Tibannopolis: It's A Hell Of A Town

[Ceto Rübezahl]

The Gozanti Cruiser descended into the atmosphere of Bespin, its stark grey hull piercing uncomfortably through the swirling colours of the giant's clouds.

It was not an elegant craft, but Ceto Rübezahl liked it in its own odd way. Since the destruction of the Warspite at the hands of the galaxy's secret reptilian invasion, the Moff had found himself without a flagship. There were many other Star Destroyers within the sector fleet of the Greater Javin, but a war vessel had never quite seemed his style. Neither had a lowly Imperial Transport, but the Magnate was far from the benign courier is seemed. It's internals refit and reconfigured into the epitome of executive comfort, Rübezahl found it a far more useful craft for his purposes. Certainly, there was something to be said for the intimidating and imposing form of a Star Destroyer; but few actually witnessed the dramatic entrance that his fellow Moffs believed they made. For most of the Empire's officers and citizens, it was only the final stage of a voyage that they witnessed, and everyone from the loftiest Moff to the lowliest mechanic all arrived on Imperial soil by the same elegant but generic selection of Imperial shuttles.

Not Ceto Rübezahl. When he landed, he brought sixty-four metres of Corellian engineering with him. You didn't form up in the hangar bay: you met him at the airlock, and did your best to make the ensuing corridors presentable. You didn't wait at a landing platform: you cleared a a large enough market square, so that Rübezahl could set down within the city itself. Most Moffs believed that intimidation was their most valuable tool. Ceto knew that in reality, it was inconvenience. Anyone could intimidate, if they knew what they were doing. Few could cause the kind of disruption that a person with real power could; and reminding them of that was Rübezahl's opening gambit.

Today however, was not such a day. The city that the Magnate descended upon was not swarming in chaos beneath, making ready for his arrival. In fact, the city below was scarcely even inhabited, left mostly vacant since the Clone Wars save for a few squatters, Ugnaughts, and rats. Tibannopolis was cut from the same cloth as Cloud City: a facility built to process tibanna gas, embedded within a vast umbrella of centuries-old engineering prowess. The second city's fortunes had changed in recent months, however. It had begun when Ceto Rübezahl had negotiated it's purchase from the Baroness Administrator: ever since, Imperial contractors and work crews from the Coalition for Improvements had worked tirelessly to begin tweaking and upgrading the city into what Ceto hoped and dreamed might one day become a beating heart for his new Corporate Sector.

In that regard, today was an auspicious day. As the Magnate settled itself into a convenient plaza, nestled between an assortment of towering super structures on the upper Tibannopolis surface, he was not alone. Representatives from two of his most prominent investors, Ubrikkian Industries and the Santhe Corporation, had made the journey with him. They could have arrived individually, aboard their own ships; but that would have made it their show, their own opportunity for ostentation and rivalry. Ceto sought to avoid that, levelling the field between the two corporations. They would both be his guests aboard the Magnate, and they would all arrive together. That had been the plan, and Ceto had stuck to it - no matter how unpleasant it ended up being enduring not one but two Hutts within the pristine elegance of his corporate transport.

Ceto fixed them all with the same collective warm smile.

"As you just felt from that little bump, we've made landfall at our destination. If you'd like to follow me, I can begin showing you your future homes."

[Ghtroc the Hutt]

"I'm telling you, Rath -"

Ghtroc hated the sound of the feeble human words coming out of his mouth, but Rath Ouishii Dae had demanded it. It was some business strategy or other, something to do with smoothing over dealings with the Imperials by speaking their vastly inferior language. Apparently humans found the Hutt dialect confusing, or intimidating, or some pitiful else in a similar vein; conceding to their linguistic needs instead of forcing them to rely on their fractional understanding of Huttese, or a translator droid presented Rath and his associates as accommodating and approachable. The Shell Hutt didn't quite understand it: in his experience, the only time a Hutt wanted anyone to approach them was when he planned to slip a knife through their chest muscles and puncture their air sacks; but Rath understood these feeble and spindly humanoids far better than Ghtroc, and so he deferred to the Ambassador's judgement.

Still, that didn't mean he had to act like he enjoyed the charade. He convinced himself that this was his function: the healthy sceptic, there to be miserable and disgruntled, to compensate for the Hutt standards and traditions that Rath allowed to fall by the wayside. It was all a bunch of empty shell, of course: Ghtroc didn't give a mynock's ass about Huttese traditions, or at least not the kind that most outsiders paid any mind to. Circumtore was a vastly different world to the rest of the Hutt Cartel, and few outsiders seemed to know what a Shell Hutt even was, let alone a thing about them. That Ghtroc didn't exactly look like a Shell Hutt hardly helped, and left the normally steel-clad engineer feeling vulnerable and exposed. He seldom travelled beyond Circumtore without the protective comfort of his metallic shell, and the ugly scar caving it's way through one of his eyes was a permanent reminder of why.

"- something does not smell right. And I don't just mean the foul-tasting snacks the humans set out for us."

[Ambassador Wrath]

Rath let out a low, rumbling growl.

"That was potpourri and incense, you cretin."

There were times when Rath wished he was an ordinary Hutt. Times when being able to simply have a troublesome employee or associate executed on a whim was such a deeply appealing prospect. Rath supposed there was no particular reason why he couldn't, per se, but unlike most Hutts, Rath liked to conduct himself a certain way. There were rules. There was a way of doing things. While much of the Hutt Cartel dedicated itself to criminal pursuits and corporate malpractice, Rath had set out to conquer the universe of business, by playing by and exploiting their own rules. He could succeed by devious means, if he chose. There were occasions when he did exactly that, relying upon the resources of his Rath Cartel to enforce and intimidate. In that regard he was not unlike the Trade Federation of old: adherent to the rules and regulations up to a point, but not afraid to blockade a problematic world here and there to ensure his business opposition was suitably motivated - something that Ghtroc and his Shell Hutt compatriots understood quite well.

Alas, if only the Empire or Alliance could be convinced to deregulate the construction of Baktoid battle droids. Rath had spent a modest fortune securing the patents for the Geonosians' old droid designs, but between Imperial sanctions and Alliance squeamishness, their production and deployment was against the rules, and so Rath remained patient, and endured. Hutts were a long-lived people after all, and Rath's wealth and investments were hardly going anywhere. Perhaps in a decade or so, enough of the elderly would have died off, and their successors would not remember the war of droids and clones with quite such impassioned objection.

Hmm. Clones. Idly, Rath wondered what investment opportunities lay down that particular avenue.

Now was not the time to dwell, unfortunately. Instead he rocked himself into motion, sliding forward on his gastropod, he and Ghtroc forming the rear guard of Moff Rübezahl's corporate procession.

[Skylar Trezen]

Ceto Rübezahl was many things, the statuesque blonde mused, standing silent and still, gaze fixed on the viewport and the scenery it framed. Ensuring their mutual arrival by offering his own ship for the travel, negating the spectacle each of them might have made by arriving alone, treating them as honored guests and equals alike aboard the Magnate.

Oh, he was many things indeed. And smart was not the least of them.

Skylar crossed her arms over her chest, her posture otherwise proper and relatively relaxed. The soft white vinesilk of her tailored suit (http://i66.tinypic.com/s248ix.jpg) almost glowed in the interior lighting of the Gozanti cruiser, and left the executive looking both imposing and stylish at the same time. It was what she did best, after all. When one rose to the helm of a company such as Ubrikkian Industries, one learned the value of appearance and used it to their advantage.

A deep, measured breath was quietly taken in and exhaled as the craft began it’s approach to Tibannopolis, bright eyes narrowing on the visible signs of construction. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, ready to rival Cloud City in its current state, but it had promise. Her blonde locks slipped across her shoulder as her head tilted to the side, eyes following the track of a massive repulsor-crane lifting pre-assembled beam structures into place. The work was flowing seamlessly together, and Skylar had to give Ceto credit for that as well.

She’d most certainly have to keep an eye on the man.

Slender fingers smoothed out the front of her jacket as Skylar finally shifted position and reached for the outstretched datapad her assistant had waiting for her. Nodding her thanks to the girl, she went over the messages that had been marked as needing her attention first and made a number of notations to each as the ship finally landed. Her glance rose from the datapad as Ceto spoke, falling first to the pair of Hutts, where she offered a nod to Wrath, and then to Achilles, where she offered the same. She knew the man mostly by reputation, and had to admit she looked forward to seeing what he was made of.

The woman handed the datapad back to her assistant as Ceto smiled and she answered the expression with a similar, polite set of her features. Stiletto heels clicked along the decking as she strode forward, and left her assistant to follow in her wake with the others assembled around them.

[Aiden Tahmores]

The worst part of this assignment was seeming as if he wasn't annoyed by it.

Ordinarily, that wasn't a problem. He'd begun to speculate that the Empire's fondness for hiding soldiers behind blank expressionless masks was a cunning ploy to prevent anyone from noticing their dismay and annoyance at the assignments they had been given. As an Imperial Guard, that was certainly the function that the claustrophobic crimson helmet had often provided for him: an opportunity to roll his eyes and jeer in silence at all the politicians, bureaucrats, and other assholes who tromped their way in and out of the Imperial Palace on a daily basis. It became a little more problematic when you were in the presence of someone who could use the Force, but Aiden wasn't entirely without mental discipline. He could play the stoic guardsman all day long if he needed to, but being able to pull faces at up-themselves Ministers and High Admirals from time to time was a small luxury that helped to keep him sane.

Not today, though. His current assignment had brought him to Cloud City, and then onwards to the ugly forgotten twin that was only ever spoken about in hushed, private tones. It was like a hot girlfriend offering to spice things up by inviting along her best friend, only to discover that best friend was a Rodian called Graham. Not necessarily a deal breaker as long as you were drunk enough, but there was probably going to be a lot more sucking than anyone was entirely comfortable with.

The mission was simple enough. Governor Rübezahl was doing his whole Corporate Sector thing, had a few important investors flying out to tour Ugly Town, and the Empress was doing him a solid by sending along one of her personal guards to make everyone feel suitably respected, pandered to, and safe. Look how seriously the Empress is taking this, sort of deal. And that was fine. If the Empress said jump, Aiden didn't even need to ask how high: he'd leap exactly to the specifications the Empress wordlessly expected of him, and he'd do it without a moment of hesitation.

It was Governor Rübezahl that was the problem. Aiden knew the type: all style and perception, at any expense. He supposed he should have expected nothing less than the asshole who played Alex Carmine in Republic Rangers, or of the cousin that Aiden only vaguely remembered from family vacations to their big swanky house on Loronar, but still: a Moff was a Moff, and if the Imperial Governor you were sent to work for asked you not to wear the super convenient facial expression hiding helmet thing so that it didn't seem like you were trying to actively intimidate the nice business folks and slug-people, you just had to go along with that, and somehow hold your Carmine loathing at bay for a while; or at least until no one was looking directly at you.

Aiden had stepped out first, sweeping the area for signs of danger as per protocol. Signs of danger happened to be pretty much everywhere on Tibannopolis, but fortunately most of those were expected signs of danger. There was every chance that Miss Trezen, or Ambassador Wrath, or Mister Sienar-Santhe might be crushed by falling prefabrications, impaled on a stray rebar projectile, or tumble to their doom off the edge of the rusty old sky mushroom, but if that were to happen it would not be in any way unexpected.

The Imperial Guard subdued a sigh, stepping to the side and smiling politely as the entourage stepped and/or shuffle-scooted their way off the transport, and idly began to wonder if this assignment was meant as some sort of ill-conceived reward for good behaviour, or a particularly ruthless punishment for the opposite.

[Achilles Sienar-Santhe]

Achilles squinted through the tinted lenses of his glasses. Gone was the formal wear of the Santhe/Sienar corporate offices back in the Tion Cluster, exchanged for something more casual and fashionable now that he was out here enjoying the bountiful opportunities of the Greater Javin. It wasn't that he lacked respect for Governor Rübezahl or what he was trying to achieve here: quite the contrary, a fresh injection of ideas and energy into the old and stale Corporate Sector formula was exactly what the galactic economy needed, and Achilles was there to make sure that the Santhe Corporation was on the cutting edge of that new energy.

But things were different out here than they were in the Core. Even on the upper levels, Cloud City was a far cry from Lianna of Byblos. It was more like Coruscant in a way: brightness and sophistication wherever the sun shone, but seedy and dangerous as soon as you crept into the shadows. Frankly, Achilles was in love with it, and if this business with the Alliance of Free whatever didn't go away any time soon, he had half a mind to build a fancy new corporate headquarters for the Santhe Corporation, right here on the top surface of Tibannopolis. It would be an easy sell, too: any excuse for the Santhe family to have him out of sight and out of mind, while at the same time raking in the credits that they cared so much about.

The glasses weren't just about style though: here, they were about practicality. When one heard the name Cloud City, one could be forgiven for expecting a grey, dismal, and overcast world; but Bespin was stunning, especially up here in the breathable altitudes of the gas giant. The clouds were around and below them, but above was nothing but clean sky and sunshine. No wonder Cloud City had become such a popular resort among the galaxy's lower classes: all the sunshine and comfort of a luxury resort world, but at a fraction of the cost. Achilles had already begun researching the local attractions and hot spots. He'd start with Cumulus of course, class it up and experience what Cloud City considered the "high life"; but after that he'd get more adventurous. He knew one of the Hutts - presumably the one with two eyes, although the grizzly scar seemed particularly fitting for a creature called Wrath - owned one of the more dubious establishments, and there was talk of a hot new club down on the lowest levels as well. Perhaps he'd utter the right words into the right ears; get himself set up with the VIP treatment.

He breathed in a lungful of Bespin air, and let out a contented sigh. The Outer Rim. The cutting edge. He could thrive in an environment like this.

Achilles glanced over to the Governor, and grinned.

"Hell of a place you've got here, Rübezahl."

[Kiera Callax]

A delicate brow lofted as her pale gaze flitted between those executives that strode and slithered ahead of them down the ramp and onto the broad expanse of the landing platform. It was a fascinating assortment of industry titans and Imperial clout, which left her wondering for the hundredth time that half-hour alone why on earth she'd been brought along as part of the retinue. Of a course, she was a Doctor in her own right, and more than able to speak eloquently and at length about her field of research.

But part of Mister Sienar-Santhe's entourage? This, Kiera could not properly account for, and it drove her sensible, ordered mind to distraction trying to suss out the answer. Her heels clicked along the decking as she strove to keep up with Eckard, and her silver eyes gazed at him intently. They had been but briefly acquainted, with the precise logistics and scope of her work for Sienar-Santhe only recently finalized. Her voice was soft as she spoke, and her address to him politely formal. "Mister Batāna, my apologies for interrupting your thoughts, but...what exactly are we doing here? Not them..." Kiera gestured briefly forward, catching half a comment Miss Trezen was making about the possibilities of automation and factory lines.

"...us. Me, in particular. I'm at a loss." she sighed quietly, fingers adjusting the lace edge of her blouse (http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=219856465) before resuming their trek across the surface of her sleek, silver datapad. Notes she meant to review and edit in order to have her things in order for her return to her temporary lab...which could not come soon enough. She hated to leave in the midst of a round of important experiments, but her assistants could manage well enough, and it was not as if she was important enough to be able to decline such an invitation.

[Eckard Batāna]

Eckard's thoughts probably hadn't been as profound as Doctor Callax might have presumed. He was certainly deep in thought, but those thoughts focused mostly on the sweet swoop course that could hypothetically be rigged up amid the derelict buildings and assorted construction equipment that were scattered about the place, or long to jet out in an airspeeder among all those rolling colourful clouds. He wasn't quite as thrilled about being here as Mr Sienar-Santhe was, but he could think of worse places to find himself stuck.

Worse things to look at, too, he mused, turning his attention to Doctor Callax. She was some sort of brainiac programmer or software engineer or droid architecture designer or something along those lines: one of those Doctors who wasn't a doctor-doctor, but got to be called Doctor because they were stupid-smart and stupid-good at something. Apparently that genius wasn't pan-topical; not that Eckard was critical of that, honestly he was actually kinda glad. Most smart people looked at a test pilot like him and assumed they were there for one purpose. Maybe that would come eventually, but for now Eckard had useful answers, and that was a good feeling.

He played it off with a shrug.

"Achilles Sienar-Santhe is not the kind of guy who enjoys waiting for answers. Maybe he won't need us at all, but if he wants to know the kind of power requirements and lab space your research is going to need, or how much wiggle room I'm going to need for getting prototypes in and out, or whether the enormous empty space full of imaginary things he has us looking at would be more dynamic if he painted everything green -"

Eckard shrugged again, moderating his pace to match the shorter strides of Doctor Callax.

"Plus, I kinda asked. It gets awful dull getting dragged along on these things on my lonesome."

[Kiera Callax]

"Oh...well that does make a great deal of sense. It will be easier to answer any queries he might have both quickly and properly if we are here personally. I had not thought of that aspect of things...thank you, Mister Batāna."

Kiera smiled a touch absently, completing the notation she'd begun moments before and transmitting the file across a secure channel back to her lab. With luck, there would be new data to review within the next couple of hours, but for now, she flicked the datapad's screen off and tucked it back into the modest bag on her arm. She did have to admit, as much as she often preferred the comfortable confines of her lab and her apartment, Bespin itself was beautiful. Well, Tibannopolis certainly lacked the aesthetics that Cloud City possessed in spades, certainly, but there was potential there that she could see.

Blinking, she glanced up at Eckard and then glanced away again. Oh, she thought, mind spinning along directionless for a moment before Kiera managed to regain command of herself once more.

"I admit...it is nice to get out of the lab for a change." Kiera offered a faint smile and stepped briefly over to the edge of the platform, leaning over to peer down.

[Eckard Batāna]

"Woah, there."

It was almost on autopilot that Eckard stepped forward, one hand taking Kiera gently but firmly by the shoulder, while the other took hold of her waist, holding her back from a potential plummet over the edge of the repulsor platform into the clouds below. The galaxy had a strange aversion to safety barriers and railings around deadly drops such as this, and much as Eckard respected a millenniums-long dedication to a particular architectural aesthetic, he wasn't exactly the kind of person who'd drag someone along on a jaunt like this only to have them stumble to their doom.

"Not so close to the edge, Doc."

He shot her the tiniest flash of an apologetic smile, waiting until she'd taken a step backwards before letting go. Strangely, the hand on her waist was considerably more reluctant to release than the other, and loitered there for an awkward moment longer.

"It's a long way down if you lean too far, and I'm not all that keen on the idea of having to jump down there as well to save you."

[Kiera Callax]

She'd begun to wonder...calculate, really...how far she could lean over before she lost her balance. Given her height, slender form, and decidedly stiletto heels, Keira wagered it wasn't going to be much further. She was saved from a practical test of that however, by a warm hand on her shoulder and another at her waist, gently holding her from slipping forward any further. There was a moment, alright, maybe two, that she remained perfectly still and realized eventually that stepping back would be prudent.

Stepping back also decreed that Eckard could let go, which he did with smile and expression enough that made her wonder if it maybe it wasn't her imagination that his hand had lingered.

He continued, however, and kept his steps moderated to a pace that didn't leave her feeling as if they were running a race. She smiled faintly in gratitude, setting her bag properly in the crook of her elbow once more before forming a reply.

"Well, that would be par for the course. In the lab all is well and good. Outside of it, apparently I can't be trusted near the edge of anything." There was a measure of self-deprecation in her tone, but it remained light. Her awkwardness outside of her official duties was palpable and liable to become legendary if she didn't manage to employ more of her mind, instead of turning so much of it off once she passed through the door.

Tilting her head to regard him for a moment, she reached up to tuck a pale lock of hair back into place behind her ear, the rest neatly pinned back in her usual chignon (http://2nq02e3s5nj5fasi71t3ldul.wpengine.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/31.jpg). Her gaze then flicked towards the sections of raw structure that were still visible from their current vantage point, narrowly avoiding walking into a crate as they followed behind the others, close enough to hear snippets of conversation.

Clearing her throat, Kiera spoke quietly, "If I may ask, how did you come to work for Sienar?"

[Eckard Batāna]

"The man, or the company?"

The request for clarification came with a brief gesture towards Achilles, but Eckard supposed that his answer wouldn't be much different either way: mostly, it had been an excuse to do something with his mouth and face to dislodge the smile that threatened to form at Doctor Callax and her absent-minded navigation issues. There were two answers really: one that was perhaps too simple, while the other was far too complicated to go into with a relative stranger.

He offered a shrug, hands finding their way into the pockets of his flight jacket.

"I graduated as a TIE Pilot out of Carida ten years or so ago. The way it goes in the Pilot Corps, the longer you stay alive the more money they're willing to spend keeping you that way. Live long enough, and they eventually you earn things like shields and a hyperdrive. I moved onto Interceptors, then Defenders, and then they started letting my fly the really fancy stuff. I wouldn't call myself anything exceptional, though perhaps others might; I just knuckled down, did my job, and managed not to die long enough to earn the perks."

A shoulder manoeuvred the collar of his jacket a little closer to his face, fastenings scratching at a momentary itch on his cheek without needing to dislodge his hands. It felt wrong to condense everything into such simplistic terms, but it would have felt worse to brag about it. Eckard wasn't the sort of pilot to sit and brag about his own exploits: he was the one in the corner with the bottle of ale, chuckling at how theatrically his squadmates over-exaggerated, only chiming in to confirm the seemingly dubious if ever it was challenged. If anyone asked directly, he'd brush it off, and say that he simply liked to let his service record speak for itself. In reality, it came from somewhere darker: a reluctance to brag about his own survival when he had known so many others who didn't make it.

"I guess Sienar noticed me the same way they noticed you. The Boss always has his eyes open for prospects, and if Achilles Sienar-Santhe decides you're going to work for him, he always finds a way to make it happen. For you, I'm guessing it was something noble: the promise of funding and resources to continue your work and make the galaxy a better place. For me, it was just credits in the accounts of the right few Imperial Officers to get me assigned as an R&D Pilot, and a trumped up barony from House Santhe to try and make me a little less reluctant."

A soft, slightly bitter chuckle escaped from Eckard's throat.

"The Boss thought it was funny as hell. Palpatine used to make Starfighter Barons out of his most elite and distinguished pilots. Sienar thought it would be a fun collectable to have one of his own, so he mesh taped a title onto me and considered it close enough. I suppose it wound up only feeling fraudulent to me."

[Kiera Callax]

Head canted slightly towards Eckard, the young Echani did her level best to both walk and pay attention to his response as he offered it. There was honesty there, etched into his features and his posture as they kept pace with the group ahead of them. Kiera thought there might have been more to his story, but the fact that he'd offered as much as he had was enough for her. Everyone was entitled to their privacy, after all, no matter what her sister once said about privacy always having a price.

She blinked slightly as he concluded, her attention caught up by the passing mention of a newly available processor, developed for use in top of the line navicomputers. The scientist in her had thought it could be adapted for use in droid brains and made a mental note to see if a number of them could be acquired to work into her research. The possibilities fascinated her and utterly distracted her for several moments, leading her to pull the datapad out of her bag and scrawl a few notes onto the screen until she realized her faux-pas and turned it off once more.

A slightly sheepish expression flitted across her features as Kiera tucked the sleek datapad away once more and glanced over to Eckard before focusing once more on where her feet were taking her.

"My apologies, Mister Batāna...my distraction level seems to be set rather low today, I do apologize."

The pale blonde cleared her throat and continued. "It was indeed the promise of funding and the resources to properly conduct my research that lured me away from my previous position. Mister Sienar-Santhe can be preposterously persuasive when he wishes to be, although having known him by reputation previously and knowing that he could and would effortlessly back up his words with actions also helped hasten my decision."

"There is a mortal cost to war, of which I'm sure you're well aware. My work could lessen that cost. Far better to spend a droid than a person when the conflict is so brutally endless, else the day will come when both sides collapse and there will be no one left to pick up the pieces."

[Eckard Batāna]

Listening to what tumbled out of Kiera Callax's mouth was like trying to wade through honey - slow going, but the kind of sweetness you were happy to be stuck by. He never understood how people did that, the great orators, and speech writers, and pretentious windbag bureaucrats of the galaxy. Ask Eckard to write an h-mail, and you were lucky if it contained proper sentences and punctuation. For him, every post-action report, performance review, and Academy assignment was it's own form of torture. Why waste fifty words when you could get the job done with five?

That was why Eckard found himself on the path that he was on. The Empire didn't need its pilots to be articulate; the less a TIE Pilot spoke, the better, as far as most were concerned. You weren't seen, you weren't heard; you were silent and deadly, hidden behind a faceless mask that made you indistinguishable from any other. Perhaps that's where the notion of Fighter Barons had come from: a way to reward those who shone out from those indistinguishable masses as exceptional. But typically that brought prestige, attention, and everything else that went along with the title of nobility that the Emperor had chosen - and that wasn't for Eckard. He didn't belong in that sort of world. Luckily for him, Achilles Sienar-Santhe was only interested in appearences as far as all that was concerned: Batāna was a simulation of a Fighter Baron, and if all his employers wanted was for him to stand there quietly and look the part, he was content to do just that.

For a moment, Eckard contemplated the sentiment beneath Kiera's honeyed words. A mortal cost to war. A cost. Casualties were often spoken in such terms, as something that was paid, something that was a requisite component in the transaction of war. It was a cost you were supposed to pay gladly, and such similar sentiments. It turned soldiers and pilots into currency and commodities; and while Kiera meant nothing by it, Eckard still grimaced minutely with discomfort at being parsed in such a way. It raised deeper questions as well: what happened to a currency when it became obsolete? For the Empire, the payment in death by TIE Pilots was a way to filter out the inferior, selecting who would survive long enough to earn superior craft and superior status. What would happen to the novices in this new reality where the lower echelons of the Imperial Pilot Corps were replaced by droids? Where would people go to prove themselves? Would organic pilots simply be afforded superior fighters by default, and if so, what cost would be paid for all those less disposable craft?

Then there was Kiera's final words. Eckard's arms folded across his chest, brow furrowing as he contemplated her assertion.

"This brutally endless conflict of yours. That would be the one with the peace treaty that halted all hostilities, right?"

It made sense that a woman who crafted weapons of war would think in such a way, although Eckard found it jarring to hear such pessimistic certainty out of someone who seemed so sheltered and innocent. He wasn't naive: Eckard was just as skeptical of how long the Treaty of Ktil could possibly endure before Alliance and Empire fell back on old habits and lunged once again for each other's throats; but in his estimation, in his pessimistic fears, the conflict in store when hostilities resumed wouldn't be won by a swarm of droids, but rather by whomever had the ruthlessness to launch the most Starkiller missiles towards their adversary. The Treaty was a standoff, not a peace, but the weapons aimed at each other had the potential to devastate entire worlds. In that kind of a war, whatever value a pilot or a fighter had once had depreciated into nothing.

"Don't get me wrong, Doc, droid fighters worked out great for the Separatists, and I'm all for using droids as cannon fodder instead of flesh and blood pilots, but for now the war is on pause. There are no space battles to fight, no liberations to thwart; no mortal cost to account for. There's no front lines left, just supply lines; and all your drones will be sparing pilots from is tedium, not death."