No Man Is an Island

[Jeryd Redsun]

“Redsun.”

Sleep was cast off like a bed sheet. Jeryd snapped upright to find the floor was ice underfoot. His eyes crept open, wincing at the spear of gold that plunged into his cell through the narrow window, and the needle of pain that lanced his head. With a thud that might have been an exploding bomb, a large familiar duffel landed at his feet.

“Your stuff.”

No sooner had the cell door closed than Jeryd threw himself at it, thumping with both fists, “Corporal! Corporal!”

The peephole snapped open.

“Can I trouble you for a steam press?”

####

Under ferocious scrutiny, corners were pinched, the fabric stretched, and laid out lovingly upon the freshly-made bed. Jeryd was surgical in his application of the steam press, which hissed and spat like an angry dune viper. He buffed buttons, and measured seams, and worked at his boots until he could see his face in them. His lip was split, and bruises had gathered like storm clouds around his left eye - he would wear them like badges of honour. For ten minutes, he laboured over a sink the size of a soup bowl, scrubbing away the stink of the chase. Then, he dressed. And so it was that Jeryd Redsun ended his first night in prison wearing the immaculate white and grey of the Imperial cadet, with nary a single crease in sight. It was his last line of defence.

####

There were four of them in the speeder. The military police nursed their weapons in stony silence. Though he didn’t look, their faces were nonetheless burned into his eyes, full of loathing and contempt. He could feel it like a weight upon his shoulders, and, in feeling, he was repulsed. Coruscant went by unnoticed, even the insanity of the skylanes was pushed to the back of his mind until it was nothing but an ambient backdrop for his thoughts. Did they hate him because of where he’d been, or because of where he was going?

It wasn’t until the speeder stopped that Jeryd noticed the Citadel. He stared up, and up, and up. Its walls rose like cliffs, blocking out the sun, drenching them in cold shadow. Higher still, and its peaks blazed like columns of fire, just like… No. The wonder imploded, and fell from his chest into the pit off his stomach, where it anchored him to the seat. In the end, it was a prod from his armed neighbour that prompted him to rise, and take his first step deeper into the shadow of the Citadel. He felt sick.

On the landing platform stood a tall man in gunmetal grey. It was a sight that swept away the sluggish weight from his extremities, and had him standing, electrified, in a crisp salute.

“At ease, son.” The officer gave the others a nod, and they piled back into the speeder to leave, “I am Lieutenant Lance, of Her Imperial Majesty’s 51st Legion. Welcome to the Citadel. Follow me.”

The lieutenant led the way, between a pair of towering bronzium statues that looked like they had stood there for a thousand years, and through an entrance that stretched several storeys high. Being a citizen of the Empire often meant experiencing first-hand the grandeur of Imperial power, but never before had Jeryd seen anything like this. The vaulted ceilings reached higher than some skyscrapers, with all sound swallowed up by the distance, making it impossibly quiet; ornate arches, shimmering with meticulous detail, loomed overhead, held aloft by proud polished pillars broad enough to house entire families; Imperial banners marked the way at every opportunity, and golden rays of sunlight poured in from so many angles, it gave the impression they were moving through some kind of prism. The further they went, the more people there were, and, soon enough, Jeryd found himself engulfed by the same kind of organised chaos he encountered at the academy. It felt like home, but that was an illusion.

“The Citadel has long been a bastion Imperial excellence. This is the place where elite commandos are forged, where our greatest minds flourish; it is the home of generals, and grand admirals, and, of course, the Imperial Knights.”

The lieutenant gave him a knowing look. Jeryd cleared his throat to buy himself a second to consider a response that was not damning. “It is all very impressive, sir. Most impressive.”

“As I understand it, you have been assigned to the latest batch of cadets. They arrived only yesterday, which doesn’t put you at too much of a disadvantage, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sir,” he gave the most perfunctory of nods, and fought the urge to check if he had somehow lost his uniform on the way in.

After ten minutes of walking, the conversation died. Jeryd, having grown tired of evading dangerous questions and feigning enthusiasm, considered it a mercy killing. After fifteen minutes of walking, and an abandoned attempt to count stairs, he started to suspect his new home was going to do wonders for his quads. And, after twenty minutes, they arrived at a long corridor of dormitories. From open doors came the swell of raised voices, the clatter of busywork, and even the rare ring of laughter. Don’t be deceived, he reminded himself, inviting a renewed onslaught of doubt. By the time they came to a halt outside a sealed door, his legs were full of lead.

“You have a bunk, a locker, and a change of regulation clothing. Don’t delay. Your instructor will be along shortly, I’m sure. Good luck, cadet.” Jeryd saluted the lieutenant, who, to his disbelief, suddenly looked a little sheepish, “And… may the Force be with you.”

Lieutenant Lance turned, and took off at speed, while Jeryd was left reeling.

Once he recovered, Jeryd stood for a moment before the dormitory door, equipping his armour. Whatever awaited him on the other side was going to be different, it was going to be his greatest challenge, but it was the will of the Empire that called to him, and, by extension, the will of the Empress herself. A fleeting glance back the way the lieutenant vanished. The corridor was empty. There was no-one around to stop him, if he wanted. No. He had ran from his duty once before. He would never betray the Empire again. First, he took a breath, then the door gasped open.

The dormitory was a typically spartan stretch of space, lined with bunks and lockers on either side. A few surprises, however, almost knocked him out of step. First, there was the smell. Even on Carida, which boasted one of the finest academies in the galaxy, the dorms were haunted by the ghosts of sweaty PT sessions, and feet. Here, it smelled clean. Secondly, girls. There were girls in the dorm, and if Jeryd hadn’t noticed the boys, too, he would’ve performed the most dramatic about-turn of his life. And, with no designated sides, it appeared to be a free for all. What deranged thinking was this? The last of the surprises were the windows, which lined one side of the room and filled it with warm natural light. A rare luxury for types as common as cadets.

The cadets themselves were too busy to afford the new arrival more than a cursory glance. It was a small, but welcome, mercy. He recognised the pattern at once: the rush, the patter of feet, the frantic making of beds, the cleaning, the polishing, the double-checking of each other’s uniform - it was the panic of an approaching inspection. At least he was in for some entertainment, he thought, as he arrived at the only unoccupied bunk in the room. A quick once over revealed that his area had not yet been contaminated by the riff-raff. He was almost inspection-ready. There was just one last matter to deal with. One last sacrifice.

One by one, the brass buttons came undone. Peeling off the smart white jacket was as torturous as peeling off a layer of skin. In many ways, with each layer of clothing removed, Jeryd was shedding a piece of himself, each piece as vital as the last. Until, at last, there was nothing left. He was stripped, and raw. In that instant, he saw from his window the grand horizon of the Imperial Center unfurl before him, and he wanted it to burn. But thoughts of fire fast reminded him of the encroaching cold, and his present state of undress. From his locker, he snatched the white-and-black jumpsuit that had been waiting for him and stuffed himself into it. Now, he looked like one of them. And he couldn’t even bring himself to look at any of them.

Instead, he stared out of his window, and drank in the expansive cityscape. It was a view he would be seeing for a long time.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“Hey.”

It came from behind, a bright sort of sound. He almost saw it sailing by like a fishing line, cast in hope, only to turn limp and tinkle at his feet. In his indifference, Jeryd was ready to join the bronzium statues outside.

“Hey.”

There it was again, the hoarse squeak of a guy whose balls were too scared to come out. Between them stood a wall impervious to conversation. Perhaps the ricochet of his greeting would find some other victim for him to torment, whoever he was. But, in the end, all it took was a tap on the shoulder to shatter his icy resolve. Jeryd wheeled around to discover the scrawniest kid, with a pale freckled face and an offensive amount of curls, gazing up at him like a puppy expecting an ear scratch. His hand was outstretched, hanging in awkward limbo, while he remembered what it was he wanted to say:

“I’m Nebbil.”

The moment he shook his sweaty hand, he regretted it, “Jeryd.”

“Welcome to the Boot. Looks like we’re going to be neighbours.”

It’s called ‘Boot,’ you twig.

Jeryd surfaced from the monotony of Nebbil, and, with deliberate lethargy, dragged his gaze over the other cadets in the room. Nearest the door, there was a Rodian boy, maybe a girl, rifling through the contents of his or her footlocker. So, their heads really were that big, after all. Because Rodians had such slim bodies, Jeryd always assumed it had been a trick of the camera. Further along, another alien, this time a Duros kid with a shiny bald head, and red eyes. He looked angry, but Jeryd suspected that was just his look. And then, there were the girls: some pretty ones, not that it mattered, of course, and not a straight spine amongst any of them. By the time his eyes had done a full lap of the room, Jeryd was feeling about as dejected as ever. And the scrawny kid still hadn’t taken the hint.

“Don’t mind them,” he seemed to think he understood, “They’re just nervous about our first big inspection. The sergeant is a real nut-buster.”

Inwardly, Jeryd rolled his eyes so hard, his future children got dizzy. Outwardly, however, he gave Nebbil a look that pinned him like a flewt to a wall. “Maybe you should also be preparing for this big inspection, cadet.”

“Nah, man,” he gave a shrug, “I’m good.”

“Are you?” Jeryd folded his arms. From where he stood, he identified at least three infractions. But Nebbil, it seemed, revelled in blissful ignorance.

“You bet! Hey, what happened to your face? Were you in a fight?”

Memories of the chase, of sirens, and stun batons stormed the barricades of Jeryd’s calm, and with them, woke all the dull aches he thought he’d forgotten. He broke eye contact with as much casual ease as he could manage, “Yeah. You should see the other guy.”

“Heh! No, thanks.” Nebbil was staring at him, there was a struggle going on behind his eyes. Then, without warning, he reached out and squeezed his arms, as if he were testing for ripe fruit. After a second that felt like half a lifetime, he gave a low whistle, and released him, “So, what happened?”

Jeryd moved close. His voice trickled out in a dangerous undertone, “I grew tired of pandering to asinine frakking questions.”

This time, the kid caught on. With a measure of satisfaction, Jeryd watched his last feeble thought die on his lips. He retreated a step, looking dazed, and then another. For a moment, he wavered beside his bunk, while he decided on what distraction he should suddenly fake his interest. Ah, his under-plumped pillow. Of course. Not his scuffed boots, or his open footlocker, or the untidy corners of his bed. No, sir. What a total loser.

Back at the window, Jeryd became lost in the unending flow of traffic that stitched itself in shimmering lines across the sky, like the tides of an inverted ocean, glinting in the sunlight. From beneath its waves rose a great metal whaladon: a military transport, perhaps, ferrying new troops to new worlds for new adventures. Maybe Dodge was on that ship, on his way to becoming a cold-as-ice intelligence agent. If only he was around now, he would understand. Or quick-fingered Bosh, the joker, with his dumb pranks and magic tricks; it didn’t matter that he’d seen the Sabacc Shuffle performed about a hundred times before, in that moment, Jeryd could think of no sweeter sight. Hell, he would even settle for a story from big Muldoon, whose tales of sexual conquest were about the only thing actually taller than him. In his mind's eye, he saw them sat together, wondering where he was. Soon, the transport was but a pinprick, then it was gone.

All his life, it had been Jeryd’s dream to serve, to be a part of the Empire he loved so dearly. And yet, now that he found himself standing at the very heart of Imperial Center itself, he had never felt more like an outsider looking in.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

The double doors to the cadet barracks peeled open with the brutalist din of heavy durasteel catches and pneumatics. Imperial design followed intentional goals. The austere form and function of something as simple as a portal from one room to another made the simple act of coming and going inescapable to the attention of others. This time was no exception, as every cadet in the room turned to face the entryway. Was it another cadet late to their billet? Was it the aforementioned Citadel drill instructor?

The answer came as a mystery as the doors finished opening, revealing a sleek-furred hirsute creature that trotted in on four broad paws. It was as tall as a large dog at the shoulder, but the proportions were all wrong. It had a bullet-shaped muzzle and broad head, little ears, and a neck so stout that it seemed less a neck, but instead just a gradient from the jawline to the shoulder. The tail trailing behind the creature was broad and lithe as the rest of it, tapering in her wake. Snout to tail, the thing was easily two and a half meters long. Further, to add even more mystery to the strange sight, the animal seemed to be wearing some kind of non-regulation imperial armor.

The weighty thump-clicks of paw pads and claws slapping the barracks deck came to a halt, and the creature looked from one cadet to the next.

[Jeryd Redsun]

The rumble of doors turned Jeryd as rigid as a cat in a thunderstorm; a year of Staff Sergeant Sope would do that to a man. His heady daydream of what could’ve been was fast replaced by the reality of what was: silence that spread like a warning cry, freezing the cadets in place. It could mean only one thing.

In an instant, he was at the bottom of his bunk, but faltered at the sight that greeted him. It was a beast unlike any he’d ever seen, a powerful thing, sleek, and undoubtedly dangerous. A glance at his neighbours revealed he wasn’t alone in his alarm. Indeed, the Drall backpedalled to the dubious safety of his locker, while one of the girls actually shrieked when it looked her way. Together, they could probably overpower it, but not without casualties. First, he needed something to pierce the armour.

The armour. Of course.

In the last ten minutes, he’d seen more aliens than he had ever encountered in a whole year at the academy. And if there was one thing he understood about basic training, it was that it was a shapeless monster whose sole purpose was to test recruits in the most cruel and original ways possible. Jeryd didn’t know aliens, but he knew this: beasts don’t wear armour.

His time was running out. And, though, when it looked at him, he could not be sure it didn’t see food, he knew he had to act. As he stepped forward, Jeryd found at least a speck of consolation in the fact that, if he was wrong, he wouldn’t have to live it down for a long. He took a sharp breath that shaped him into a durasteel column, and boomed:

“Attention on deck!”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

Jeryd's words had an instant effect on the cadets, causing most to post adjacent to the foot of each assigned bunk. There were reluctant stragglers. A few side-eye glances to the new blood crying wolf - or crying whatever this thing was. And the thing itself didn't respond to Jeryd's outburst. It simply sat there as aloof as ever. That caused the Rodian to snicker, her proboscis twitching at Redsun's misfortune.

"Cadet Redsun called..."

A low voice sounded clear through the scattered chuckling, which didn't end until...

"ATTENTION!!" rattled through the deck plating in a growled boom. Now every set of eyes was fixed on the speaker and her lip-peeled, fang-bared mouth.

The creature-that-could-speak now swiveled her head around the room with all the lethal potential of a loaded weapon as a wet snarl chattered in her throat. The Rodian girl, Thida, was caught in a dilemma of cutting laughter off mid-stream versus the cold-sweat terror of being called to account by a drill instructor.

The beast smelled blood. With a few lateral steps of it's forepaws, the creature turned to face the comedian in full.

"Does this amuse you, Cadet Thida?"

The voice returned to a deceptively low tone. The only trace of the previous moment's anger lay in a bit of saliva collected on the animal's lips that began to lengthen, threatening to drip to the floor. It's descent was quickly arrested with the flick of a tongue, which did nothing to prevent the beast from trying to burn a hole in the Rodian's skull with her eyes.

[Jeryd Redsun]

When the creature started to speak, relief washed over him like the warm lapping tides of Gold Beach. Except it was not the satisfaction of a lethargic holidaymaker that filled him up, and raised his chin just so, but the pleasure of his first small victory. That warmth, however, turned to ice in his stomach when the beast roared so loud his own chest rang like a bell. The sound rolled across the room, a shockwave to blast away the last atoms of informality from quavering cadets. Those spines were straight now.

The beast turned. Calling it an alien was surely a formality, with its deathly poise, ferocious musculature, and predatory prowl; not a monster in name, then, but it was truly monstrous nonetheless. And it was the Rodian, Cadet Thida, who had been chosen to suffer the first lashings of wrath. In calling attention, Jeryd had provided the others with an opportunity to spare themselves, not that he cared what happened to a pack of ill-disciplined scrubs, but because it was expected of him in the eyes of his superior officer. If Thida could not muster the sense to stand at attention when commanded, then she had only herself to blame. Thida, he decided, had to be a girl’s name.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl go stiff, and heard the last of her childish giggles get caught in her throat as if it had been clamped by an invisible hand. That was the power of authority synonymous with the Galactic Empire. He recognised it at once, and felt the same thrill to behold it now as he had, as a child, when the great parades were in town. The spell was broken, however, by the sight of a long rope of saliva dangling from the beast’s chin. Fighting off a grimace, Jeryd snapped eyes front, and waited for Thida’s response. It came loud and clear:

“Sir, no, sir!”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

In a single movement, the creature's posture changed. She bunched her long-set feet together, causing a high arch of her spine that rolled up her shoulders until she stood on two legs. Now towering over two heads over Cadet Thida, the Selonian corrected the discrepancy, hunching her back for the sole purpose of putting her short tapered muzzle within an inch of the offending proboscis.

"I must be mistaken. There must be something else that you find funny. Look around, Cadet. None of your comrades are laughing. Did they miss the punchline?"

Vissica's words at point blank distance were warm, humid, and carious. That was just one of many reasons Thida wanted to tear her attention away from the alien muzzle nearly pressed against her face. Now her proboscis shook, but with a different emotion.

"I don't know..."

"You...don't...know." Vissica measured out the milquetoast response, finding it sorely wanting.

"Then you were laughing for no reason? That makes you a fool, Cadet Thida."

The Selonian straightened her posture, backing off for the purpose of pacing the room and eyeing the other Cadets.

"Who can tell me the mission of the Knights of the Imperial Throne?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

In one strange fluid motion, the alien transformed from animal to sentient. Jeryd was at war with every muscle on his face to keep his astonishment in check. It was no wonder that Cadet Thida quailed in its shadow, for it towered like the sentinel stratoscrapers that stood watch over the entire planet. Indeed, he could even feel her fear, and suspected the other freaks could, too. It diffused throughout the room like an unpleasant smell; a silent fart of weakness. And, when Thida’s torment was cut short, he was grateful to the alien, whatever it was, for sparing them from another second of her pathetic whimpering.

More than its words, and the weight with which they were delivered, it was the posture of the thing that resonated most with him. The back was straight, the shoulders square, the chest was out, and the chin held high; the alien carried itself with the authority of a general. If the others had truly never seen it before, then it stood to reason that they were in the presence of no meagre drill instructor, but someone of real importance. And there he was, unable to tell if it peed standing up or sitting down. Welcome to the Knights of the Imperial Throne, cadet.

Whatever their mission was, he couldn’t say. The activities of eccentric psychics had been about the farthest thing from his mind while he was at the academy, and, amongst normal people, it was still widely regarded as the Empire’s dirty secret. But no feat of denial could liberate him from the fact that his beloved Empire was getting into bed with Force-users. And he had to wonder if it was a sign of desperate times. Nebbil, on the other hand, had no such difficulty in answering the alien’s question. In fact, he was so eager to squeeze an extra inch out of those nasty boots, it was a miracle he didn’t pop out of them.

“Sir,” he honked, “The Knights of the Imperial Throne project and assert the authority of the Empire across the galaxy. They are an extension of the will of the Empress herself, sir.”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

At the sound of 'Sir', Vissica's head locked onto the pubescent noise's source. Her flat demeanor remained unchanged for a moment after Nebbil had given his answer. The cadet hung onto the silence, hungry for praise. He got no excellent, no well done, and no outstanding, at all, but rather simply,

"Correct."

The Selonian squared herself to Nebbil, her wet nose crinkling slightly as her eyes narrowed.

"Step forward, Cadet Nebbil."

Still hungry for recognition, the human teenager did so. Vissica canted her head slightly in afterthought. "You too, Cadet Thida."

The Rodian, for her part, was less enamored with being singled out, but did not dare disobey. The two singled-out cadets stood side-by-side as Vissica paced around them.

"Those of you who do not fail will one day become Knights of the Imperial Throne. It will serve you well to remember Cadet Nebill's words. You will not simply fight. You will not merely command. The sight of your presence will inform enemy and friend alike that the Empress is watching. There are commanders of entire legions and star destroyer squadrons who do not hold that kind of responsibility. Therefore, you will be trained to carry it."

The Selonian paused behind the two examples, resting a splayed paw over the outer shoulder of each.

"Witness your comrades here. They lack discipline."

Vissica's grip on each cadet's shoulder tightened. Discomfort became pain, etched plainly both Nebbil and Thida's face. The Selonian torqued down without mercy, causing yelps of pain as the pair of dissolute cadets were pressed down to their knees.

"Cadet Thida's careless hold over her emotions may seem small to you now, but in matters of the force, you will discover how quickly you can betray the crown and your comrades if at first you betray yourself."

Nebbil and Thida's whimpering intensified as small medallions of crimson began to spot the shoulders of their uniform where the Selonian's claws bit.

"W-what have I done, sir?" a very bewildered Nebbil shrieked between a sniffle.

"You don't know?" Vissica replied, almost sounding surprised. With one final squeeze, she released her grasp of both cadets, causing the troublemakers to fall to their hands in relief. Nebbil's relief was short-lived, as unseen hands pulled his feet from under him, causing his chin to smack against the deck. The Knight made short work of relieving Cadet Nebbil of his shoes, which she roughly dropped directly in front of Nebbil's face and now-bleeding chin.

"How many smudges do you count on your boots, Cadet?"

"I...I..." Nebill stammered, his eyes beginning to swell with moisture he struggled to keep in check.

Useless. A rumble shook in Vissica's chest as she snatched the boots back up. She stepped over Nebill, marching directly to the nearest man in the line.

"How many smudges do you count, Cadet Redsun?"

Each paw presented an empty boot in front of Jeryd's eyes, so that he could have no excuse in failing to answer.

[Jeryd Redsun]

From the moment the hulking alien summoned the cadets forward, Jeryd found himself wondering what manner of punishment and humiliation it had in store for them. Making an example out of unsatisfactory cadets was part and parcel of being a drill instructor; all that remained was to discover if the great beast was all tooth and no claw. It did not disappoint.

On the periphery of his vision, Jeryd noticed, with a degree of satisfaction, some of the other cadets shuffling with discomfort at the sudden application of force. The Empire was only as strong as the men and women who manned its vessels, and fought its wars. It was the duty of every soldier to weed out weakness, first, in himself, and then, in others. A list of future drop-outs was beginning to take shape in his mind, with cadets Nebbil and Thida jostling for top spot. And then the question occurred to him: was dropping out even an option? Thus far, there had been nothing about his experience that had seemed, in any way, optional. Was he doomed to serve alongside the human snot and the giggling child? Suddenly, the alien’s words returned to him like aftershocks, and the implications were dizzying.

####

“Sir, I don’t understand.”

The other officers were already filing out of the room, they didn’t give him a second look. From behind the long empty desk, Captain Fisk stirred. In his hands was a neat stack of flimsi sheets - all signed. He, too, declined to make eye contact. Instead, he seemed rather annoyed by the distraction.

“It is quite simple, Redsun. You are being transferred. What is there to understand?”

The captain rose to his full height, a whole inch taller than Jeryd, and the crease in his olive-green uniform vanished with a gesture. Oman Fisk was promoted to lieutenant following the Battle of Jakku, where he saved his unit from an exploding thermal detonator: eighteen troopers returned home that day thanks to his actions, including his superior officer, who went on to become the famous Colonel Stracker of Ord Mantell. Despite his years, Captain Fisk filled his uniform like the larger-than-life statues that lined the great entrance hall; he had the cool blue gaze of a snow falcon, and a neat gentleman’s moustache peppered with silver flecks. Six years had passed since that fateful day on Jakku, during which, he was promoted to captain, transferred to the academy board of directors, and pioneered a new training scheme that identified promising cadets, and groomed them for command. Six years sat behind desks, wasting away inside offices and lecture halls, and he was still as brown as he was in the pictures. The desert sun had marked him for life.

“But, sir,” Jeryd began, “My performance records, my test scores, the officer programme… I wanted-”

“You are a cadet of the Imperial military.” The captain’s gaze pierced him like ice shards, “What you want is irrelevant.”

Captain Fisk heaved himself around the chair. There was a heavy thud that filled the long and narrow space like a hammer blow. While Jeryd wrestled with unspoken objections, he watched the captain round the table, labouring every other clunking step. He came to a halt near the door, and gave his lingering subordinate a look, as if he could read his mind.

“The evidence is incontrovertible. You have the gift.”

It felt like a death sentence. Jeryd checked the floor, expecting to find it fracturing beneath his feet. “With respect, sir, it is not a gift.”

“Maybe not.” At least Captain Fisk had the decency to concede that point. Jeryd expected nothing less. “But it is yours, nonetheless, and the Empire has need of it. Keeping something like this a secret would be considered an act of treason. You understand this, don’t you?”

He knew. Jeryd straightened, “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good. Well, if that is all, I-”

“Sir.” He kept his chin high, and his eyes on the blushing Coruscant skyline beyond the window. “I wanted to thank you… for your nomination. It meant a lot.”

The captain reflected his posture, which was, in turn, a reflection of him. He gave a nod, and said, “The Imperial Army has been denied a promising recruit.”

Jeryd felt a hand around his neck. There was sand in his throat. “What becomes of me now, sir?”

“That is not for me to know, son. Whatever happens, make it count.”

Raising a hand, Jeryd saluted his hero for the last time.

####

The snivelling cadets were crawling away.

There were men and women who had dedicated themselves to the protection of the Empire, officers with storied careers, who commanded more than just armies - they commanded loyalty, and respect. Respect for their sacrifices, and for the years of service it had taken them to reach the apex of their careers. A lifetime of dedication, only to be outranked by young upstarts, whose whole claim to authority is derived from the flip of a mystical coin. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And he was a part of it.

His thoughts gathered like storm clouds, only to scatter before the monstrous alien, who was presenting him with a familiar pair of scruffy-looking boots. He glanced at the offending items, long enough to count the imperfections, and corrected his gaze. When he answered, it was not with the anaemic mumble of the other cadets, but with the resounding voice of a true son of the Empire:

“Sir, there are six scuffs visible on the cadet’s boots, sir!”

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

"Six scuffs."

Vissica pulled the boots away, turning them ever-so-slightly. The greater part of the boots easily cast reflected light off their polished surface, making the dull of each scuff mark easily noticed in the light's passing. Her attention turned back to Nebbil, who lay where she'd left him, craning his neck to give his head an angle to look up.

"Cadet, how do you expect to appear as an extension of the Empress's power with such cavalier disregard to your appearance?"

"Sir..." Nebbil stammered to form a reply, aware of the danger he'd make for himself in offering an excuse that wasn't airtight. Barring such an excuse existing, best to be honest about it, "...no excuse, Sir!"

"No." Vissica agreed, letting one of Nebbil's shoes fall to the ground as she stepped over him. "There isn't."

Infractions aside, the Selonian felt that at the very least, this had been a moment to gain the attention of her students. Perhaps now was the best time to make an introduction.

"My name is Matatek Sel Vissica. I doubt I will have reason to repeat this introduction, because I expect Cadets of the Citadel to learn quickly. You will learn, because dissolute behavior is punished."

With her grip firmly on the backstrap of Nebbil's remaining boot, the Selonian whipped about, striking Nebbil across the small of his back with the sole of his own shoe. The smack of synthetic rubber against the Cadet's body produced a sharp and audible crack, followed immediately by a howl of pain from Nebbil as he arched away from his tormentor.

"This is not cruelty. Do not ignore the difference. Cruelty will be discovered by those who are punished and who refuse to learn their lesson."

Vissica raised Nebbil's shoe.

"Cadet Nebbil has been punished for one of his six errors."

CRACK! Another blow rained down on the flailing cadet.

"Now, the second error. He will remember where every imperfection on his boots was found, because he understands what is expected of him."

CRACK! Vissica's swiping boot broke through the guard of Nebbil's hands, striking him across his chest. The Cadet coughed raggedly as he instinctively curled into a fetal position.

"I expect you all to understand the expectations you are sworn to uphold. Not simply to avoid Cadet Nebbil's fate, but to improve the Knighthood as a whole."

Vissica paused in her torments, cradling the toe of her improvised weapon with her off hand as she tapped the shoe lightly against her palm.

"If one of your comrades fail, it is not simply their failure. It is a failure shared by all. Punishment will drive you to correct your faults. Pride will make you hate failure, and you will remove everything in your life that enables it."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The fourth blow stopped short a feeble attempt to rise, nailing Nebbil to the floor. Just beyond the epicentre of the violence, Jeryd stood, statuesque - a picture of apathy. Every time the boot made contact with a part of Nebbil’s body, he could feel the tremors in his feet.

Stay down.

Though his time at the academy had made him no stranger to the rough-handling of cadets, the threat of violence had only ever been implied, never acted upon. Sure, the little ones suffered a few bruises now and then, but even the most unpleasant and heavy-handed of instructors failed to actually strike any of them. Punishment took the form of push-ups, demanding runs, impossible endurance tests, fresher duty, and other tedious cleaning tasks - anything to drain the recruit of strength and deprive them of time, while expecting them to deliver on all of their other duties as normal. It was relentless and hard; a whetstone for the mind, body, and soul. And if a recruit failed to become sharp, they broke.

A few feet away, Nebbil was broken. And behind his torturer, many nervous glances took flight between the other cadets. Cadet Thida’s healthy shade of green had turned the colour of dead grass. It looked to Jeryd like she was just about holding onto her lunch. Indeed, Matatek Sel Vissica was a name they would not soon forget.

The fifth blow fell.

It was no drill sergeant, that much was certain. And that no rank had been thus far mentioned, left Jeryd intensely curious about this Matatek Sel Vissica creature, and the position it held within the Citadel. Whatever it was, clearly, it was not the sort of creature to repeat itself. The example being made of Nebbil was sudden, brutal, and efficient; it served as a poetic reflection of Imperial justice in action. He couldn’t hate it. But he could hate Nebbil instead. The idiot. In his ignorance, he’d brought this upon himself; Jeryd had even questioned his readiness. Was it his responsibility to spell out each of his shortcomings, too? Was he expected to polish his boots for him? And to make his bed, and wipe his arse? No. He would not lose sleep over his wretched pain.

The lesson concluded with a heavy crack, and a whimper.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

By the time Vissica was finished with Nebbil, the disobedient cadet was spent by pain. He lay on the deck, a moaning and blubbering mess. His cadet whites had been besmirched by uncomfortably-distinct marks left behind by the sole of his boot. Even the bare skin of a forearm that had raised to protect himself had a series of trapezoidal patterns welted up in rouge.

Vissica raised back to her full height, dropping the second shoe in front of the puffy-eyed human teenager.

"Thank you for your demonstration, Cadet. You may put on your boots and return to attention."

As Nebbil struggled with the task, Vissica glanced casually over him, settling her attention on the Rodian.

"Cadet Thida. Can you tell me what the total distance is around the Imperial Citadel grounds?"

If the Rodian's eyes could have gawked any more they might have squeezed out of her head. "Sir, I..."

Her proboscis tightened in doubt, the lingering effects of fear redoubling in her mind, "...don't know, sir!"

"I thought not." Vissica dismissively sniffed, pivoting her flexible frame around to survey the other cadets. "Can anyone educate their comrade?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

Eyes front, Jeryd listened to the words of Matatek Sel Vissica, and found himself torn in two. While a part him admired the cool dispassion with which it concluded the grisly business with Nebbil - the demeanor that was as much the attire of an Imperial officer as the uniform itself - there was another part of him that was repulsed by it, and his admiration. That part he kept restrained and contained within the maximum detention block of his mind. And so he found himself sandwiched, on one side, a soundtrack of pitiful groans, and on the other, a wall of tension dense enough to blunt vibroblades. He did not envy Thida her unfortunate position.

Eyes front, he told himself. Eyes front.

And, even as Cadet Thida's bewilderment became his own, he dared not deviate his gaze. The circumference of the Citadel had to be at least 4 kilometers, but Matatek Sel Vissica did not sound interested in estimates. And something told him that was entirely the point. There was silence throughout the dorm.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

Jeryd's battle of wills over his eyes was a success. So much so that he didn't register the Selonian again until she crossed into his tunnel vision, squaring her attention on him directly.

"Your thoughts betray you, Cadet. In the absence of an answer, a guess shall do."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Just like that, everything changed.

"Sir..."

Jeryd couldn't remember the last time he fumbled a response to a superior officer. Seconds stretched out like light years, vanishing sense and reason beyond his reach. Where, once, his resolve had been a lake of tranquil ice water, it boiled and churned like an ocean in a storm.

His thoughts betrayed him. It was a revelation that was as chilling as it was perverse. And suddenly, in the presence of this hulking alien, he felt as naked as a newborn baby. In a mad scramble to find the words to save him from his moment of uncertainty, he arrived at a crushing realisation: there was nothing he could hide. Not anymore.

Eye contact. It pierced him like cold steel and drew from him an involuntary breath that had to be acted upon.

"Sir, the cadet believes the distance is at least four kilometers, sir!"

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

Vissica responded to Jeryd's answer by simply raising her whiskers.

"We shall see."

The Selonian drew a small slip of metal from one of the utility containers at the base of her armor vest. She held it up for Redsun to inspect.

"You are the only cadet in this class with prior military training. You are familiar with this item?"

It was largely a rhetorical question. Even without a crash course in military matters, a savvy few might know what a tracking beacon looked like. Vissica took three lengthy strides back to Cadet Thida, stooping her lithe figure down to fix the beacon into the Rodian's boot laces.

"Cadet Thida's carelessness has made her a fitting candidate to test Cadet Redsun's estimate."

It must have seemed like mercy to have escaped the Selonian's ire. Thida stood a little taller at attention. "Sir, yes sir!"

Vissica's eyes narrowed on the troublemaker slightly. "Complete the circuit twice, to make certain the measurement is correct."

A heavier burden, but still tolerable. Thida again affirmed "Sir, yes sir!"

The Selonian marched back to the door, slapping the control to open. As the doors slid apart, she barked out "Cadet Khoovi!"

[Khoovi Wan]

"Yes ma'am!" a squeaky voice yipped from outside. A tiny little Shistavanen appeared. "Orders?"

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

"Cadet Thida will be running two circuits of the Citadel grounds. Make certain that she keeps a brisk pace."

There was some level of unsaid threat to Vissica's order, and she left it up to the Shistavanen on how best to establish compliance.

"The rest of you..." The Selonian slinked back 180 degrees, baring her teeth slightly.

"...you all owe me one circuit."

[Jeryd Redsun]

When Matatek Sel Vissica gave the order, Jeryd gave an imperceptible nod. He had expected as much. In fact, had it been a flyball, he'd have sent that thing soaring into the stands. To be reduced to the scrub grind of basic training all over again was bad enough, but to be forced to suffer the indignity alongside the misfit detritus of the Empire was downright insulting. Make it count, he thought, recalling Captain Fisk's words. He had a feeling he was going to be calling on the captain's advice a great many times.

Though his were the first boots off the ground, Jeryd found himself caught in the congested shuffle of cadets filing out of the dorm. He dared not make eye contact with the towering beast on his way out, and cemented his thoughts to the task at hand lest something damning be pried from his mind. Up ahead, he saw Cadet Khoovi, beckoning Thida to her side. At least it sounded like a 'she,' and it certainly had the physique of little girl. A furry little girl. Jeryd Redsun, son of Captain Weximan Redsun: outranked by a prepubescent pup.