By Ice Be Born

[Sarge Potteiger]

24.09.837​

Mzeh, Fondor System​

Moon 6 - Name Unknown.​

​

"Hope for the best, prepare for the worst." - Unknown​

​

If one wished to find an inhospitable world upon which to tread, one need look no further than the moons of gas giants. Remote, uninhabited, devoid of any significant form of life beyond the potential for microbes. Most systems had planets like these, and the moons were often large enough to have rudimentary atmosphere.

The atmosphere wasn't the problem, however. It was what the atmosphere contained. No one had truly ever charted this moon beyond its existence, as a thick haze clung to the atmosphere lending it a reddish hue that obscured the surface.

When they'd gotten below that cover on their dropship, though, he was surprised to find a satellite of ice. The atmosphere registered as a supremely unhealthy mix of methane, ethane and enough nitrogen that it hung in great banks of what could only be termed smog.

There was wind, rain, rivers and lakes. All bodies of water were liquid methane, a curious planetary evolution for lack of a better phrase, but one with which he could work.

It was, in Sarge's eyes, perfect.

No one visited this world, or this moon. No one could even scan the surface. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to be here, and so it would provide the perfect backdrop for a massive undertaking - a fortress. A fortress for his soldiers.

A fortress where they would be free to launch their campaign against the Dark Side of the Force and the Yuuzhan Vong. The M47s swooped in low across the surface, scanning the environment to get a read on geological features and provide a cursory map.

The one they had from surveys many centuries ago were woefully outdated and singularly unhelpful. They wouldn't have long once they left the dropship, but there was a frigate in orbit where they could return to to replenish their air supplies.

Peering through the cockpit viewport, he looked down at the rapidly forming map and pointed to a massive mountain some distance away. "Here." He instructs the pilot, massive armored finger jabbing down onto the readout. "Now." The pilots nodded, knowing better than to speak right now.

Where once a genial if intense man had been, there was now an uncompromising bulwark of faith in the Force. That the Dark would not grow. That there was something far larger at play than even their two sides of the conflict. There was a higher being, somewhere. It helped, however, that the Vong were fanatical in their devotion to their gods. The best way to counter fanaticism was with fanaticism.

At that point it was simply a matter of being better funded, better prepared and better equipped than your opponent. Of that, he had no doubt he would emerge on top. As the Illria bucked against a furious crosswind, the great spire came into view, icy peak jutting towards the sky from a landscape dominated by frozen seas.

"Set her down at the foot. I want to get a read on the stability of the area." He turned, hunched frame stepping back the dropship, soldiers in their carapace armor sitting rigid with eyes forward as they waited for landing. Perfect soldiers, the lot of them. For all appearances, they were machines, devoid of personality.

He knew better. They just had a switch that was flipped when on an operation, and he'd have it no other way. "Sergeant Hastings." His mechanical voice booms. The soldier to his immediate right lifted his head, orange lenses looking up at the Knight of Grey. "Prepare the survey equipment."

"Aye, sah." He says in a gruff Corellian accent, a lingering remnant of his conditioning and sleep-training. "You have one hour to get this right." The dropships engines screamed as it arrested its own forward momentum, slowly to a stop as landing struts extended from its bulk to lower it onto the ice surface.

And so it began.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"I was once told that secrets kept are weapons wasted. It always puzzled me. An ambush is a secret. I wouldn't say they're a waste." - Sergeant Hastings​

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Some time later...​

​

The best part about droids, the mindless sort that is, is that they didn't talk. They didn't need food. Water. Sleep. They didn't divulge secrets on prying. You could scrap a droid and feel no remorse. There was no individual beneath that metal exterior. Not with these.

So he hadn't felt bad keeping these droids working around the clock for months on end, digging, building, carving. What had begun as a dream was swiftly being built up as reality. Protectorate supplies were being funneled in by automated dropship delivery, meaning no pilots were going to see what was occurring on this moon.

These supplies were grafted straight from factory output, unmarked, unrecorded, untracked. Just like these droids. They'd be sent into the local star after this, as would the flight computers for the dropships. None would know, save the people who worked here.

The first thing they'd installed once the foundation had been prepared and the underground reactor installed was an atmospheric processor. Standard fare for bases in places like this, really. It hadn't been activated yet. No point. The fortress wasn't enclosed. It would be scrubbing an atmosphere far larger than it could handle and would burn out almost on boot.

That was the last thing they needed. Securing one with secrecy was hard enough. Securing two would require sorcery.

"Sir." Came the omnipresent voice of Hastings, his adviser. "We're two weeks ahead of schedule. The atmosphere hasn't been as harsh to the workers as anticipated." He gave a solemn nod. "Good. And the basalt?"

He looked down to his datapad. "One more week for the last ten tons." There came another nod. "The droids incapable of work are being scrapped, yes?"

"In accordance with your orders, Lord. I make sure to keep a count on the droids being slagged and then have the men ejecting them from the dropships show me video detailing not just the serial number on each droid, but a timestamp as well. Every member of the squad verifies their ejection into the star. It's as good as we'll get."

"That will have to serve for now, I suppose. Good work."

The shape of it was slowly taking place. Extensive underground tunnels, meeting and training rooms. All being carved out of the mountain and then down into it. The basalt would help keep the place insulated, at least somewhat, and they hadn't even begun constructing the outside defenses.

But for now, this would have to do. A shell and building materials, droids working day in and out to see it through to completion. "Let's get back to the dropship." He says finally, air still slowly ticking away.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Maybe one day you'll understand why everything you touch surely dies."​

​

Everything was going well, all told. They had needed more basalt though, which was taking some time. The insulation wasn't quite up to snuff and if they were going to have an outpost here that would be able to withstand the blistering temperatures well... more basalt was needed.

So that's what they'd gotten. Sometimes he wondered if the coffers of the Protectorate were endless, and he was beginning to think they were. They'd long taxed the space lanes considerably, but the protection provided was enough to keep the people living there more than content enough to pay.

A few credits a day was a small price to pay for assured safety, after all. Besides, they had always been fiercely loyal to their Protectors and there was never an injustice carried out in the name of some corporate backer. There was a good deal of transparency to what they did.

At least, compared to most.

Ironic, then, that he was here, building a fortress no one would no about to undertake a mission fewer still could understand. But who was he kidding? Everyone would understand his mission. A soldier retrieving a fallen comrade. A lover retrieving his other half.

A zealot pursuing his faith.

"By Her Grace." He whispers quietly, heavy boots clanging down the hall that was still dusty from construction. It had finally been sealed, and the many reactors powering the place were slowly being brought online as the demand for power grew.

They were a kilometer deep into the mountain, further still beyond that was an icy catacomb where they'd inter their dead. The turbolasers that would blister the outside of the fortifications like the spikes of an animal were still being forged and would be here within weeks.

The shield generator wouldn't be far behind. The most curious anomaly they'd found by being here was that without a significant communications array, nothing would pierce the atmosphere, thick as it was with interference. That would both help and hinder.

But the most perplexing development was that while above, he couldn't sense a thing down here through the Force. Just as he couldn't sense a thing above while down here. It was like cosmic background noise cancelled out even that most penetrating of energies.

It was a blessing to have that silence. Even if the droids polishing the walls and hanging banners were obnoxiously noisy. A few autoturrets swiveled his way as he plodded deeper into the building, passing training halls being filled with practice gear.

Slow and steady won the race.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"I can see you there in the city lights, 14th floor, burnished gold eyes..."​

​

"So why is it that the reactors keep shutting down." He says, voice calm but unamused. His helmet hung from a hook on his belt, head looking almost comically tiny between his massive pauldrons. Leaning forward, palms splayed out on the desk backlight and displaying a variety of readouts on their power sources, he felt his eye twitch a little as he looked to the hooded figure across from him.

The man looked up, frowning. Another one of his many soldiers, fresh from boot with a degree in some esoteric form of engineering that made him a savant with ship reactors - the kind now embedded into the mountain by the droids. Droids that were mostly gone and slagged by now.

Slowly but surely, the staff was coming together, soldiers, quartermasters, armorers, everyone was slowly being rotated out here as the barracks were furnished one by one. By the time the place was operational, however, the place would likely become a ghost town save for the trainees and their masters.

And the automated defenses. Droids. Turrets. The turbolasers built into the flank of the mountain, quad lasers lining the battlements. He could still picture the foreboding slits of the bunkers, barrels of heavy laser cannons and bolters poking from them.

"We still don't know, sir. We believe the cold coming from below is adversely affecting them but for all we know they're just bad reactors."

His black eyes narrowed to slits. "That doesn't make a lick of sense."

"We're doing what we can, and when we figure it out it'll be fixed. We might have to try an older style of reactor. Perhaps nuclear."

He gave a nod. "Whatever you need, we can get. But that hinges on one thing; you doing your job. You're not doing it right now, but I maintain the hope you'll start sometime soon."

Going back to pouring over the readouts, the engineer left with a bowed head and hurried footsteps. It would seem there was a ghost in the machine...

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Protect your mind, protect your soul. From this your strength will come."​

​

Two men, one dejarik table. One impressively massive, the other a common footsoldier. But in this they were equals. A game of strategy and wit, and one that the giant was losing. "Have I told you, sah, that games aren't your strong suit." Black eyes hardened as he gave Hastings a glare. "I am aware." He rumbles, drumming his fingers on the table.

He'd almost been forked. Almost. He'd gotten his Savrip out of harms way though, preventing another of his monsters from truly becoming a target. Ironic he was decent enough at battlefield strategy, but anything else he was left out in the cold.

Not unlike the initiates in their environmental suits, forced to stand guard on the walls to acclimate them to the 'weather' on the moon. "Hastings, I've a question." He says finally, moving the Savrip forward and hoping that, in a few turns, it would turn into a good enough move.

The Sergeant knew better than to verbally respond. The question was coming either way. "What do you make of me." Silence followed. "Sah?" He asks finally, green eyes lifting. "I don't think I track the question."

"Your opinion, Hastings. Your views."

In trying to get the man off balance for his next move, it worked. It helped the man was tired from organizing combat training that day. "Well, sah. I guess I'd have to say you're karked up in the head." He says finally. "Ain't nobody I ever heard of what would come out here and set up shop. Not even Cater himself is that stupid. But I think you've your reasons.

After all, we all know the Lady is our end goal. Prepare for the worst and all that. Takes a special kind of suicidal to fight Vong willingly. An even more special kind to teach it. Yer an odd one, Lord. Very odd.

Driven. You care somewhere, I'm sure. But you're really blinded by your work right now - not to say that I blame you. This is quite the undertaking. But I think you need someone to talk to most days, and whoever that is... well, you don't actually have one.

If you did, I wouldn't be your dejarik partner. And you wouldn't be asking me inane questions in an attempt at conversation. But you need this on some level, and I'm the closest thing you've got to a friend on this rock. Checkmate by the way."

Two monsters left. He'd been forked. Kark. "Hastings. I should shoot you."

"You'd be in your right, sir." The man's green eyes lifted, an unamused smirk forming. "I didn't get permission to speak freely."

Checkmate again.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"My armor is contempt."​

​

Sarge felt one corner of his lips turning up into a bit of a proud half-smile. The battlements stretched down the mountainside before him, the great black stone striking against the whites and blues of the seas below and the slope above. A picture of contrasts, a story of asymmetry. They ran on a Fondorian clock here, since time was relative when the sun never truly rose in a way anyone could identify.

And that meant that right now, on Fondor, it was pitch black. But even here he was doing the same thing he'd done there. Standing, alone, looking out at the landscape around him and wondering how in the kark he'd wound up here. Except this time, he stood atop a battlement.

Below were the massive barrels of turbolasers and the squat metal shells of bunkers. Landing pads sparkled their lights through bitter winds and he was alone with his thoughts.

Alone with his demons.

He'd even left his AI behind so he didn't have to hear that voice. It wasn't even her voice, but it felt like it was. He was building monuments to that woman. That damnable, infuriating, challenging, frustrating woman. All in the name of getting back what was taken from him.

A friend. A partner. Perhaps a lover in their own, twisted way.

But most importantly, they'd forced him to break the one rule he could never let himself break. He'd left someone behind. And that, ultimately, is what drove him. Someone had been left behind, and that was not something he'd stand for. Ever.

Not in a million years and three days plus a caf break. It wasn't going to fly. Looking to the sky, he found himself frowning, wondering when that shield generator would be here. It would need to be stripped down, carried inside and then rebuilt.

It was both a byproduct of needing to enclose the base as soon as possible, and a need to know that his engineers knew the thing inside and out in a way instruction manuals would never allow for. So here he was, thinking of her. Of where she was.

What had happened.

Why she wouldn't be the same. There were reports of a new Vong queen, and given the location that he'd been told... there could be only one person. He would redeem her. Or he would purge her in the process. Ayden already had her DNA, pulled from the clothes she'd left behind at his place.

Worst case scenario he would make a new one. Not for himself. He was beyond that. No, the Protectorate needed a face like that. Ayden was not in the game of public relations. She was.

Inhaling sharply, he lifted his gaze as several dropships - autopiloted, of course - broke the cloud cover and made for the landing pads, soldiers in royal blue scurrying out to guide them in and get them unloaded with the help of cargo droids.

My shield is disgust.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"What is your fear?"​

"My fear is to fail."​

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​

The shield generator was working, finally. It had taken some long days and sleepless nights but the engineers - enginseers, really, considering he couldn't make heads or tails of how they figured this stuff out - had seen to it that it had been put together properly.

He'd been quite proud when they'd told him and given them a week break from their training and studies. Half this week. Half next week. After all, he still needed some kind of staff to keep this place running. There was still a few ghosts in the machines around here.

The battery rechargers for the droids liked to be a bit finicky and were giving the enginseers fits. They'd figure it out in time. Many of them were fresh faced graduates, looking for the next big opportunity. They'd signed their life over and they knew it, but they were making the most of it.

Many of them lived for this. He certainly did. Standing as he was in the security room, cameras watching a pair of seers fiddling with the wiring for the HBD-300 series recharge harnesses. Times like this, he felt like a father watching his boys fix their bike for the first time from afar.

It filled him with a sense of pride he couldn't begin to explain, or even begin to fathom.

Perhaps this was what she'd felt for everyone.

If it was, perhaps he'd been more misguided than he'd realized. Nodding to himself slowly to break the train of thought, he flipped through the cameras, watching the study of a fresh batch of children. The Jedi's biggest problem was that they allowed adults in.

He wouldn't make that mistake beyond the initial wave of soldiers. They'd been pulled from orphanages and warzones, given purpose and direction. Some would consider that a travesty, to force this life onto them. Most of these kids were orphaned when their parents were killed in the line of duty. Many were still at a very young age, some 5 or 6.

Rather than let them rot in an orphanage to eventually be turned out onto the street, he had pulled them here to train them to be the ultimate weapon of the Protectorate. Loyal soldiers, raised for war, not unlike the Mandalorians. They would be the best the Protectorate had to offer.

They would have to live in anonymity, however, their heroic deeds unsung by the population but never forgotten by their brothers. A part of him regretted it had come to this. A part of him knew there was no other recourse. He was embattled in his own mind, and he didn't like it.

He needed to meditate.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"What is your craft?"​

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"My craft is death."​

​

Highpowered Hellfire rifles. Fresh from the forges. He could still smell the factory on them, even through his helmet. Fresh faced soldiers, barely out of their teens, picking up weapons that could melt holes clear through a person like they were made of paper.

And they were happy to do it.

So much innocence in those actions, and so much innocence lost in the same breath. "These are Hellfire blasters, men." His voice booms, startling people who hadn't been expecting him to speak. It was rare for him to speak to the neophytes, but it was made clear to them that he was there to lead them. Guide them. He was a father figure in so many ways.

He could be made proud. He could be made disappointed. All depended on their actions, drive and fortitude. He was fair, just, and gave credit where it was due. But he was not to be angered. To do so was to invite serious harm. Or, at least, that was the rumor.

One did not walk around like a tank and get taken lightly, after all. "They come with a pack." He pointed to the far wall. "300 shots. That's what you've got. Double the power of a standard blaster, maxing out at 400 meters. Any further you're better off calling in an airstrike." He wasn't kidding. "Each weapon comes with one back up gas canister. In the field you will be issued four backup batteries. The canister will last through those batteries, after that you'd better have a sidearm. Users choice."

Scanning their faces, he continued. "If the pack runs out, ditch it. If you're out of ammunition, fix a bayonet. If the bayonet breaks, use it as a club. If you're still alive at that point, good job, arm a grenade. The only reason you should be reaching that much ammo expenditure is if you've become stuck behind enemy lines. In that case, you will not be captured. Am I clear."

There was a chorus of affirmatives, almost deafening. "Sergeant Hastings will take over from here. Remember, you carry the Protectorate's Will as your torch. With it, you will destroy the shadows. Good luck."

He turned, leaving the firing range behind even as the Sergeant began barking orders. They would all be expert marksmen by the time they were done. No exceptions. If they failed, they would be trained in something else.

They'd make all their replacements parts and armor here, same with their ammunition. Outside supply wasn't needed. Hydroponics equipment had been brought in shortly after the fortress was completed, allowing them to sustain themselves in that manner. Water was stored in great tanks below the fortress - enough for several months in event of a siege.

Frankly, if they were in a siege situation, it was likely better to blow the place, but that was a story for another time.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Here I am and Here I Shall Die."​

​

The fortress was coming together, finally. Day by day, brick by brick, it was all coming together. Problems were being ironed out. Rooms finished. Before long, he would have his home. His playground. His men would have their purpose. They could begin the process they had worked so hard for.

Every journey began with a single step.

Every mission with a single objective.

Time passed. Men and boys aged. Tests were given, passed, failed, and then retaken. Washouts were given other duties to assist the effort, from engineers to armorers to smiths and everything in between. Their massive comm spire was capable of reaching anywhere in the system, and had a booster secreted away on a nearby moon so they could reach out of the system as well.

It was a sophisticated operation, and one that no one would ever be aware of. He liked it that way. The very last piece to be added though... he was watching it come together right now. Cells. Stasis fields. Torture chambers. Everything was coming together.

Perhaps most damning was what he'd envisioned for the frozen seas outside. Because of the relative lack of gravity, he'd had tethers set up outside, topped with massive glass boxes. Each had air funneled to it via the tether from a pipe that was fed to it from under the 'water.'

The purpose was solitary confinement. The punishment, however, was far more gruesome. Should the prisoner be sentenced to death, charges at the base would blow, plunging the box into the methane sea below to be crushed by the pressure. Or drowned.

Whichever came first. The only real reason that would occur, however, was in the event of an attack. No prisoners would be rescued from here while he drew breath. Not a single one. Droids hefted bars into place, enginseers saw to the setting up of the stasis fields.

Everything was fine. Everything was great.

Or so he kept telling himself.

This was a dark road to travel, of that he knew. But sometimes one need brave the night to see the light of day.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"We are coming. Look to the skies for your salvation."​

​

Today was the day. The first day of many. Days of judgement and fury, salvation and faith. Hastings and his men would be accompanying Sarge on their first mission. Word had filtered through, rumors mostly, of a group of believers in the Sith code, hoping to do something to attract the attention of their supposed benefactors.

This would not be allowed to happen.

Before him was a forge, an old, heavyset man pounding away at something as soldiers passed him in procession. They were headed to the hangar, then the landing pad. From there, they'd strike straight to Fondor. No one would be any the wiser.

Giving a nod as they passed by, Sarge returned his attention to the work in front of him, a hefty halberd now in one hand. By this blade would heretics know redemption, and by this blade would the heathens return to the side of the righteous. There was no leeway in this verdict.

There was something innately calming about the pounding of boots in a rhythm, webbing clattering as the men marched their way to their assignments. Not a sound was made outside their gear, meticulously crafted and maintained with an almost religious fervor. He smiled.

A form was taking shape in the furnace; a seven headed beast. A hydra. The Sith and it were so alike. Cut off one head, more would grow in its place. One need remove them all, then cauterize the stumps to have any hope of success.

Gert hefted the brand in his tongs, dunking it in water and then setting it out for his Lord's approval. "Stellar work as always." He says solemnly, flagging down the last soldier in line and handing it to him to carry. "Don't lose it." He reminds gently; or at least, as gently as he could.

Giving one last nod to the blacksmith, he turns and follows the soldiers, thunderous footfalls leaving the promise of retribution in their wake. The hydra would be how they were known. The hydra would be the mark of the damned. In a conflagration would they be redeemed, and by Her Grace would they be saved.

He'd passed over a precipace some time ago, he knew that now. But some roads were one way, and you need keep going until you could find an intersection for a new path. Maybe this would be his life up until the end, but as he marched up the ramp and turned to look back towards the hangar... he couldn't help but feel like a new chapter of his life was beginning.

A chapter in which he was in control, and in which he would command the outcome.

May She have mercy on them, for we shall not.