Tukphen
Jun 7th, 2012, 11:00:30 PM
Defiance, Sullust Orbit
Admiral Tukphen had read the reports. He had seen the holos. But it was not until he stood on the bridge of his flagship, staring at the plumes of smoke rising from charred craters on the Sullustan surface that the true gravity of the situation hit home.
The Galactic Empire had struck at one of the Alliance homeworlds. The politician in him offered a bittersweet reminder that it could have been worse; a strike against Dac or New Alderaan would have damaged the very soul of the Rebellion, whereas hitting Sullust was more of a flesh wound. As his gaze settled on the tangled mess of twisted metal that the orbiting SoroSuub facilities had become, the strategist in him pointed out that at least they hadn't lost Mon Calamari, or Sluis Van.
That seemed to be the way of politicians, and it was a mentality he detested having acquired. Everything required an optimistic spin; every tsunami had to have an undercurrent of solace; otherwise everything became dire and hopeless. But while everyone else scrambled to find the good, Tukphen always allowed a few thoughts to linger on the bad.
SoroSuub's contribution to the Alliance Fleet was far smaller than other shipyards; but it's contribution to the Alliance economy was of considerable more importance. The loss of her facilities in orbit and on the surface - not to mention the dozens of other sites that had sustained catastrophic damage - could cripple Sullustan industry. Unemployment would skyrocket, and while the likes of Buchich, Kothlis, and Sennatt could fill some of the void left by Sullust's plants and factories, the ripples that the Empire had caused would be felt across the entire Alliance eventually.
That was why he was here; or at least, it was part of the reason. As the leader of the Ordnance & Supply Command, and the commander of the Alliance's Sixth Fleet, he had spent the last five days furiously coordinating the relief efforts, working closely with Support Services to scrabble together every scrap of aid and ship it across the galaxy to Sullust. The logistics alone had been a nightmare; fortunately the Empire wasn't quite malicious enough to lie in ambush of their relief convoys.
As the humans would put it though, Tukphen was a man with many wigs to wear; and one of those many wigs made it his duty to find a way to heal the injuries that the Empire had inflicted, or at least to fashion the splints and crutches that the Alliance would need to hobble on.
The reflective pools that half-filled his eyes flickered slightly, sweeping his convex gaze enough to focus on Sekaj L'vehl, his opposite number from Sluis Van. He wondered if he should perhaps say something profound; something heartfelt and worthy of a politician, to buoy the spirits of his crew. He found himself somewhat at a loss for appropriate words.
"We can only hope," he muttered to the Sluissi instead, gallows humour forming in his mouth as he regarded the burning planet below, "That all the personnel we're shipping out here will be a boon to their tourist industry."
Admiral Tukphen had read the reports. He had seen the holos. But it was not until he stood on the bridge of his flagship, staring at the plumes of smoke rising from charred craters on the Sullustan surface that the true gravity of the situation hit home.
The Galactic Empire had struck at one of the Alliance homeworlds. The politician in him offered a bittersweet reminder that it could have been worse; a strike against Dac or New Alderaan would have damaged the very soul of the Rebellion, whereas hitting Sullust was more of a flesh wound. As his gaze settled on the tangled mess of twisted metal that the orbiting SoroSuub facilities had become, the strategist in him pointed out that at least they hadn't lost Mon Calamari, or Sluis Van.
That seemed to be the way of politicians, and it was a mentality he detested having acquired. Everything required an optimistic spin; every tsunami had to have an undercurrent of solace; otherwise everything became dire and hopeless. But while everyone else scrambled to find the good, Tukphen always allowed a few thoughts to linger on the bad.
SoroSuub's contribution to the Alliance Fleet was far smaller than other shipyards; but it's contribution to the Alliance economy was of considerable more importance. The loss of her facilities in orbit and on the surface - not to mention the dozens of other sites that had sustained catastrophic damage - could cripple Sullustan industry. Unemployment would skyrocket, and while the likes of Buchich, Kothlis, and Sennatt could fill some of the void left by Sullust's plants and factories, the ripples that the Empire had caused would be felt across the entire Alliance eventually.
That was why he was here; or at least, it was part of the reason. As the leader of the Ordnance & Supply Command, and the commander of the Alliance's Sixth Fleet, he had spent the last five days furiously coordinating the relief efforts, working closely with Support Services to scrabble together every scrap of aid and ship it across the galaxy to Sullust. The logistics alone had been a nightmare; fortunately the Empire wasn't quite malicious enough to lie in ambush of their relief convoys.
As the humans would put it though, Tukphen was a man with many wigs to wear; and one of those many wigs made it his duty to find a way to heal the injuries that the Empire had inflicted, or at least to fashion the splints and crutches that the Alliance would need to hobble on.
The reflective pools that half-filled his eyes flickered slightly, sweeping his convex gaze enough to focus on Sekaj L'vehl, his opposite number from Sluis Van. He wondered if he should perhaps say something profound; something heartfelt and worthy of a politician, to buoy the spirits of his crew. He found himself somewhat at a loss for appropriate words.
"We can only hope," he muttered to the Sluissi instead, gallows humour forming in his mouth as he regarded the burning planet below, "That all the personnel we're shipping out here will be a boon to their tourist industry."