Generals like to look good. Even in the 34th century. Even after a thousand years of war. They like polish and shine and finely fitted uniforms, so they like me. Their tailor.

Otherwise, how could a simple tailor expect to live through the entire Sidereal War. Only the most powerful could dictate who got the famously expensive treatments to extend life hundreds of years. In my case over a thousand. A tailor. I guess I’m a strange yet rather appropriate thread in the fabric of life.

A life that has measured the means, cut the patterns, sewed the seams for a lot of death in this seemingly endless war. Because my job is to make the generals look natty and therefore confident, I feel culpable for the perennial war’s carnage. You see, generals talk a lot when I’m fitting them, sharing their thoughts with the room which I’m in, because I’m of no considered consequence.

On this day of the war, like every day of the war, generals were whispering and wise-cracking in the halls, when I was called to the Commanding General’s office, a somewhat spartan space in the otherwise palatial Freedom Citadel.

Upon entering, the CG motioned me to his side. He was hosting a cadre I’d never seen before. They were not generals, not even military, maybe not even human. They certainly weren’t dressed like any person I’d worked with in my thousand years of tailoring.

“Ah, Citizen. We need your assistance,” the CG began. “Our guests here are offering us transformational support in battle, but are afraid they won’t be taken seriously before the Security Plenum, clad as now. I expect you can address that.”

I nodded because that is what one does before the CG.

“Very good. Please sketch some new regalia for our guests while we finish our discussion.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

In a corner, I observed. Noting the newcomers’ lithe and elongated limbs. I listened. Heeding the intensity of the debate. These potential off-world allies promised decisive victory, though at the cost of widespread misery.

When the delegation was dismissed, the CG sat at his desk. A desk older than either of us. Crafted from a rare tree that had lived hundreds of years before the Sidereal War began. Absently, the CG traced the polished grain with a finger.

“Ideas, Citizen?” he finally asked.

I produced my sketches. Trim pseudo-uniforms that rang familiar no matter what the former allegiance, no matter what the DNA, or lack thereof.

The CG smiled. “All a matter of convention, eh. We see what we want in the well dressed, the well pressed.” He continued to stare at my drawings for a long moment, and when he spoke, he spoke past any conventional ideas sketched there.

“They are offering us an end, Citizen. To the war. To all we have known for a thousand years. It would mean a terrible escalation, a knockout punch, but with a recoil that will leave humanity reeling. A means to a very mean end.”

I nodded because that is what one does before the CG.

He rose, seam lines falling in immaculate place. “I believe you’ll recall, Citizen, that almost 250 years ago when I made rank, you tailored my uniform. I thought it a perfect fit when I tried it on, but you suggested a slight alteration. A somewhat seemingly trivial change. You told me that the hem of my trousers didn’t break cleanly at my shoes. Do you remember what you suggested?”

Of course I remembered. It’s never wise to forget what pleases a general. “I believe I said that we should take it down a shiver, sir.”

He looked up at me now. Really looked at me. Someone who’d lived through a thousand years of war. Someone who knew how badly frayed humanity was. How close to unraveling we were as a species. His unclouded eyes were asking me if we should accept the outsiders’ help, a massive escalation, at brutal cost.

“Achieving the form and line that makes for a clean break, often requires we take it down a shiver, sir.”

Ever so slightly, the CG nodded because that’s what one does when the fit is just right.