime traffic, enjoying herself to the fullest while on her way to visit the Commandant. Thinking about those times gone by caused her to remember an old comrade, who had gone down fighting during the last war, and who had been so completely hopeless at piloting any sort of vehicle that used repulsorlifts. How she would have laughed at Reeka's new hobby, jokingly accusing her of taking up flying just to spite her groundbound friend. She wished the old Brain was still around. Perhaps the Human would be occupying the empty rear saddle, clinging to Reeka for dear life as, in their mutual glee, she would attempt to make her passenger airsick. Her heart skipped a beat, a sensation which had little to do with the breakneck turn she had just executed to get on an approach vector to her destination. The comm unit came alive with the civilian traffic controller's complaints at the barely-legal maneuvering, but it was soon smothered by an automated droid response expressing, rather rudely, the fact that the craft was currently under military jurisdiction and thus immune to censure. The wound that occupied her heart as she thoroughly ignored the chatter was a well-healed one, however, and so Reeka didn't feel quite as bad as she would have done a couple of years ago for laughing at this amusing chain of non-events. After acknowledging her arrival with the military traffic net, she gently set the bike down at the VIP entrance to the Republic Military High Command complex, exchanged salutes with the Navy petty officer on valet duty after securing her hat, then walked inside. "Lieutenant Reeka Chorizzo, reporting as requested," she said to the receptionist, a scarred Human sergeant who gave an impression of slight relief that his days of combat were over. "You're expected, ma'am," he answered in a gravely sort of voice that was nonetheless as warm as he could make it. "Just follow the line of brass." The remark caused her to chuckle slightly, but Reeka clamped down on the mirth and replied with a simple nod before proceeding deeper into the complex to where the admiral laird. — — — "We're here, Sergeant," the Navy chief said into the windscreen as he brought the small military airspeeder to rest. "If it's all the same with you, I'd rather not be caught dead inside Jarhead Central." "That is alright," the Gand replied in a rasp. "Tuffass suspects that he will not require your services any further." Without waiting for a reply, whether it be snarky or not, he popped the hatch and, mustering his gumption, rose and exited the craft in a manner as close to that of a normal biped as he could manage. "Stupid, uninspired little void-brain," he hissed to himself as he walked toward the entrance, the whine of engines marking his ride's departure. As he neared the door, however, he noticed a blood-red speeder bike being coaxed along by another Navy being who almost seemed to be afraid of the machine he was attempting to handle. Turning back toward his destination, he saw the entryway close behind the back of another red-dressed Marine, who bore an aspect that he thought he ought to have recognized even at such a bad angle. Shrugging the thought aside he followed suit and, after announcing the purpose of his visit and navigating several corridors, found himself in a reception area that didn't seem nearly as expansive—or expensive—as the headquarters of a military branch's leader should have been. Though he was among the most infamous members of the Corps in living memory, Tuffass had thus far managed to avoid having to meet the admiralty, at least in person. He didn't particularly enjoy being put underneath a microscope. "Gunnery Sergeant Tuffass, reporting as requested," he rattled off somberly to the admiral's secretary. He felt a sort of kinship with the Twi'lek that wasn't at all unexpected given the lines on his gray visage and the the closed-off way he wore his lekku, but he dismissed the notion as irrelevant even as the man stood up and thrust a hand toward him. "It's an honor to meet you in person, sir," he said jovially as the Gand, recognizing the meaning behind the gesture after a short beat, took the proffered hand. "The Commandant wasn't expecting you for another few hours." Tuffass nodded, a smirk visible behind his breath mask. "The packet from Corulag was piloted by a less-than-sane pilot," he replied glibly. "And Gands do not require the same amount of rest as most other species." The sergeant, obviously a combat veteran, nodded his head in understanding. "Bet that came in handy out in the field." "Yes...and no," the gunnery sergeant replied with a shrug. "Tuffass would prefer to leave it at that." The receptionist gestured toward a seat. "Unfortunately, the Commandant is currently occupied. As I said we weren't expecting you this soon, but I'll let him know you're here." "Thank you, Sergeant." As the Twi'lek resumed his own seat Tuffass took the offered chair, which turned out to be deceptively soft and decidedly comfortable. He permitted himself a few moments of idleness as the noncom spoke into a device that had to be a two-way intercom unit, distractedly ticking off all the times in the past six months he had received similar greetings. He lost count at about a hundred, which was roughly the point when the sergeant called for his attention. "The Commandant will see you now, Gunnery Sergeant." The pronouncement caught the Gand somewhat unawares; he had not seen anyone leave the inner office, nor had anyone else joined him in what had swiftly become the admiral's private waiting room. Not for nothing, though, was he one of the most respected soldiers in the Corps, as he simply stood once more (while stifling a small stab of pain) and headed through the office door, which slid aside to admit him. — — — "Yes, I did see that piece on me you submitted," Voskel admitted easily, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. Such an amusing woman, this Lieutenant Chorizzo, whom he understood fancied herself as something of a writer in addition to being a fine tactician and combat leader. Her frank appraisal of his stewardship of the Corps had been thrust under his nose almost as soon as it had hit the circuits, and he would not have expected such a heartfelt evaluation to come from someone who had spent so much time in the ranks and on the front lines. From a committee of political appointees, yes, but anything from that lot would have been flavored with enough bile to choke a gornt. The Rodian's article, however, had been singularly disinclined to take sides, and instead invited the reader to draw his, her or its own conclusions. "It was a while ago, needless to say," she said somewhat hesitantly. "So much has changed since then." "No doubt," he replied flatly, then favored the junior officer with a rare smile. "But sometimes it helps to have perspective on one's efforts, no matter the source. Though your article had a few detractors, I liked it. I also found your analysis of my selection process for filling in Admiral Par'fey's staff appointments of particular interest. Perhaps in my zeal to overcome the apparent speciesism that the former Commandant engaged in—not that I agree with those aspirations, mind you—I may have ended up picking candidates of lesser ability." That brought Chorizzo up short. She seemed to tense up, blinking her eyes rapidly for a moment, then let out a sigh of relief. "That is most kind of you to say, Admiral." "A leader is only as good as his word," he pointed out. "And an officer is judged by the performance of his subordinates, for good or for ill." The intercom on his desk, a text-to-speech-and-back-again model which contained a small display that only he could see, blinked for his attention: APPOINTMENT TWO HAS BEEN WAITING PER YOUR ORDERS. He subtly clicked a button marked with a large A, then looked back at the Rodian, wondering if she wondered why she had been summoned. The two had not been conversing long, mostly avoiding the topic of the day-old war that was still producing a tsunami of reports which were all being attended to by his staff. There was one report in particular that he looked forward to reading; submitted by a Mirialan fighter pilot named Piccolé, it supposedly described in great detail the tactics and some of the equipment of Revan's Sith forces. "Speaking of an officer's subordinates," he asked into the silence, "what did you know of Darth Revan before his fall?" The lieutenant locked eyes with him in startled bewilderment. "I...I don't think there's anything I could tell you about him that you wouldn't already know, sir. He's...well, I'm still having trouble coming to terms with it." With timing he couldn't have wished for were he to receive blessings from a hundred Jedi Masters, the door to the commandant's office hissed open as the Rodian had stammered out her reply. "Frankly sir, Tuffass wouldn't care to know anything," the Gand announced into the vacuum that had descended upon the place after Chorizzo concluded her statement. "He's a scum-sucking gornt-punching pile of worm sperm who deserves whatever vile treatment that his beloved Corps will visit upon his person." Voskel grinned toothily; now here was a Marine worthy of the title. "Ah, I am so glad you could make it, Gunnery Sergeant. As I understand, you are already familiar with my other guest this afternoon." Reeka looked from the commandant to the new arrival and back again. Throwing protocol out the airlock, she sprung from her seat and enveloped the stocky sergeant in a firm hug, nearly lifting him from the floor in her enthusiasm. After a beat she put him down, then blushed furiously as she resumed her seat. "Begging your pardon, sir..." Never before had this office, to Voskel's knowledge, been subject to such a blatant violation of behavioral standards, and never before had he cared less about such things. He had, after all, deliberately set up this little reunion, full in the knowledge that his first interviewee was just as close to his second interviewee as both of them were to his third, who sadly had not yet arrived. Yes, there was a war on. Yes, he was the highest-ranking Marine in the galaxy. And yes, there were matters of some urgency that another officer might have seen to instead of permitting this almost court martial-level dereliction of duty. But in all fairness, he had begun to put this together a week ago; it was only that treasonous announcement from "Darth" Revan that had prompted his other guest to make contact and request—nay, demand—an immediate meeting. "Well, now that we're acquainted," Voskel said genially into the even thinner silence, "we can begin to discuss why I have called you two here. Tuffass, you will want to be sitting for this. As much as you may want to hide it, I know all about your condition and it doesn't matter to me one jot." There hadn't been any intentional rebuke in the statement, and it hadn't exactly been an order, so the admiral was left to wonder how the Gand would take it. But the drill instructor simply did as he was told, betraying no more emotion at the forceful invitation than any experienced noncom would at being handed their next assignment. Once he had dragged over and mounted a second chair, he placed his hands on its arms in an almost meditative posture. "So let's get this started," he continued, tapping at the keypad in front of him which caused two sheets of flimsiplast, printed double-sided, to exude from a recessed printing unit in his desk. He took them and handed one each to his guests. "What you have before you is a basic table of organization and equipment for the entire Republic Marines, which was compiled one week ago. What I need from each of you is a frank opinion on the state of the Corps and which units you know for absolute certainty—or as near to it as you are comfortable with—that we can trust not to betray us to Revan and Malak. You may wonder why I'm asking you to do this, when I have at my disposal a large number of staff officers who are possibly more qualified to offer an opinion. You may also be wondering why this meeting is taking place so soon after hostilities. But as longtime veterans, you may be aware of factors and events that I and my staff may not." He was inventing wildly and he knew it, but Voskel was not ashamed in the slightest. It was extremely important to him that these two be in the room when she arrived; he couldn't exactly explain why, but long and bitter experience had told him that his gut feeling was to be trusted absolutely. There was something about the trifecta of beings he was bringing together that teased at his senses, due in no small part to some machinations of the Force no doubt. And right now the Republic needed as much Force behind its forces as he could wrangle. As the pair before him buried themselves in their flimsis, he began to subtly tap at the desktop, pondering what might be taking the captain so long. Everything had been cleared for as rapid a transit as possible, including opening up an entry vector with such a high emergency clearance that it bypassed or simply plowed through every established lane of traffic, enabling one to step from starship to reception room with the absolute minimum of fuss. Arranging it had cost him more than one political favor, as too had the commandeering of a fast courier to transport her to the capital from all the way out on the Rim. The math lined up, but there was always what her kind liked to call "the Human factor." "Admiral, if I may..." the lieutenant spoke up after several long minutes of silence, lumping up the blanket of tension that had cloaked the room. Voskel nodded, at which she continued. "This report is...featureless, sir. It tells me nothing about the units themselves, when they last saw combat, what battles they were in, their morale. We lost a lot of good people to the Mandos, including..." A catch seemed to lodge in her throat, and the Bothan knew why. She cleared her voice, then resumed speaking. "Sir, I believe that Revan deliberately excluded us from the final battles. The retaking of Althir, the trap he set at Malachor, we missed it because he sent us back home." The fur on Voskel's neck rose sharply. The Marines who had served with the Revanchists had been a significant portion of the whole, it was true, but not an overly huge one. Plenty of garrison forces had not seen so much as a probe droid sent their way throughout the entire conflict, and a few battalions had remained Coreward to protect key installations such as the shipyards at Kuat, Corellia and Sluis Van, as well as the capital itself. As such, the chain of command for those units deployed to the Mandalorian fronts had been almost entirely separate. "Please, elaborate," he prompted. "Tuffass hates to interrupt the lieutenant," the Gand put in, sounding as apologetic as he ever got, "but he wonders what the Commandant expects him to add. He's been training maggots throughout this last war and will continue to do so for as long as he is able." Chorizzo shrugged and nodded it off. "I can't point to a specific date, since I was in a kolto tank recovering from...from Dxun when the announcement came. But when they decanted me and brought me back around, I was on a transport heading to Coruscant with an OCS invitation waiting for me. It had been flagged as a short-lister by General Sunrider, which meant there was already a berth waiting for me." "Hold a moment, Lieutenant," Voskel interrupted mildly, hoping to put to rest a minor, if nagging, inconsistency in the record. "You gave a eulogy at a funeral before you were wounded, correct? But wasn't your unit already engaged on Dxun at that time?" Reeka shrugged hopelessly, a hint of anguish in the gesture and her voice. "We were, yes. But General Sunrider had me pulled out for the occasion. I had refused at first, but then...then they told me who had died. I was back on the line within four days, though. Just in time for the fighting to..." Her voice trailed off into a meaningful disquiet. The admiral didn't need her to finish the sentence for him, he had been given an appropriately grim briefing about the battle after its conclusion. The dates made sense, though; it was at that point that Revan had begun ordering the main units to disperse and attempt the maze of jungle maneuvers designed to draw the Mandalorian defenders away from their most strongly-held positions while at the same time probing for weaknesses. Chorizzo's unit had taken heavy losses in one of these long, drawn-out feints. "I see," he replied somberly. "That's all I needed to know. Do either of you have anything more to say on this matter?" Somewhat to his surprise, the Rodian displayed the sort of emotional tack-shifting that in his experience, only the finest officers were capable of. "Just this: of the battalions listed here, I would be most worried about the Third. They in particular suffered quite heavily from attrition, particularly during the ambush at Jaga's Cluster. They also lost a lot of leaders, first Commander Dolde at Ithor, then Commander Karbuso at Contruun, as well as Commander Reyolé." She paused, her eyes drooping slightly, then plowed on. "In addition, it's been on a lot of veteran Marines' minds that Revan sent the Corps home as a sort of punishment for the loss of the fleet at Jaga's Cluster, but I'm not convinced of that." Voskel tapped his chin in thought. "What is your reasoning behind this?" "Begging the admiral's pardon, but the answer seems obvious," Tuffass interjected again, his head bowed slightly as though expressing shame. "Gand knows full well that war takes a beating on the units that are sent in. He and his brethren had a hell of a time getting new maggots through boot and into line units, and he is ashamed to admit that some corners were cut. It is therefore possible that...Revan...saw those Marines who remained as essential to protecting the heart of the Republic while his core forces pursued and eliminated the Mandalorians." "But Tuffass, that doesn't account for General Sunrider," Reeka asked, looking perplexed. "I heard that she went back to the Jedi...but then she disappeared..." The Gand blinked, equally puzzled. "Gand doesn't know this Sunrider, Lieutenant." "Vima Sunrider? The daughter of Nomi? She was the one who asked me to speak...made the arrangements and everything..." "I can see this is difficult for the both of you," Voskel interrupted gently, spreading out his hands for emphasis. "I don't normally get this informal, but I trust the two of you because of more than your service records. Admiral Par'fey spoke highly of you, Tuffass, and General Sunrider of you, Chorizzo. I don't know where the Jedi Master has gone any more than you, but trust me when I say that I wish she were here with me now—" He broke off as the text display on his intercom flashed: SHE IS HERE.
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