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You haven't left yet. The Sith looks at you.
“Anything else?” she said.
You have questions. There’s plenty you still didn’t understand - but military life was like that, and a soldier, while not ignorant, has scarcely the privilege of curiosity. His mind is precise, but unimaginative. There is only to and fro, the fight in front of you and safety behind. On paper, it says the Empire sustains. Here to Regensburg, to the defence at the Trasimene Belt, to the remainders of Ilium System and all those other besieged worlds up in the stars. On paper there’s a thousand more sergeants like you in similar places. All told, “fight a little longer, lad!” All told, we can survive.
Doesn’t matter - Everything on paper is immaterial.
When faced by the Sith again, like a barrel suddenly being clapped over candlelight the words vanish in your throat.
Instead, very quickly you ask if there’s anything else you could do to serve her Grace.
“Hm…”
Lady Bocchi ponders for a while. She remains incredibly quiet for a minute, facing you.
When she stared, as was her habit, her eyes were identical to the sky of this bitter oxygen moon. Distant and azure. Just as you begin to feel apprehensive, she says: “Three of the battery ships are broken…”
‘I’m no engineer, Your Grace.’
“I do not expect you to fix it.”
Tactfully, you wait for her to continue. The Sith explains: “We are already low on energy reserves, and some of the artillery capacitors are fried. After the funeral pyre tomorrow, if you are agreeable to it, report to me and we will see if there’s resources to be extracted from this moon.”
This isn’t a job for light infantry, but wasn’t entirely unusual. Hard-pressed, the army has to solve each day's interminable issues by themselves. No one is spared from extra duties. Independence and self-sustainability were the only ways to survive. This, after months of gruelling service, you perfectly understood. The same philosophy was applied to all other necessities. Clothes, ammunition, shoes, blankets, gauze and lint, armour-plates, batteries and helmet filters.
These didn’t grow on the trees of Ultra.
Imperial logistics was still existent despite this system-wide space siege, and provided enough for the Seventh Fleet to continue fighting.
But in war, hardly anything is enough.
“This moon is rich in resources. Scientists used to operate mining facilities here,” Lady Bocchi said. “We have only eight artillery pieces, and five operational.”
Presently she goes back to her desk. Lady Bocchi picks up a paper and with her fingernails, folds it in a rectangular halve. She returns and offers it to you, cheerful.
“Why don’t you read the first draft of this evening’s bulletin?”
You look down at the white letter in your hand.
Hesitantly, you ask about letters from the capital.
