3-1 PYRE

“Navigator.”

“Lord Captain.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

The man stands silhouetted against the command deck windows, towering over the diminutive figure before him. He runs a hand across his face, scrunching his eyes while his Navigator looks on. He sighs. The way she acts is far too familiar. She knows she’s invaluable to the operation of his ship, and so she feels free to take liberties beyond her station.

The Tal system star bathes the woman in harsh, directional light; and yet she stands firm with eyes wide open — her two lower eyes, that is. Covering her warp-eye is a headband of adamantium, marked with symbols of the Navis Nobilite. The metal gleams in the sunlight, nearly blinding the man, so he directs a junior crewman to pull a lever next to him.

Massive metal shutters close with a clack, clack, clack, leaving the command deck lit only by dim electrical lights. Yet still, the woman looks out, seeing past the armored shutters.

It’s a graveyard out there, devoid of life. The Golden Doctrine and the rest of the fleet orbit high above Tal Prime, performing repairs while waiting for reinforcements. While they successfully crushed the foe here, they lost many. Far too many.

“Who did we lose?” the woman asks, still eyeing the caskets beyond sight.

“Captains Jameson, Krigstein, Berdecia, and Lague perished with—”

“No. Who the hel are they?”

“What? You asked who we lost! They—”

“I don’t care. The ships. Give me the names, if you please.”

“Callous.”

“I don’t believe that one was part of our fleet.”

“You’re callous.”

“Calumny.”

“That’s not one either, Navigator. But, fine.” The Lord Captain turns, signaling to another crewmember. “Carmilla, please tell our Navigator Primaris ‘who’ we lost.”

“—and who’s reinforcing us,” the Navigator cuts in.

The crewman salutes, then begins. “We lost only cruisers and frigates, which is unsurprising since those were the bulk of the fleet. We lost the Undying Spirit and Captain Margol; the Indeterminate Glory and Captain Krigstein; the Virtuous Intolerance and Captain Lague; the Sword of the Emperor and Captain Berdecia. We were able to rescue the command crews of the other ships. We lost half of the ‘stanza ships’: So Praise His Righteous Fervor, and And Smite Those Before Him. The other two, Yet He Sang the Battle Hymns and For His Most Holy Warship remain operational, though damaged.”

“Worship.”

“Oh, yes... My apologies.”

“I saw a few more fall. Please, continue.”

“Yes, ma’am. We also lost Fastidious Deliverance, The Hand of the God Emperor CXXXVII, and Justice of the Emperor.”

“I see. And the reinforcements…?”

“We have five cruisers coming to reinforce: Might of the Empire, The Diligent Mortician, The Opera of Souls, Frontier Assessment, and Invincible II.”

“What happened to Invincible?”

“Training accident, I believe.”

“That’s enough. Thank you, Carmilla.” the Lord Captain says, putting an end to the Navigator’s questions. “Return to your station. Now, Navigator, we will be moving on soon. You should make your preparations. The next stage will begin as soon as possible.”

“I thought we were waiting for the reinforcements.”

“Half will meet us at our destination. The other half will stop here to defend and collect the damaged ships. We need to move now, which means those undergoing repairs will be left behind.”

“Do we have enough?”

“If we follow the plan, yes.”

“The plan sucks.”

“I know it will be painful for you. Just bear with it. You’re a grown woman. Ostensibly.”

“Fuck you. Sir.”

“Get out of here, Navigator. Contact me when you’re ready. Have that course plotted within the hour and I’ll forget that last comment.”

“Yes, Lord Captain.”

The man watches her retreating back, then slumps into his chair and sighs. “Genial geriatric,” his friends call him. Called him.

Too soft.

That uppity little Navigator would never be allowed to serve on any other ship, no matter how talented she is. And so, because of his damnable reputation, he’s saddled with her. What a terrible deal, but that’s the Emperor’s will.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Apparently.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

The overcast skies set a somber tone as the first funerals begin. You stand in the rows upon rows of Jedi, watching as the first few bodies are burned. A half dozen pyres are lit, each meant for one fallen Jedi only. Each one will be taken apart tonight and rebuilt the next day, fresh for the next set of bodies.

This will be a long period of mourning.

The bodies waiting to be given their last rites are put on ice, frozen until their time has come. It’s undignified, but it’s the only way to go about this in a practical sense. Even Jedi, weighed down by centuries of tradition, must bend when faced with such a terrible event. Every Master, Jedi, and Apprentice, must be given their final goodbye as is their right, but they would surely understand why their funerals must be hastened.

Six columns of smoke rise into the daylight sky. Six bodies burned today. So many left to go.

You turn away from the crackling flames and walk with the crowd. Only those close to the deceased shall stay longer. The rest of you must return to your duties and lessons. The walk to the Halls of Healing is short and you soon see a familiar head of wild hair. A young man, perhaps twice your age waves you over, then reaches up with his other hand to adjust his glasses. As you approach, he steps to the side and holds a door open.

“Xena,” he says with a nod.

“Doctor.”

He smiles as you step through the doorway, then follows you in and lets the door shut behind him. Your boots tap against the sterile floors as you walk down a corridor leading further into the Halls.

“I’m not a doctor yet. Still in training. You think an actual doctor would be keeping you company?”

“I thought I was following you, sir.”

“Heh. Also not a sir. Just call me by name. Now, come along my temporary assistant. Time to hand you off to Healer Corr.”

“Your name is impossible to pronounce.”

The man laughs as he walks past you, guiding you forward. Juukartkatch Vazin is the MedCorps doctor-in-training Master Corr asked to show you around. You’re not really sure what kind of dirt she has on him to make him do the drudge work of taking care of a clueless Initiate, but it must be rather significant. Yet, even so, he’s not unhappy to do this. He was, surprisingly, unfazed by your mask or your eyes, and he’s gone about the task with a friendly demeanor.

Over the past couple days, he’s been showing you the ropes, trying to cram in as much information about the job you volunteered for as quickly as possible. You’re not going to be doing any actual medical work beyond using Force Stanch or Force Purification when Master Corr tells you to. The majority of your responsibility will be filling out forms — primarily demographic in nature. You’ll basically just be cataloging and sorting injuries. The triage has already been done. After all, the field medics have had a few days of flight to do so.

This, unfortunately, means that the majority of the wounded you will see will have very serious injuries. Those with lighter injuries have already been treated, maybe even already healed with a vigorous application of miraculous bacta. Master Corr and pending-doctor Vazin have both warned you of what you might see. Hopefully that’ll be enough preparation…

The red-orange skies of yesterday’s dusk were broken by long shadows, cast by small, wedge-shaped ships. Acclamators, they were called; a new kind of assault ship for the very new Grand Army of the Republic. Or, more technically, the Acclamator-class trans-galactic military assault ship. What a mouthful.

These things are smaller than the Temple! How can they even be called capital ships? Pathetic, really. You can’t believe they’re taken seriously.

Out of the bellies of the ships poured thin lines of smaller craft, shuttling wounded down to the Temple and to a dozen other medical facilities. You’d been surprised at how many there were. Were there really this many wounded? This many were wounded just enough to need more serious medical support, but also not enough to actually perish? These clones must have a rather robust constitution for so many to survive.

You’d scrambled out of your seat by the window and hurriedly shoved your headband and mask back on before rushing out the door. It was only when you’d reached the Halls of Healing and burst into Master Corr’s office that you’d learned you wouldn’t be needed until today.

Many, many of the dropships arriving at the Temple carried, not dozens of wounded soldiers, but bodies of Jedi. That is, the bodies that could be recovered.

And so, you now follow Vazin into a back-room where he directs you to gown up into medical scrubs. While many Jedi would prefer to simply wear their day-to-day clothing, Master Corr is strict about sterility and mandates that any Jedi healers working under her — including you for today — must join the blunts in medical dress.

You end up shedding your robe in favor of a thin covering of a too-big set of scrubs, held tight with rubber bands around your limbs. Your tail is likewise covered in a separate wrapping and a sponge is hastily shoved onto the tip of your stinger, then held in place with medical tape. You pout at the indignity, but Vazin doesn’t see it, what with your mouth covered by a medical mask and your eyes concealed by a thin strip of cloth.

You’re sure you look as ridiculous as you feel. What will your patients think when they find themselves tended to by you?

Even your gloves are confiscated and replaced with disposable ones thin enough to reveal your glowing veins and metal-and-wood digits. You try to keep them down and out of sight, but Vazin again ruins your efforts as he shoves a dataslate in your direction which you grab by reflex.

“Here. Keep this on you and use it as I showed. And, remember to—”

“I knowwww! Eye. Headband. Whatever. I’ve lived with this forever!”

“Alright, alright,” he says placatingly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Well, you can get going. I need to get ready myself. Corr is… somewhere. I’m sure you can find her yourself.”

“Yeah. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Not a doctor. Good luck.”

“You too. May the Force be with you.”

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

Not-a-doctor Vazin is right: it’ll be trivial for you to find Master Corr. All you need to do is extend your senses and she’ll be as good as found.

However, while many minds have been lost, many more have been introduced into the eclectic mix within the Temple grounds. And, unlike those lost, these ones are probably messy things, made even worse by the pain of their wounds. There’s no way you’re going to risk using your telepathy to find Master Corr.

Your Force senses combined with your Force Sight should do. Your Force sense doesn’t give the same noisy feedback as witchsight or telepathy, and your Force Sight will give you the fidelity needed to point you where you need to go. With your mind settled, you reach out to the Force, letting it guide you forward.

And then you stop.

Something’s wrong. Something’s inconsistent here. Why are there so many more Younglings within the Temple? Why are they all concentrated in the Halls of Healing?

You walk forward, seeking discovery while still reaching out with your senses. There must be an explanation. Perhaps the strike force rescued a bunch of captive children. But, why would there be so many human children on Geonosis? Why—

These are not children, or at least their bodies aren’t. You see them with your Force Sight: hundreds of bodies nearly identical in make up if it weren’t for each of their unique injuries. And yet, their souls do not match their appearance. These are children like you. You can feel it, and other Jedi can feel it too judging the unease and distraught wafting off of the healers around them.

You round the corner and knock on the door you find. A moment later it swings open and Master Corr pulls you inside.

“Master! What’s goi—”

“Hush. I know. It’s… It’s not good. These are the clones — the soldiers. They’ve been genetically engineered to grow at twice the rate of a baseline human. It’s… I can’t say. No. I can. It’s wrong. I hate it, but we must live with it. Right now, they’re only nine years old but they’re physically eighteen. Treat them as adults. Treat them with respect. And, no matter how they look, they’re individuals.”

“I can sense that, Master. I see it. Their souls — their true selves — make that clear. The Force only reinforces that.”

“Good. Now, do you remember what you need to do?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Okay. If you feel sick, like you need to throw up, just move to the side. I’ll understand. Now, let’s go.”