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Fortunately, that anger made them stupid, and the Alliance had time to prepare. They didn’t know exactly where the Tof laired in the Unknown Regions, but they knew that it was somewhere at the very edge of the rim. They knew because of stories overheard from drunken sailors, fearful whispers from those taken in chains, never to be seen again.
A perilous journey that was not easy to make going either way due to unmapped and uncharted space, and spatial anomalies that grew only stranger and stronger the closer one traveled to the galaxy’s edge. And this did not include any hostile powers that made their home in this part of space.
But everyone was hellbent on making sure that when the Tof did come back, the green bastards would pay a bloody price to even set boots on the planet. And even then, there wasn’t any guarantee that the occupants of said boots would be alive, let alone coming down from atmosphere still attached to them.
Keimann brought the meeting to a point of order by raising his hand. “Both valid points. Our leisure shouldn’t come at the expense of our vigilance, but the latter shouldn’t mean that we become as joyless as we’d been prior to the revolution. We’ll see to it that there’s enough security for our people to have both a proper celebration, and time to mourn our dead without disruption.”
A politician’s answer that appealed to both sides that was just vague enough to be open for future debate. In essence, passing the buck along to the future versions of himself and the gathered assembly. But nods of approval came from most of the council, smiles riding the high of decisively taking the Chiller. Crane visibly, if not audibly, harrumph’d. The Archon of Internal Security crossed her arms and ceded both the point and the stage, but deliberately let her gaze linger long on Keimann.
<span class="mu-i">Still mad, then,</span> he thought grimly. Outwardly, he remained calm and pensive, and motioned towards Sanada. “First on the docket is the Archon of Planetary Development’s report of our ongoing…planetary development.”
Somehow, that made Crane’s gaze turn even more severe, even as scattered laughter and dry chortles came from his little wordplay.
The Pantoran shuffled his papers together, and cleared his throat. “The bulk of our blue-collar labor force has been charged with the construction of industrial quarters and districts. Given our current projections, we can expect Amagi to match the industrial development of an Outer Rim world in approximately five years.”
“It will take that long?” asked Kituh, the Archon of Foreign Affairs. The Bothan stroked the length of his greying beard in with a concerned frown, but his voice was as cool and calm as a river.
(cont.)