Just because you do not take an interest in politics
doesn't mean politics won't take an interest in you.
(Pericles).
***
Our flight through hyperspace had been going on for almost two hours, and in about four more, we would be back at the fleet base on Lantilles. However, our return would be far from triumphant—the battle in Torgoria's orbit, while not a total failure, could certainly be described as a fiasco.
Standing in the tactical room aboard the Marat's command bridge, I listened attentively, alongside Ntor Ragnos, to the report on the recent battle prepared by Li Noriega. Yet I couldn't shake a gnawing unease—an odd, stabbing feeling somewhere deep inside. Strange. And, to be honest, I was getting tired of all this…
Hovering above the tactical table were several projections and diagrams—schematics of the battle—that our "tactician" used to support her report.
"...Thus, the total duration of the battle was thirty-one minutes. Thanks to Commander Rinaun's maneuver, we managed to unblock the remnants of Commander Ditmar's squadron, but preliminary damage estimates are severe—three out of four ships require immediate repairs and will be stuck in the docks for one to three months. The status of the fourth ship remains unknown. The rest, including most of the corvettes, were destroyed. Not to mention the losses among personnel and crews. Presumably, up to seventy percent of the Southeast Squadron's air wing was shot down. Based on this, the squadron can be considered virtually destroyed."
The Zabrak muttered something under his breath—apparently, some colorful Zabrak profanity—before asking:
"What about our losses?"
"We got off relatively easy—only one ship sustained minor damage from heavy turbolaser bolts. The Marat," Li Noriega paused briefly, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar name, "was not damaged. However, we lost thirty-seven fighters. The group covering the main hangar suffered the heaviest casualties—twelve fighters, an entire squadron. The group defending the rear hemisphere lost eleven. General Vick's group lost eight ships. The remaining losses were scattered among other units."
Lovely. Just lovely. To put it simply, we got our asses kicked. Rinaun is certainly a hero—he practically saved us all—but we still failed to accomplish our mission. Command won't be pleased.
Captain Ragnos had made the right call appointing Li Noriega as head of the operational-tactical department. The second lieutenant's performance was beyond praise—to assemble such a detailed report in just two hours required real talent.
"What about enemy losses?" I asked. In the heat of battle, I hadn't paid much attention to the enemy's capital ships—I'd been too busy fending off Vultures and simply trying to survive that meat grinder.
"I'm not sure, General," Li Noriega replied, bringing up another diagram. "Many ships sustained multiple hits, but the extent of the damage is unknown. Four debris clusters have been confirmed from what used to be Munificent-class frigates. The Trade Federation's battleships remain intact, as do the transport ships."
"And their fighters?"
"There's no confirmed data on the other squadrons, but based on flight recorder information, our pilots downed a total of two hundred seventy-two Vultures. Commander Tano scored the highest with thirty-six confirmed kills, followed by your fighter, General, with twenty-three. KP-34T09, commander of the Eleventh Squadron, came in third with eight enemy craft destroyed."
The second lieutenant pressed a button, deactivating the holograms and signaling that the report was complete.
"Excellent work, Second Lieutenant. You're free to go." I nodded approvingly.
Li Noriega saluted smartly and left to continue her duties.
"What do you think, General?" asked the Zabrak, tapping a few keys on the tactical table.
"What's there to think about? We were effectively crushed. Our squadron still has operational capability, but the same can't be said for Ditmar's group. And the CIS forces were formidable—their commander, competent."
"Headquarters won't like that," the Zabrak muttered, rubbing his nose wearily.
"Of course not. How are the trainees holding up?" I asked.
"Pretty well. They had their few minutes of fear—this kind of mess is new to them—but," he snapped his fingers, "they've got potential."
A long list appeared on the holo-table.
"General, our own air wing took losses. I took the liberty of drafting a request to transfer several fighters and pilots from the attached air group."
"Let's see," I leaned over the projection, reading through the list…
Administrative matters took another half hour. Once the formalities were done, I headed to the training hall—to stretch my saber arm, meditate, and untangle my thoughts.
I was almost at the entrance when something clicked in my head. The logical chain fell into place—and I finally realized the source of my unease.
Ahsoka.
Turning sharply, I headed straight for my Padawan's quarters.
***
The cabin lights were dimmed; the door was closed. Ahsoka sat cross-legged on the floor in a meditation pose. Outwardly, she was calm—but her heart was heavy.
She had been thrilled to fly a starfighter, eager to prove to her Master that she was capable—that she wouldn't disappoint him. Eager to show her talent, she'd thrown herself into battle, destroying one droid after another… and had completely forgotten her Master's orders: "Ahsoka, take out the Reds. Defend the hangars—cover your charges."
She had forgotten… and the result was devastating: nearly a third of the clones her Master had entrusted to her were dead.
Before this battle, she had never commanded anyone—only followed orders. And now… Ahsoka sat in silence, waiting for her Master to arrive and scold her.
Only recently had she learned to feel death. If there was one thing a Togruta could live without, it was that. The sensations were… unpleasant. Like back on Diado—brief, searing flashes from the deaths of individuals, and blinding bursts when entire crews were wiped out.
After speaking with her Master, when he'd told her that "nothing can be changed, you can only get used to it," she'd found comfort in telling herself that… none of it was her doing. She wasn't the one sending them into battle. She wasn't commanding them.
That helped—until this battle.
She had let her Master down.
Ahsoka realized that not long ago, she wouldn't even have thought this way—but now… Her teacher had taught her to think, to question, to understand. His long lectures and stories were informative and interesting. Togruta studied hard and... changing. She shook her head, trying to dispel those strange thoughts.
A knock at the door broke her meditation. The Force told her who it was.
"Master?" she said quietly, opening her eyes and glancing at the door.
"May I come in?"
"Of course, Master."
Mikore Vikt entered the room and sat down on the floor beside her.
"Ahsoka, I think we need to talk." He studied her intently. She sensed some strange energy emanating from him. Since he remained silent, she cautiously began:
"I'm sorry, Master. I… I failed you. So many died because of me… I don't know how to lead… I'm not fit to be a commander… I thought I could handle it—that I wouldn't let you down—but it's all my fault." The Togruta bowed her head. The only thing she wanted to do now was cry, but she held it back.
"You think too highly of yourself, Padawan."
The sharpness in his tone cut through the silence. Ahsoka looked up, startled.. She was a little surprised by her Master's tone. He had never spoken to her like that before.
"You think all those people died because of you? Don't be so naive!"
Ahsoka stared in shock—her Master's tone was harsh, almost angry. The Jedi closed his eyes, his fingers interlaced.
"There's a war going on. They're soldiers. They were created for this war, and for them, dying in battle isn't a tragedy—it's an honor. They don't fear death. Whether it's because of you or anyone else doesn't matter. What matters is that their deaths aren't meaningless. That's our duty as commanders—yours and mine. No one will do it for us. You think it's hard for you? You have no idea how hard it is for me! Tens of thousands of lives have been entrusted to me—thousands already gone—and I don't know how many more will die!" His voice rose, almost to a shout.
Then, abruptly, he fell silent, exhaling slowly. Ahsoka felt him retreat—closing himself off in the Force—but his emotions still lingered, faint and heavy.
"Master…" she began, her own frustration simmering beneath the surface.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm, quiet.
"Think, Ahsoka. Think carefully. This is war. Do you understand? Either I do my job and give everything I can—or I waste time babysitting you. Either you help me… or—"
"Master, but what can I do?" the Togruta finally flared up, infected with anger from her Master. "We were never taught to fight! I'm just a Padawan!"
"It doesn't matter who or what you are. If you step onto the battlefield—you fight. And you fight to the death."
He stood abruptly and turned toward the door.
"There is no ignorance, there is knowledge," he quoted from the Jedi Code. "Although I'd put it differently—knowledge is power. Learn while you still can. Even if it's from your mistakes."
Under the scrutinizing gaze of his apprentice, the Jedi left the room. The door closed softly behind him.
What's wrong with him? she wondered, focusing her mind to calm herself and make sense of his words.