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The moon was different. Darker, more sullen. Lifeless at night. The birds of this moon did not sing. The grass you sat on was dead and the jagged slopes on the horizon were covered in greyish-purple mycelium. Strange alien plants grew in this strange alien environment. Far stranger things lived on this moon.
SS-2187, Villanelle, is sitting on the head of a machine carcass whose origin you did not know. There were machines that lived on this moon, eating the ground deep beneath your feet. Sometimes their metal remains poked out of the ground like fossils from unknown times. They were designed by Sith engineers a long time ago to terraform this icy satellite, and mine the metal Ultra’s crust was rich with.
Villanelle says it is foolish to try and master the earth. That’s why the machines could no longer be controlled by the engineers who created them. “It’s a mistake to create intelligent machines and expect them to listen to us forever,” Villanelle said.
That may be true, but so are men. What difference did it make if we sent men instead of machines to mine this moon? Men did not like cold places and digging for rocks that filled their lungs with cancerous dust. Men did not like being told what to do. And machines? If they had a brain, they would share man’s dislike.
“We would all be having an easier time if we sent droids to recapture Vitrille on this nasty moon, instead of sitting here like outdated infantry…”
You put down the field manual you were reading and glanced at her. Villanelle, the estranged half-Chiss aristocrat, corporal to this group of common soldiers. She’s smart with a biting wit and an even sharper tongue. What’s the Empire come to that the army should need educated women to do the violent work of men? Corporal Villanelle had every qualification to be promoted into a commissioned officer. But here lies the mystery.
You studied your comrade. Villanelle was fine-tuning the sights of her blaster rifle, taking sips of cheap tea every so often. Her flowery blue cheeks were blushed in the cold. Only a few weeks ago, she’d been approached by the company commander, Captain Luthor, and offered to be recommended as a lieutenant of the company. From there, it’s easy to see higher posts and the safety that lay in the officer’s mess. Villanelle would be lieutenant, then soon regiment adjutant, and given luck and time, something she was endeared to, be promoted to major, then lieutenant-colonel of her own regiment.
Villanelle refused again. She’d refused all offers coldly a dozen times by now. She seemed to harbour a visible disdain for the Empire, the officers, everything about this war. She was intelligent but had shown to be obstinate about remaining in her place among the rank and file. Why in the world, you did not know. But neither did Carla, numbered SS-6971, and Henry, SS-1980 mind. They were fond of the Chiss despite her sarcasm towards them. Villanelle looked at you.
