What Makes You So Special?

[Gideon Lazuli]

Republic Attack Cruiser Odyssey - Clone Wars

Eager fingers tore at the fastenings of the helmet, prying apart the air-tight seal and enthusiastically tearing the claustrophobic duraplast monstrosity from General Gideon Lazuli's skull. A few moths ago, the Jedi Master would have, and had, criticised many of his fellow members of the Order for their refusal to wear any kind of headgear and breathing apparatus while in starfighter combat. The virtues of protection and life support seemed obvious; their refusal, misguided. That had been on the opposite side of an eleven hour reconnaissance flight, and with the way that every ounce of the moisture that had been inside his head when he left was now doused across the outside, he was starting to come around to their point of view.

His lungs drew in a welcome breath of comparatively fresh air. The recycled oxygen aboard starships usually felt stale and and fake; but at the moment, he was glad to breathe anything that didn't smell quite so strongly of himself. He let his head tilt back against the seat of his starfighter, ignoring the unpleasant sensation of damp skin on faux leather. His eyes closed, and he let his breathing slow, drawing upon the Force for calm, and for the strength he needed to resist the urge to eviscerate the next person who made the mistake of disturbing him.

"Excuse me, sir."

Gideon didn't need to open his eyes to know who was speaking. The clones sounded the way they looked: almost exactly the same, but with a handful of subtle distinctions to differentiate one from another if you had the time and patience to pay attention to such things. Gideon did not, but he did have the advantage of perceptions that the average Republic citizen did not possess.

Draw on the Force, and look who appears, he mused.

The General's head fell to the side, eyes opening into an indignant look of near exasperation that his eyebrows accentuated with gusto. The target was CC-4444, the clone commander responsible for, in theory, assisting General Lazuli in leading the Legion of clone troopers in his charge. Back on Kamino, the clone commander had been unimaginatively referred to as Fours; a slip of the tongue during one of their early missions had evolved that into Force, and the General had been insistent that it stick. It was a mix of sentimentality, and rebellion towards a political statement one of the Republic's senators had made. When asked why the clone army was based upon Mandalorian stock rather than a template with more beneficial attributes, like Clawdites, Verpines, or Jedi, the senator had stated that: "There is no room for the Force in the Grand Army of the Republic."

Gideon felt the same now as he had back then. There is in my Legion.

He allowed his expression to relax at last, a tired sigh tumbling from his lungs. "Go ahead, Force," his weary voice instructed. "Quick and concise."

Force offered a curt nod before he spoke. Of all the clones that the General had served with thus far, Force was his favourite because of two simple facts: he knew when to shoot; and he knew when to shut up.

"Orders from command, General. As soon as you're aboard, we're to proceed to Nubia." A flicker of hesitation, as Force pre-empted the obvious question. "No reason given, sir."

One of the myriad opulent worlds in the Corellian Sector, Nubia was about as close to to the heart of the Republic - and the galaxy - as you could get without standing on Coruscant. An attack on somewhere so critical would have solicited far more panic and response than a casual hyper-comms message; and there wouldn't have been much point trying to conceal that fact from the Separatists either, what with them presumably being the ones doing the attacking. Aside from bragging rights though, there wasn't anything of particular significance on the planet that the General was aware of, aside from a few luxury yacht manufacturers and some pleasant scenery.

Gideon's eyebrow climbed. "Eleven hours of recon, and they want us back to the Core before we can act on it?"

"It would seem that way, sir."

Force's voice was devoid of any of the tell tale indicators of frustration or sarcasm, but that didn't mean they weren't there; and Gideon knew it. That was another thing that had endeared the Commander to his General: Force's ability to disrespect someone right to their face, and yet leave them blissfully oblivious.

"We're to transmit your telemetry to Admiral Inirial aboard the Imperator," the Commander added, another pre-empted question addressed.

A deep breath was drawn into the Jedi's lungs, and released as another sigh, though this time it bore more resignation than frustration. Gideon offered a casual gesture to his surroundings. "It would seem that I am aboard, Commander."

Force offered another curt nod, posture smartening to attention. "Right you are, sir," he agreed, snapping a quick salute before turning on his heel and marching off across the flight deck.

The Jedi slumped a little more into his fighter's bug-out couch, a puzzled frown settling onto his brow for the long haul.

"Why the bloody hell do they want me to go to Nubia?"

[Andor Tyree]

Industrial Automaton, Nubia

Of all the things that Andor Tyree had learned during his decades with the Jedi Order, of all the knowledge he had gained, of all the subjects he had read of at length in the Jedi Archives, it was the history of the galaxy that he found most fascinating. Most students of history regarded history as a whole; they focused on defining moments, the major events that had shaped the Republic. Find a reasonably educated child anywhere in civilized space, and they could tell you about the wars, about the great historic Chancellors, about the Ruusan Reformation, and all those important pillars of history upon which the Republic stood.

But people often forgot that between those pillars of history were arches, that spread the weight of history to press down upon those load-bearing events. People often forgot that were those arches not exactly right, were the curve too shallow, or off balance, the entire structure of history would collapse and tear itself apart. People often forgot to look beneath the veneer paint and plaster at the stone blocks that made up those arches; and when they did, they focused on the keystone, forgetting that the arch would crumble just the same regardless of which piece was missing. History was a complex, intricate system of pieces that had to slot together perfectly for the galaxy as it was now to have ever been built.

Some of those pieces were oddly shaped. Take worlds like Nubia for example, or Alderaan. Such venerated Core Worlds had the same prestige as an ecumenopolis like Coruscant or Empress Teta, or an industrial powerhouse like Corellia or Duros: and yet those worlds were almost unspoilt, founded by ancient generations of colonists from the original homeworlds, and developed with the utmost care to ensure that civilization never overran nature. Nubia was the epitome of that ideal: amid it's vast unspoiled grasslands were scattered cities that were marvels of architectural beauty, housing some of the most remarkable clean industry the galaxy had ever seen. Industrial Automaton was not the only manufacturer of droids in the Core; yet, unlike Corellia or Duros or countless other worlds where factories belched pollutants into the atmosphere to be dealt with later, or not, Nubia's strict regulation had forced Industrial Automaton to become one of the most environmentally conscientious droidsmiths in the galaxy. They designed droids that reflected Nubian design, and Nubian mentalities: sleek, versatile, built to last, designed to endure. There was a reason that every starship, and every starport had IA astromechs in abundance. There was a reason that the Republic purchased IA droids by the thousands; why Republic starfighters were not designed to accommodate any other kind of droid.

People paid little heed to Nubia. They thought of it as quaint, rural, nothing special. Nubia was the astromech of the galaxy: ever present, always underestimated. That was exactly why they were here.

Andor peeled himself away from Nubia's breathtaking views, and turned back to the laboratory that was as crisp and sleek and clean as any of the droids that might have trundled out of it. His gaze took in the scattered scientists, some of the Republic's finest minds, quietly gathered together on unsuspected Nubia. There were humans in abundance yes, but Duros, Verpines, Bith, Gree; every conceivable culture renowned for it's technology and still loyal to the Republic was represented; arguably the Republic's best and brightest minds. The military referred to it as a think tank, but Andor thought of it as something much more simple: cause for hope.

One thing notably absent was clones. While a few of the white-clad soldiers stood sentry at the doorways, Industrial Automaton had provided it's own support staff - painstakingly vetted by Republic Intelligence, of course. It was something of a quietly contested issue: an uncompromised insistence from the Nubian government. No matter how much the Republic and the Jedi assured them that the work being done here was a fiercely guarded secret, they would not permit any increase in the military presence on Nubia, for fear of what might happen if such deployments drew the Separatists' attention. It seemed prudent at first glance, but prudence was not always the same as wisdom, and the entire situation gave Master Tyree great pause.

A young woman, her cybernetic augmentation subtly and stylishly visible only in a few discreet places, moved herself within range of Andor's notice; he offered her a carefully measured small but warm smile. "Master Tyree," she said, the hesitance in her tone making it plain that she wasn't sufficiently used to dealing with Jedi to feel entirely comfortable around them. "The ship carrying General Lazuli has just arrived in orbit. You asked to be informed immediately."

"I did," Andor agreed, his smile increasing ever so slightly, not as a result of the woman's actions, but at the thought of just how irritable General Lazuli would be at having been dragged into all this secrecy. "Please have him brought here as expediently as possible. Swiftness and secrecy go hand in hand, in this instance."

The woman inclined her head slightly. "Of course, Master Jedi."

Andor didn't watch the woman leave; instead he turned his attention back to the viewport, and to the vista that lay before him. His gaze took in the plains, the mountains, the clear skies, the scattered clouds; and grimly he wondered if the Nubians were right to worry. When the war was over, would this all still be here?