EPILOGUE
ORD TRASI
SECTOR E4
1736
A standard week following the Killik's defeat found the rebuilding efforts on Ord Trasi already in full swing. The Imperial bureaucracy had thrown its boundless enthusiasm for logistical undertakings into action and flooded the scarred planet with supplies and personnel. The capital had been painstakingly searched block-by-block. The countless dead were extracted, cataloged and summarily disposed of. Lingering remnants of the Killik hive were mercilessly exterminated. Foodbanks and temporary housing were setup for the ocean of dispossessed. The Imperial Corp of Engineers were everywhere, tirelessly assessing city structures for either repair or demolition. An endless stream of hovertraffic choked the sky. Salvage haulers in ceaseless repetition, transported debris from the wreckage.
Overhead, the immense curvature of the Ord Trasi shipyards stretched from one horizon to the other. The vast interconnected disc of platforms and space stations encircled the entirety of the planet and provided the shipbuilding world with much of its latent value. At least from an Imperial perspective. Though the Killiks’ destructive warpath hadn’t extended to these prized facilities, the shipyards buzzed with activity nevertheless, as they were being retrofitted to cater to the exclusive requirements of the Imperial Navy.
Planetside, several key industries were beginning to reopen. Businesses that had not been crippled or outright destroyed, began the awkward process of operations in the wake of a humanitarian disaster. Perhaps not surprisingly, cantinas were among the first to throw open their doors. Several such establishments had sprung up in the days after the invasion.
Kellan had been a fixture at The Nexus Spire Cantina for the past five days now. Seraph Fleet, considering its obvious proximity, had been tasked with preliminary stabilization and logistical support. Due to his extraordinarily public part in the planet’s deliverance from certain destruction, Solari had been exempt from these duties and had instead been granted a week’s leave. There had been of course, the obligatory dinners and gala events the 'Heroes of Ord Trasi' had been chauffeured round to attend. Hastily restored (and conveniently powered!) event spaces full of grateful, if rheumy eyed, well-wishers who had apparently lost none of their evening wear and accompanying accessories in the fracas.
Furloughed in a burnt out cemetery. He thought sourly. Probably Darrow’s way of ‘thanking’ me for burying that Interceptor.
He occupied one of the makeshift tables on the sidewalk in front of the cantina. The sky was a shale gray, the air thick and acrid. Lazy, tepid light spackled his clothing, peeking as it did through the tattered awning. He had been watching the construction activity across the street all week. Progress had been shockingly fast. What had been only an emptied lot was now beginning to take shape. The skeletal outline of a multistory structure had wrenched itself into existence as a swarm of contractors crawled over its surface, riveting and soldering. Images of the Killik hives drifted through his thoughts.
Rare laughter echoed out from further down the sidewalk and Kellan turned to find a familiar figure heading toward him, a plain box tucked under one arm.
“What’re you doing here, Brinks?” Solari stood to greet his wingman.
“Came to see if you’d grown roots yet.” Brinks flashed a gigawatt smile and slid into the table’s remaining seat.
“Buy you a drink? Least I can do.” Kellan bent towards the open door of the Cantina and raised a signaling hand. Brinks caught him round the wrist but his smile didn’t dim.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Captain Solari.” he chortled. The distinction stung Kellan as though he'd been slapped. “Still on duty. Just swung by to give you this.”
The pilot set the box on the table then sat back expectantly as Kellan shot him a puzzled look. He pried the package open and fished out an Imperial flight helmet.
“A few of us had it made up for you.” Brinks smile broadened enough to turn his eyes to mirthful squints.
He turned the helmet in his hands. There, stenciled in the red, authoritative font of the Imperial Starfighter Corps, read the word ‘Mayday’. Kellan’s heart sank. No TIE pilot chose their own callsign. That was the duty and privilege of one’s squadmates. And once they had decided, the chances they’d reconsider were scant. Brinks seemed to savor his crestfallen expression.
“Congratulations…” he leaned in and guffawed. “...Cap!”
“Yeah, over and out, Delta Two.” he murmured.
Brinks stood and gathered himself, head still shaking in amusement. They said their goodbyes and before long Solari was alone at the city’s edge once more, staring into the visored eyes of his newly anointed flight helmet. It was just as well. She’d be here soon. He looked past the helmet towards the building. A laborer droid was busy lifting a length of signage from a repulsortruck’s bed. Kellan sipped his drink and watched as the sign was fastened to a set of hooks and a crane hoisted the entire thing into the air. The bright-red lettering read ‘Imperial Recruitment Office’. He noticed for the first time that even the ruined buildings that remained now sported banners emblazoned with the Imperial sigil.
Nature was healing.
Overhead, the immense curvature of the Ord Trasi shipyards stretched from one horizon to the other. The vast interconnected disc of platforms and space stations encircled the entirety of the planet and provided the shipbuilding world with much of its latent value. At least from an Imperial perspective. Though the Killiks’ destructive warpath hadn’t extended to these prized facilities, the shipyards buzzed with activity nevertheless, as they were being retrofitted to cater to the exclusive requirements of the Imperial Navy.
Planetside, several key industries were beginning to reopen. Businesses that had not been crippled or outright destroyed, began the awkward process of operations in the wake of a humanitarian disaster. Perhaps not surprisingly, cantinas were among the first to throw open their doors. Several such establishments had sprung up in the days after the invasion.
Kellan had been a fixture at The Nexus Spire Cantina for the past five days now. Seraph Fleet, considering its obvious proximity, had been tasked with preliminary stabilization and logistical support. Due to his extraordinarily public part in the planet’s deliverance from certain destruction, Solari had been exempt from these duties and had instead been granted a week’s leave. There had been of course, the obligatory dinners and gala events the 'Heroes of Ord Trasi' had been chauffeured round to attend. Hastily restored (and conveniently powered!) event spaces full of grateful, if rheumy eyed, well-wishers who had apparently lost none of their evening wear and accompanying accessories in the fracas.
Furloughed in a burnt out cemetery. He thought sourly. Probably Darrow’s way of ‘thanking’ me for burying that Interceptor.
He occupied one of the makeshift tables on the sidewalk in front of the cantina. The sky was a shale gray, the air thick and acrid. Lazy, tepid light spackled his clothing, peeking as it did through the tattered awning. He had been watching the construction activity across the street all week. Progress had been shockingly fast. What had been only an emptied lot was now beginning to take shape. The skeletal outline of a multistory structure had wrenched itself into existence as a swarm of contractors crawled over its surface, riveting and soldering. Images of the Killik hives drifted through his thoughts.
Rare laughter echoed out from further down the sidewalk and Kellan turned to find a familiar figure heading toward him, a plain box tucked under one arm.
“What’re you doing here, Brinks?” Solari stood to greet his wingman.
“Came to see if you’d grown roots yet.” Brinks flashed a gigawatt smile and slid into the table’s remaining seat.
“Buy you a drink? Least I can do.” Kellan bent towards the open door of the Cantina and raised a signaling hand. Brinks caught him round the wrist but his smile didn’t dim.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Captain Solari.” he chortled. The distinction stung Kellan as though he'd been slapped. “Still on duty. Just swung by to give you this.”
The pilot set the box on the table then sat back expectantly as Kellan shot him a puzzled look. He pried the package open and fished out an Imperial flight helmet.
“A few of us had it made up for you.” Brinks smile broadened enough to turn his eyes to mirthful squints.
He turned the helmet in his hands. There, stenciled in the red, authoritative font of the Imperial Starfighter Corps, read the word ‘Mayday’. Kellan’s heart sank. No TIE pilot chose their own callsign. That was the duty and privilege of one’s squadmates. And once they had decided, the chances they’d reconsider were scant. Brinks seemed to savor his crestfallen expression.
“Congratulations…” he leaned in and guffawed. “...Cap!”
“Yeah, over and out, Delta Two.” he murmured.
Brinks stood and gathered himself, head still shaking in amusement. They said their goodbyes and before long Solari was alone at the city’s edge once more, staring into the visored eyes of his newly anointed flight helmet. It was just as well. She’d be here soon. He looked past the helmet towards the building. A laborer droid was busy lifting a length of signage from a repulsortruck’s bed. Kellan sipped his drink and watched as the sign was fastened to a set of hooks and a crane hoisted the entire thing into the air. The bright-red lettering read ‘Imperial Recruitment Office’. He noticed for the first time that even the ruined buildings that remained now sported banners emblazoned with the Imperial sigil.
Nature was healing.
@Volene @Eccles
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