The Liberation of Duro: Fall of Bburru

[Mas Onoldo]

Right now, terrorists are plotting to take over the planet of Duro. My office has been targeted. The people I work with may be involved in both. I am the Durosian liason for the Galactic Empire, Mas Onoldo, and today is the longest day of my life.

The following takes place in (not-so-)real time.
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Lit by dim light of the rising sun, a small motorcade pulled up to the armed compound. After confirming the identification of the lead vehicle, a gleaming black speeder with tinted windows, the guard signalled for the gate to be opened. The speeder entered, followed by an escort of two Stormtroopers on speederbikes. The vehicles stopped by a side entrance, guarded by another pair of Stormtroopers. A middle-aged Duros stepped out of the speeder and nodded at the Stormtroopers. He wore a nondescript suit, well-tailored to downplay his midsection, which had been stubbornly advancing the past few years. As he had almost every day for the past 12 years, Mas Onoldo took a deep breath, finished his steaming, caffeinated drink, and entered the side door of the central government building.

He hadn't made it more than 10 meters down the hallway before a young man emerged from a side room, datapad in hand. His assistant, no doubt, had been here for hours. As always, he had Onoldo's daily itinerary. The datapad was exchanged for the empty cup. "Good morning, Sir. This morning, you have a meeting with the representative Keggle at 7:45, a photo op with a group of gifted youngsters from the Leevazi Institute at 8:30, and a press conference concerning the Empire's new Turadium tax scheduled for 9."

Not breaking stride, Onoldo glanced down at the datapad as his assistant rattled off the schedule. "Good. Did we get those changes made to the speech? I didn't like the closing paragraph we originally had."

"Yes Sir, Larla revised it to soften the language. It should now stress the positives of the tax, as you suggested."

"And Moff Xannan?"

"He has requested your presence this afternoon at 1."

The two Duros reached an intersection and turned right. Though early in the morning, the stark, utilitarian hallways were already crowded. More accurately, they were still crowded from the day before. With a large and prosperous Duro to govern, the building never slept. "Excellent. If everything goes according to plan I should be able to assuage Keggle's concerns and smooth things over with the press and have nothing but good news to relay."

They were soon joined by a young woman who appeared seemingly out of nowhere to flank Onoldo on the other side - his chief of staff. She handed him another datapad.

"The morning security report, Sir. The only real incident of note was an attack on one of the docking facilities on Jyvus. The local garrison is investigating. Early intel suggests it is the work of the Kalee anarchist group. Possibly in response to the Moff's visit."

"I assume the mayor is on top of it? His police should be able to handle a few youngsters wanting to cause chaos."

"He is, Sir. His office is involved and is taking point."

They stopped, having reached the end of the hallway and the door to Onodo's office. He raised the stack of datapads and nodded to the two members of his staff. "I'll take a look at these. Come get me 10 minutes or so before Keggle gets here. I want to be ready for him. And keep me informed if there are any developments on that port on Jyvus. I don't want anything marring the Moff's visit."

Leaving the door open, Onoldo sat down and began going over his speech.

[Mas Onoldo]

It seemed like no time had passed when his assistant re-entered the office. Barely looking up, Onoldo addressed him. "Has Representative Keggle arrived?"

"I'm sorry, Sir, Mr. Keggle's office just contacted us to inform us that he will regretfully have to cancel the meeting."

"What? At the last minute he decides not to show? Did they give a reason?" Onoldo asked. Though, truth be told, he was a bit relieved. Keggle could be a chore to deal with at the best of times. When he was angry, as he was about the Empire's new turadium tax, he was impossible.

"They did not."

"Unacceptable. I deserve some answers." he paused for a moment, sighing as he cradled his head in his hands and rubbed his substantial eyes. "Please excuse me, I'll contact his office directly." His assistant backed out of the room without a word, the door closing behind him.

Onoldo punched his security code into the terminal. A spoken command put him in contact with the representative's office. Upon being connected, he stated, in his most official voice, "This is the office of Moff Xannan. Please connect me to Representative Keggle.

He was greeted by the officous transparent holo-image of an older woman. "Oh, hello, Mister Onoldo (she put an annoyingly strong emphasis on the Mister), I'm afraid Representative Keggle (an and almost as annoyingly strong emphasis on his title) has requested he not be disturbed. If you want, you can leave a message and he may get back to you when he's free."

"That's quite alright," he replied, as pleasantly as possible, "I'm sure I will catch up with him soon. Please extend my regards to the Representative."

She confirmed that she would, her image flickering as the transmission ceased. Onoldo fumed. Impotent anger rose up in reponse to the disrespect shown. In truth, there was very little he could do. Keggle represented Supernova Enterprises, one of the largest manufacturing conglomerates on Duros and was, thus, one of the most influential members of the planet's ruling council. Onoldo on the other hand, had no official title, as the old woman so carefully pointed out. The office he was in, the desk he sat at, all was officially the Moff's.

Years ago, Onoldo had begun his career as the cultural liason for Moff Grossman (Moff Xanaan's predecessor). It was a political move, intended to help endear the Empire to the Duros people, some of whom still resented the way the Republic had ended. As a former holovid star, Onoldo was able to provide the familiar face the Moff needed. After all, Imperial decrees were easier to swallow when they came accompanied by the star of such noir thrillers as The Nubian Falcon, On Dangerous Ground, and The Durosteel Jungle.

Over time, he had assumed more and more duties, consolidated more and more power. He became the Moff's chief speech-writer and his chief advisor. Soon, he was giving the speeches himself. By the time Grossman's health began to fail, Onoldo was giving the orders in his name. Sometimes the Moff was consulted, but more often than not, he was content to simply allow Onoldo to handle the affairs of Duro while he concentrated on the Corellian Sector as a whole. Were Grossman still alive, Rep. Keggle wouldn't have dared be as dismissive to Onoldo. Unfortunately, the Duros and Moff Xanaan were still new to each other and the delegation of powers was still a bit nebulous. Rage as he might, there was nothing for Onoldo to do. Keggle was free to tuck himself away over at the Supernova Enterprises headquarters on Jyvus.

Jyvus.

That's right - the incident at the docking facility. With no meeting to sit through, Onoldo had a good hour until the next item on his docket and nothing better to do than more closely examine the report of the overnight events over on Jyvus.

[Delgado Xaanan]

It had become something of a game. The Commission for the Preservation of the New Order had assigned the young officer to act as his aide, serving as an all-important buffer between the Moff and the predatory concerns that wanted to prey upon his time. Though Corellia herself was relatively self-sustained, other worlds across the Sector relied upon the Coalition for Progress and the Coalition for Improvements to help maintain their infrastructure, and cultivate their culture and economy; and even Corellia was not beyond the attention of the Imperial Security Bureau and the Sub-Adult Group. Every day, hundreds of allegedly important reports, bulletins, and communiques bombarded Delgado's desk; the Lieutenant was his deflector shield, bearing the brunt of the onslaught so he wouldn't have to.

At least, that was the theory. However, it was a dynamic tailored towards Moffs who did not share Delgado's meticulous nature and hands-on approach to administration. Many Moffs were politicians or veterans, and to them each flimsi of documentation was a burden that they would rather not bear. For a man as experienced at navigating business and bureaucracy as Delgado Xaanan however, such things were second nature. Hence, the game had begun.

Every morning, at precisely 0801, the young Lieutenant would attempt to seamlessly fall into step with the Moff at a convenient intersection, and then proceed to remind Delgado of the schedule he had already memorised, and inform him of overnight news and developments from across the galaxy that he already knew about. In return, Delgado would do everything in his power to confuse, distract, or derail her.

For the last several weeks, the game had been confined to a single, unchanging stage: the corridors of the Moff's flagship, which was conveying them on a grand tour to visit every corner of the sector. This had allowed the game to escalate, with the Moff employing bold new tactics. Two days ago he had left his quarters early, approaching the intersection from the opposite direction to what the Lieutenant would expect; then he proceeded to lead them back down the corridor that she had arrived from, taking them to completely the wrong part of the ship. They had been a full five minutes late when they'd finally arrived in the hangar bay; though some exemplary flying by their shuttle's pilot had ensured that they arrived with time to spare for Delgado's meeting with the Governor from New Plympto. Much to his mild frustration however, the Lieutenant didn't even bat an eyelid. More extreme measures were apparently called for.

For Delgado, 'extreme measures' apparently translated to delaying his morning routine by a full two minutes: not long enough to disrupt the integrity of his schedule, but enough to force his aide to loiter uncomfortably in the corridor until he arrived. Were he a man who usually allowed expressions to be displayed on his face, he probably would have been wearing a self-satisfied smile. Delgado knew better than to do such a thing however: smiles invited a lack of professionalism from one's subordinates, and inspired them to seek approval through familiarity. Time spent trying to appease the boss was time better spent being productive, in Delgado's opinion.

A few moments later, another expression missed it's opportunity to be facially displayed: surprise this time, perhaps even bordering on amazement. Despite Delgado's expectations, as he rounded the corner into the stretch of corridor where he and the Lieutenant habitually intercepted, he watched her appear from around the corresponding corner, an equal distance away. A frown toyed with the idea of forming, until keen eyes settled on a slim device being casually slid into a waiting pocket; even from this distance, Delgado could recognise a hand-held scanner when he saw one, keyed in to the signal from his comlink, no doubt. Graciously, he admitted defeat to himself. "Clever girl," he added, under his breath.

"Good morning, sir," the Lieutenant offered as she fell into formation with the Moff. Though she kept her tone professional, Delgado had accrued enough observations of her mannerisms to pick up on the faint glimmer of satisfaction that tugged at the corner of her lips.

"It certainly seems that way, Lieutenant," Delgado replied. Both knew better than to make mention of their unspoken contest.

Silence fell as it usually did, the odd duo making their way at a leisurely pace through the bowels of the ship. Though their standard issue attire was largely the same, the Lieutenant wore her uniform like a soldier: not the kind of overly upright, starch-stanced, newly graduate soldier that the Academy spewed out, but instead with the kind of quiet confidence of someone who was genuinely formidable, rather than someone who merely thought they were. By stark contrast, Delgado wore his uniform like a suit: the clean and crisp cut was tailored beyond standard issue, and while it perhaps didn't grant him the same air of intimidation, he at least seemed like someone who needed to be obeyed.

The Lieutenant spoke first; Delgado would have considered that a victory, were it not a skirmish that he always won. "You're scheduled to meet with Mas Onoldo in five hours," she reminded him, speaking the Duros name with the kind of intentional emphasis of someone who wasn't entirely familiar with the pronunciation. "However, you were contacted by Irman Mallix from the Coalition for Improvements. Apparently their negotiations with the Nubian Trade Consortium have stalled, and they were hoping you could step in and mediate."

There was a pregnant, disapproving pause. "I can schedule a holoconference at 1100, but somehow I doubt you'll be able to talk sense into a dozen squabbling windbags in under two hours." There was another pause; a brief flashed glance of apology. "Sir."

"You forget, Lieutenant: I spent most of my career in the Corporate Sector. I eat 'squabbling windbags' for breakfast." He hesitated for a moment of his own. "At least, I do when the commissary isn't serving anything more appetising." Needlessly, he glanced at the chrono strapped to his wrist, as if the antique clockwork device somehow held all the answers. "Schedule the holocall," he instructed, "But send a message to Onoldo's office; let him know that we may be delayed."

A curt nod was all the Lieutenant offered in reply, producing the datapad she habitually carried and making the appropriate amendments to her notes. With a sidelong glance, Delgado noted that her changes were minimal: mostly just approving changes that she'd already keyed in, correctly pre-empting his instructions. That was a good sign: Delgado was always a fan of an assistant with initiative.

"Also, you received a slightly cryptic message from Eldo Orikan." A frown tugged at her brow slightly as she pulled up the transmission in question. "He was part of the Nosaurian delegation you met a few days ago. Apparently he 'has them, and they'll be waiting when you get back'." A questioning look was thrown in the Moff's direction. "Something I need to know about, sir?"

A rare glimmer of a smile crept onto Delgado's face. "Tickets, Lieutenant. The Phemiss Philharmonic is performing in Kor Vella in a few weeks. They're already sold out, but Mr Orikan has a cousin who is married to one of the organisers; he offered to rustle up a few seats for me." He offered a shrug, and shot a glance in her direction. "I have a spare, if you're interested. You haven't lived until you've heard Fall of Jennir performed in person."

It apparently took a lot of self-control to keep the Lieutenant's grimace at bay. "If it's all the same, sir, I think I'll stick with being dead. With all due respect to your musical tastes, I'm afraid they're a little different to mine."

"To each her own," Delgado conceded with another shrug. "I suppose you're into 'transition metal', or whatever it is that you young people listen to today."

The Lieutenant flashed an embarrassed smile that only a young woman in conversation with a somewhat older man could pull off. "I think the term you're searching for is progressive, sir. And actually, it's more that I prefer music where all the notes are within range of human hearing."

A frown twitched on Delgado's brow. "There is that."

Drawing a careful breath, the Lieutenant allowed her features to relax back into her usual professional mask. "Will that be all, sir? I should really get on the comm and arrange this extra meeting."

"That will be all," Delgado agreed with a nod. "Carry on, Lieutenant."

[Ecidae Mandrill]

They called him an Inspector.

It was just a name: an arbitrary title assigned to his rank centuries before for reasons that were largely lost to history. Even so, Ecidae Mandrill felt that it fit him well. While his peers busied themselves with bureaucracy and administration, Ecidae inspected; watched; scrutinised every detail. He saw what others did not see, and also what they chose not to see. Many would dismiss a few missing blaster packs or a few hours of unaccounted time as an oversight or error: nothing worthy of excessive scrutiny. But to Ecidae, they were all part of the intricate web that connected everything and explained all. He saw every last minor mystery; understood every shred of significance.

And then he buried them.

Duros was a world enslaved: not by force, but by complacency and acceptance. Citizens walked past armed soldiers and passed through Imperial checkpoints every day, and they said nothing. They did nothing. They accepted the lie - that Duros was being protected, not occupied - and they wrapped it around themselves like a blanket, pulling it over their eyes so they didn't have to see the truth that was right in front of their face. The status quo was a powerful thing: maintain anything for long enough, and eventually people will want it to stay.

Not everyone was prepared to simply lie down and accept, however: and it was for them that Ecidae kept his secrets. For years, Imperial supplies had been conveniently lost, stockpiled by Duros rebels, or smuggled offworld to their resistance cousins on Corellia, New Plympto, Selonia, and Drall. Occasionally, people suspected of Rebel sympathies would mysteriously disappear: not slaughtered in back alleys by Imperial Security as many believed, but instead funnelled into an underground railroad of escapee freedom fighters, and cells of insurgents ready to topple the Empire once the word was given.

That word was on the tip of Ecidae's tongue. After a devastating attack on Sullust, the Rebel Alliance had become dangerous just like any other wounded animal. They sought to lash out at the Empire in retaliation, and Duros was the world they had chosen. In truth, Ecidae was not convinced that the Alliance to Restore the Republic was that much better: the rose-tinted lenses of hindsight made people forget the corruption and prejudice that had been at the heart of Republic society, but he had not. He wasn't sure that a return to the old ways was the galaxy's wisest aspiration. Still, Ecidae was not a fool: he knew the lesser of two evils when he saw it.

Calmly, the Inspector compiled and transmitted the last set of redeployment orders. The changes were subtle: seemingly no different than the countless other tweaks to flight plans and patrol routes that were issued by the Duros Security Forces every day, compensating for magnetic spikes, satellite outages, and all sorts of other harmlessly routine circumstances. Once again, faith in the status quo made the absurd somehow possible. A few unquestioned tugs on the intricate web was all it took to open subtle holes in the planet's defenses: invisible, unless you knew exactly where to look.

Ecidae reclined in his seat, and surveyed his work. It was as much as he could do without giving himself away; and it seemed like precious little, in the grand scheme. A few gaps in the patrol net was enough to sneak the occasional smuggling run through, but you couldn't exactly smuggle an entire fleet; and Ecidae had no sway over the Imperial ships roaming the sector. But perhaps his measures would make some small shred of difference: perhaps it would spare a few ships from being forced into a battle that was not theirs to fight. Perhaps.

His attention turned to another display: an outline of Mas Onoldo's schedule. Highlighted was an event a few hours away: a visit by the Imperial Moff. His presence had not been expected - had not been factored into the plan - but Ecidae saw it as an unexpected bonus. Not only would the Alliance gain their victory, and the Duros gain their freedom: both would have quite the political trophy to flaunt at the Empire.

At least they would, as long as everything went to plan.