[Bulwark] Four Years Later

[Tarus]

The best-laid of plans in a crumbling madhouse of mediocrity...

"We had them on the run.

Their soldiers talked of ghosts in the mist, masked figures that you couldn't see coming until they appeared out of the fog, wielding death and spitting flame. They swore to their mothers long-dead that they would be better men - just before the bayonets cut them down.

But at every major junction, at every significant take, we were held back, choked by the hand that feeds. Hilarious, isn't it - you get the enemy running at the very mention of your name, then your very creators, slovenly and corrupt slugs they are, reel the leash in.

The Republic. What a joke.

Knights of the galaxy, unite against the sycophantic terrorism of your Hutt oppressors, they said - bullshit. The Hutt menace is real, but not as real and nowhere near as formidable as the red tape of the bankers and socialites of the upper crust.

And how do you fight it? You're powerless to watch your own people burn in the dying flames of your old master's incompetence. Their generals failed us at Ando Prime - their soldiers, at the Crosswinds. At every turn, you face defeat - your men, your morale, your mission, thwarted solely by the bureaucrats and charlatans.

Ugh. End log."

Aphos Veln stopped pacing, looking up from the carpet as the holorecorder's terminal chimed, the pulsing green lights dimming to a steady red. He had been locked in his quarters for hours - the rest of the ship had quieted down for the journey, everybody but the navigation crew going into stasis. He couldn't sleep, though. He hadn't even tried, because he knew it would be hopeless.

He stood at the large viewport, folding his hands together as he leaned on the railing. The greenish-bronze galaxy they were currently passing through was beautiful, but didn't distract the brooding Commander from his thoughts for even a second. The Apostasy was currently making a sublight journey between hyperspace lanes, on its way back from a raid operation in the mid-rim. The Snowcrash-class cruiser had completed the op with no casualties - an increasingly-rare occurrence these days - and was now traveling as part of a Republic convoy. Given the strength of the Hutt fleets, few vessels traveled alone now.

They were cruising alongside two Republic Navy carriers - the Infinity II and Ramat, both bearing a complement of five thousand marines - and four escort frigates. For peacetime, the arrangement was beefy, but Command had insisted on playing it safe.

Veln snorted. Command. Hah. In the last four years, something had happened; whether it was a shuffling of leadership, corruption in the Senate, or general military incompetence, the Republic had started to reel the S.O.L.A.G. in. At first, it had looked innocent; "requesting permission to requisition one hundred S.O.L.A.G. operatives to secure peacetime colonial stations." Sure, why not. Then, they had started asking for more. Then, they had started asking more frequently. Then, they stopped asking and just took.

The Light Assault Group - or at least, that's what they seemed to be, given the dwindling number of special operations - was increasingly becoming a generic part of the Republic Military. This brought certain benefits - for one, S.O.L.A.G. was now pushing 2,500 fully-fledged operatives due to increased recruitment draws and oversight - but it was sucking the force dry. Most of the men murmured under their breath, and Veln had to do everything within his power to appear a faithful leader while steering his force away from defecting to one of the multiple shadow private military contractors that had sprung up in the peacetime.

Peacetime was the issue. The treaties had made the Republic feel secure in its section of the galaxy; trade had picked up soon after the break in conflict, and the elite were reeling in the credits. The Senate didn't feel the need for any of its underlings to go out picking fights, comfortable as they were in their velvet thrones and silk robes. It was almost like they'd forgotten that the Hutts, just four slight years ago, had been on the brink of wiping this whole establishment out of existence. Or maybe their child-like naivety was preventing them from seeing the truth.

Veln turned from the window and walked to his bunk, dropping onto the side. His temples were throbbing again; the headaches came frequently when there was nothing to do but sit. Their latest operation was a joke - a full military escort and all the fanfare, all for a PR stunt. The raid they had conducted was on an old abandoned mining cruiser that floated, derelict, between systems; they had seized a few hundred tons of spice from the junkies that inhabited the hauler, taken prisoners. The merciful Republic, liberating the galaxy from its vice and rehabilitating the lost. Republic Personnel Resources had sent along camera crews, even. It had taken all of Veln's power to stop them from boarding the Apostasy and interviewing his men to death.

He swung his legs up onto the bed, letting his head fall onto the pillow. By his estimation, they had about an hour of hyperspace left before they hit dock, where they'd resupply and ready up for whatever their next assignment would be. The commander closed his eyes, fighting off the doubts that lingered on the edge of his vision as he fell into a restless sleep.

 

[Ender]

((We can haz be posting?))

 

[Tarus]

((We can haz be posting?))

It's mostly intended as a filler for what happened during the time skip. If more people want to turn this into a 'dissent within the ranks' sort of deal, I'm open to anything creative.

Also, keep in mind you're probably in stasis unless you have a reason not to be. Generally, you're not walking around much.

 

[Ender]

((Ah, ok...just waiting for a chance to reinsert Jaller.))

 

[Ender]

((With the addition of the noob SOLAG guys, the Indies, I decided to put an IC post here))

Jaller glared at the newcomer.His new stripe, the fifth so far, glinted in the soft light of the cantina. They didn't deserve to be here. The mercenaries, pirates, smugglers. Any of them. He looked over at his platoon of commandos, a rough and ready group of hardasses. And then he looked at the new comers. So far, the only one he liked was the new Bravo One, what's his face... Gamble, or something. He was like Jaller, ready to have fun off the job, focused on.

Jaller glanced at the immaculately clean bar. He could see his reflection in it. Four years of "Peace" had been hell on the platoon leader. There was the burn mark on his cheek from the explosion on his Flea, during the disastrous invasion of Ando Prime. Shrapnel in his leg had been removed from some flak they had taken as well. There was the scar on his arm from the crazed VIP they had been EVACing when the borders were made. The scar on his neck from when he'd been sucked out into space on a raid. Hell, he had nearly been killed then. And then he remembered the wonderful nights he had spent with his Twi'lek... Oh god, her lekku. The way her blue skin shimmered with sweat after an amazing night of-

"Jaller! Why don't you join us for a drink?!?" a newby called out.

Jaller glared at him and showed him that special finger. Asshole. Didn't he know his place? He was a C1 for cryin out loud! Jailer sighed and took a swig. They were at war again. About time, the politicians had lost the last war. Not the soldiers. The Hutts feared him. They feared SOLAG and every operative within her. And that, was the best part. It was time to get some pay back for Ando. For his pilot. For everyman lost that day. That was still a sore spot for Jaller, but one that would go away after he had some slug meat. And at that thought, Jaller supressed a grin.