3-11 DEPOSIT

The conventional definition of “down” holds no meaning in space, no matter the propensity of captains to point the bottom of their ships nadir. “Downwell” is yet another term unfortunately influenced by humanity’s nature to orient themselves in a gravitational field, and still it only makes sense in colloquial terms from a long-ago past.

Why are the drop pods located near the keel of the ship? Again, a result of the same archaic way of thinking. Yes, put the launchers near the keel! Of course that makes the most sense! Why not put it in such a location that the ship cannot also bring the biggest guns to bear? There’s no reason to soften up the target before the marines land, no?

Well, it makes little difference this time. There will be no massive bombardment to herald the arrival of the marines, merely precision fire to eliminate threats to their survival. Smaller cannons and autoguns chatter away, filling the void with hot metal. Thousands of skyfire defenses on the surface of Planet Victory spin up, responding in kind — firing at the hundreds of drop pods falling like a heavy, heavy rain.

Only one truly matters, hence the decoys. The Golden Doctrine and the rest of the fleet linger at the apoapsis of a Molniya orbit, far out of reach of the defenses far below. Nothing can challenge them now that the defender’s fleet is nothing more than a smattering of tiny stars in the night sky. Dying embers, burning bright as they return to the planet below. The fleet’s drop pod bays are all empty, the pods having been launched long ago into the necessary entry orbit. Now, their job is to sit tight while continuously giving the loathsome defenders something else to think about. That doesn’t mean it’s all fun and games for everyone, however.

The Navigator frantically shouts commands into her commlink, coordinating fire onto targets thousands of kilometers away. The spin of the planet, the velocity of the ship relative to it, the density of the atmosphere and how exactly to get an autocannon round through without it burning up impotently — so many factors to think about. And the timing! The ever changing timing, further complicated by the meat servos and powder monkeys having the gall to drag their feet in between shots! So much to think about. So much to keep track of.

Even so, she has one primary responsibility. Once that one pod makes it down safely, she can “relax.”

Through the eyes of the servo-skull, she sees four marines, each one a wall of gray with merely a daub of paint on the shoulder to mark who is who. A gold fingerprint, a gold oval, a gold ellipse, and a gold egg. Very original. Very imaginative.

The four of them sit silently, stoically enduring the rough ride down. The servo-skull is trapped in the anti-spalling netting attached to the bulkhead. Hopefully, this will keep it safe.

A hundred kilometers to go and a dozen decoys are blown out of the sky. In return, the shelling of the ships high above, timed to perfection despite the flaws of the human operators, penetrates through the atmosphere. Some intercept anti-air missiles; others begin pounding the defensive emplacements into dust.

Fifty kilometers to go. More decoys are gone, the guardsmen within instantly vaporized by the defensive fire. Even if they did make it down, they would not have been much use anyway — their bodies weakened, their mobility impaired by pain from the accelerations imposed by the pods. The marines, however, have no such limitations — no problems associated with the fragility of the human body. No weak bones, no stringy muscles. Resonant chambers adjust properly to prevent vibrational damage, and blood vessels expand smoothly to accommodate excess blood flow from the two hearts pumping in tandem.

Twenty kilometers and the pod shakes, lead pinging off the armor while control surfaces flutter, forcing the pod into evasive maneuvers. The skull bounces about until a massive hand reaches up and pins it in place.

Ten kilometers. The Navigator delegates her tasks, readying for the next step. Likewise, the marines lock their limbs in place: head back, spine straight; legs and arms pulled in.

Five kilometers. Thrusters fire, a white flower blooming below the skirt of the craft. Just enough to prevent the demise of those inside, but not enough to keep it from smashing through the lid of the armored bunker below.

Landing. The drop pod punctures through the topsoil and five meters of steel, the engines now serving to incinerate or soften the material beneath. A plume of smoke. Dozens of dead combatants lie dead, crushed by merely the entrance, and now the four marines and a single servo-skull are deposited within the belly of the beast.

Action.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

“Wake up, Xena. We have arrived.”

The Force, the Warp. Both, spinning about you in streaks of luminous color. You blearily claw your way back to wakefulness, forcing both into a semblance of normalcy. Steadiness in solid reality.

“Sorry, Master,” you say. “I fell asleep.”

“I could tell. You really were quite sleepy. Feeling better?”

“Not really.” The nap wasn’t very restful. Actually, none of your dream-filled sleeps are restful at all, hence your tiredness earlier on. You sit up straight, getting your bearings while trying to remember what was going on.

Oh yes. The bank.

Better to check the bank again first, rather than have to make multiple trips to and from the Camberoa-Goldrock intersection. You’re sitting in the same loaned speeder from yesterday, again parked in the garage next to the bank. The last thing you remember before going to sleep was the shuttle, however. How did you get here?

“Master, did you carry me?”

“Yes. I thought you could use the sleep while we did not have anything urgent.”

A tinge of embarrassment marks your heart at that revelation, but there’s nothing you can do about it now. At least none of your friends were around to see that. Only a few CorSec officers at worst, most likely.

“What do we do now, Master?”

“Well, we are here to discover the source of that smell, yes? And perhaps check against your theories.”

“How about yours, Master? Do you have any ideas?”

She gives a small smile, and shakes her head. “Of course, Xena, but it would not be very educational if I just gave them away. And, do not peek! I know you can, but I will be very disappointed in you if you do.”

“I won’t, Master,” you quickly promise.

“Good. Now, what we are going to first do is observe from here. If there really is something wrong here, it would be better to avoid tipping them off. Now, tell me what you see. Start with the lobby.”

Force Sight, your common tool for everyday navigation. Your range is more than enough to encompass the entire bank from here. Witchsight, your ever present thermometer for emotions, secrets, and desires. A boon in many situations, like now. And, of course, your warp-eye. It shows you the Force, enveloping the world and the inhabitant life. It shows you the whirling Warp within you, and sometimes hints of that plane beyond the veil. It shows you the true-selves of those you point it toward, and reveals so much more of the universe around you in beautiful strokes of energy — potential in a melodious weave.

Your tools. A source of pain and confusion, yet also a pleasing set you can never let go of. And that is not to mention your telepathy! You focus all of them on the bank lobby, sweeping through the world with the strangest comb there is.

The entrance is the same, squealing as it opens for a Trandoshan patron to exit the bank. He makes his way to a citibike left untended a few meters away, stomping his feet as he goes. He is mildly upset, having had to surrender some of his hard earned credits to taxation. The simmering rage is only tempered by the memory of the last time he’d failed to pay up on time.

Further in is… nobody. Nobody but the receptionist and a single teller. A lazy day, you suppose. The lobby’s plush furniture is empty. Strips of tape line the floor, demarking where a queue should form, but nobody waits impatiently.

The receptionist is different this time. A human man lounges as best he can on the stool behind the counter, his legs hooked to the legs of the desk before him to balance his daring backwards lean. He reads a book about—

Ah, yes. Immediately, a problem. One of the few issues your tools cannot yet overcome.

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Text.

“Master Lasah?”

“Yes?”

“How do you do it?” you ask, frustration leaking into your voice. “How are you able to read things? Tell the color of things? I just don’t understand!”

Master Lasah leans back, arms crossing and uncrossing as she thinks. She speaks slowly, seemingly choosing her words carefully, stringing them together one by one. “It is difficult to explain. I was born without eyes, as you may recall. I do not know color the same way you do. I do not perceive text in the same way you do, or have done. Words, colors, light! — it all is pure concept to me. It is pure concept to the Force. Tell me, what do you see when you look at a speeder? Ours, for example.”

“It’s… a speeder,” you hesitantly state. “A box of metal, a carriage for people and cargo. The front is curved upwards. We sit in chairs of… leather? I think. There’s more seats for extra people and a dashboard with controls ahead of you.”

“Xena, what about its texture? Its taste and smell? What does it look like? Sound like?”

You give an experimental sniff, taking in the hints of cleaning chemicals, the musk of the leather and burnished durasteel, the aromas of a myriad other components within and without the vehicle. It all blends together, becoming a ball of useless noise — a jumbled mess of distorted information. Likewise, is the noise. The vehicle is silent, but the echo of traffic outside bounces through the garage and off the vehicle. Your ears aren’t attuned to this. They aren’t sensitive in the right ways.

You’re about to lick the dashboard in front of you before Master Lasah stops you, an arm held across your chest.

“That is enough. I can tell you still do not understand.”

“Sorry, Master.”

“Do not worry. My instructions were unclear. However, your first observation was what I was looking for. It is a speeder. It exists in the world. We perceive it in the Force. We feel it beneath us. We can smell it. We can hear it when it is running. I suppose we can taste it too, but there is no need to do so. What I am getting at is that the speeder is as we perceive it: a speeder. The Force, as we know it, is an extension of ourselves. Our Force-sense, further augmented by Force Sight, can tell us so much more.”

Master Lasah pauses, gathering her thoughts and calming her breathing. “When you described the speeder, you started with its purpose: it carries people and cargo. Yet, it is much more than that, correct? The speeder is a system of systems, an organized set of parts and components, linked mechanically and physically together to perform functions. Each component has its own function, its own qualities and characteristics. But, together as a whole, they provide so much more capability. And yet, you did not describe the engine, the repulsors, the windshield. You only mentioned the seats.

“An object exists in the Force as more than just the sum of its parts. It is a holistic concept in and of itself. When you look at the speeder, you instinctively understand so much more than what you truly see, yes? You could look at the interior parts. You could look at the exterior ones. You could even look deeper in, at the molecules and atoms that form the structure of every part. However, what you see — what the Force displays to you — is the concept of a speeder. An abstraction if you will. The simplification of an engineering marvel!

“This is the key to maintaining Sight of everything around you. The fact that you no longer freeze from information overload is proof that you have already learned it to some degree. And now, if you want to learn how to perceive text and color, you merely have to take it one step farther.”

Master Lasah finishes off her speech without fanfare, leaving you both impressed and confused. What she says mostly makes sense, but you’re still not entirely sure what it means for how to read without sight.

“Master Lasah? I’m not really following you. How am I able to read something — text on my datapad, for example — if I can’t actually see it? Is there really a concept behind it?”

“Yes,” she responds with surety. “Pass me the pad, please. Thank you.”

She taps on it a few times, bringing something up on the screen. “When I manipulate the datapad, there are many processes happening unseen. Electrons flow, data likewise. The latter is what is most important. Where the screen displays using light, we see nought. And still, I have knowledge of what lies on the screen here. How so?”

“Um, it’s still just concept, right? But, I still don’t understand.”

“Reach out to the Force, and the Force will tell you. It is as simple as that. However, you must learn how to listen.”

“Ah. Um, couldn’t you have started with that?”

“I suppose so, but it is necessary that you understand the basics too. This is relevant for text, color, holograms. For a rare few, sight, smell, taste, and texture are even within the realm of possibility. Anything is possible when you boil it down to its bare essence. This is also key to narrowing your vision — seeing with more detail when needed, even from a long distance. The Force knows what is there. You need only ask it to pass along the information, but the language it speaks can only be understood if you know what you are asking for.”

“I think I get it now. But, Master, are you really able to do all that too? Hear with the Force? Smell?”

“Yes, in the vaguest sense of the word. It is like a blurred echo, repeated many times in a chamber. Faint and no more useful to me than the chatter of birds or the whisper of wind. Likewise with smell. I have told you it is simple. Trivial, perhaps. However, trivial does not mean easy. They are difficult for all but those who have mastered them. So, I am sorry to say, while the process is simple, it is still extremely difficult to perform in reality. But, we all start somewhere." Master Lasah suddenly claps her hands, startling you in an awkward attempt at a transition. "How about you try now? Read me a sentence displayed on the datapad.”

“Yes, Master.”

The datapad; a rectangle of power, processes, and information. You know this in the abstract sense, but you need to coax the Force into telling this to you too. You concentrate on the object, trying to see past the outline, past the internal components, past the molecules, past the atoms; see into the concept of it in the Materium.

It is… difficult. Difficult to see what you need to see. Difficult to avoid dipping into the Warp beyond, for what is the Empyrean but a sea of concept as well? Possibility and dreams, fed by the beings on the other side of the veil.

You need to focus on your Force Sight. The Force must be your only guide at the moment, and so you close your warp-eye and ignore your other clamoring senses for the moment. The Force will show you what you need to see.

Except it doesn’t.

You see the same as usual: a rectangular prism, the surface opaque to your Sight. You shake your head, sighing in continued frustration.

“I’m sorry, Master. It’s not working.”

“That is alright, Xena. You can continue your attempt later. For now, continue surveying the bank.”

You shove your annoyance to the side and do as you’re told. You will come back to it later. You need to learn it, for you live in a Galaxy where meaning is primarily conveyed and stored as text.

The receptionist still reads his book, nobody else having entered the bank in the last few minutes and distracted him. The book is unlikely to be relevant to your goal, but you feel an urge to finish what you started earlier. If you can’t use your Sight to determine its contents, you’ll use your other tools instead.

Telepathy shall do in this case.

It’s a fantasy adventure novel, about two men caught up in a tax revolt and somehow saving the world during their escapade. While the content is rather interesting, it is also disappointing at the same time. As you’d thought, it is highly irrelevant to your current task and so you move on.

Off to the side, a teller sits behind a wall of blast-resistant glass, also entertaining himself during this lull. He plays a game on his datapad, his fingers tracing across the screen to a snappy rhythm. Yet again, irrelevant.

On the right side is the customer’s ‘fresher. Empty. A drop of water falls from the faucet, plinking against the metallic drain before sliding down.

Next to the ‘fresher is the garbage disposal room you’d noted yesterday. You follow the chute down to the dumpster and—

Orange peels. You see a mound of rotting orange peels — far too many for the two employees you’ve seen to eat.

“Master Lasah?”

“I see it. Mandalorian oranges, huh. And it is not just the peels. Look closer.”

She’s right. Most of the peels still have the pulp attached to it. The meat of the fruit is crushed, leaking juices everywhere. But, it is not consumed.

Why? Why would so many uneaten oranges be dumped here of all places? Is this another coincidence? You look to Master Lasah for an answer, but she only shrugs.

“Perhaps it is a coincidence. Perhaps these were all delivered rotten and the customer decided to throw it all in the garbage. Continue looking,” she says. “Perhaps we will find an explanation.”

Back up in the bank, you look past the lobby. In the break room, two more men sit, looking up a television. The remains of their breakfasts litter the table, but neither seem to have had oranges. In the office next door is a woman working on some paperwork, her own breakfast half eaten beside her. Again, no orange.

The room with the safe deposit boxes is the same as before, as is the vault. You didn’t pay too much attention to the stored valuables before so you cannot say for certain if anything is missing or if anything was added. However, you do notice that the door to the refrigerator in the vault is left slightly ajar. Hopefully whatever is in the vials within does not go bad…

No clues so far. Not until you get to the next room. At the rear of the bank, just behind the safe deposit box room, is a small shipping area. A packing room with boxes and tape and cutters and all sorts of material. Here, you find something rather interesting. Some things.

First is the crates. Empty crates meant for fruit are piled in a corner, waiting to be broken down and disposed of. So, the oranges really came through the bank! They were not thrown into that dumpster by a neighbor!

Second is the boxes. These boxes are filled with vials, much like those in the refrigerator in the vault. A few are stacked next to a shutter door, and a few more sit outside in the rear compartment of a large speeder. A Togruta man and a human woman are slowly shuffling the rest of the boxes into the back of the vehicle. It seems they will soon be finished with their work.

“Um, Master?”

Master Lasah taps her fingers against the speeder controls. “Hmm. This is a bit of a conundrum. Look back at the dumpster.”

Another speeder is there. A utility vehicle with a massive bin at the back. A garbage disposal service vehicle, moving into position to empty the dumpster!