I didn’t eat anything that day. My mind was racing. If General Solomahal was right some major actors were guiding the Republic down a path I couldn’t follow. The Republic wasn’t perfect, she was far from it, but. But she was still better than any empire of earth or of this galaxy. The Separatists were not terrible, but the corporate level of control was concerning. Not to mention the apparent warlordism occurring within their ranks, Commodores, Admirals and Generals acting more like the mercenaries and poorly trained militia many of them used to be instead acting like professionals. Plus even if I defected, and how I hated how I was even considering that possibility, it might cause a preemptive purge or suspicious deaths of my associates that don’t distance themselves from me quick enough and Maker help me I don’t know what the fuck I can do!?

  I finally stomached a full breakfast the next morning and decided to fuck it all and get hammered. I knew it wasn’t healthy, I had already started to slip up once or twice during the last couple months, but I didn’t care anymore. I’d drink alone if I had to, anything to stop myself from thinking about this. R4 started whining about my health so I asked her to stay at the hotel. I knew I really shouldn’t do it, but schei? drauf. I just found out a friend of mine was basically executed for his opinions and the state I’ve spent almost half my life working for is being corrupted into a jingoistic monster. So I got in a cab and told the man to take me to a military bar.

  I arrive half an hour or so later. Neon lights, dark durasteel like exterior, I nod to myself and tip the man alongside the fare and enter the bar. The first thing I notice is the large neon 79 at the bar and the large proportion of clones inside. Not like it mattered, soldiers were soldiers, so I don’t particularly care if I have to share the liquor and go get myself a couple ales at the bar. Soon enough I sit myself in a booth, my bounty secured for now.

  I sit there drinking my ale and leaving the other open. I finish the first soon after starting. I return my mug and order an old fashioned and another ale. I continue drinking like that for another hour when they opened their kitchen. I order a clearly unhealthy fried tater dish and start to dig in, nursing my second old fashioned, the fourth undrunk ale sitting across from me. I think some Twi-lek girl tried to flirt with me after my meal, but I ignored any advances in favor of my third ale.

  I missed my Academy drinking buddy. Dao always saw at least some good in everything and his accent would get damn thick whenever he got deep in his cups. Damn whoever sent him to Ryloth. Damn him for not pulling back and damn him for his stupid sense of honor. I take a full swig finishing off the ale and getting up for another pair.

  I sit back down in the booth with a thud and start nursing my new ale. I should make a holoframe of his last message to me. It had been the one congratulating me on my promotion to Senior Captain. I should add a photo of his to that too. I pulled out a pen and some flimsy to write that down so I wouldn’t forget. I pocket the flimsy and pull out a deck of cards. They were in the Alderaani style, fifty two cards, four suits, thirteen cards to a suit, from a two to ten and from jack to ace.

  It was the preferred deck on Fondor, the worlds along the Rimma trade route and Alderaan herself. Coincidentally it was also the deck most often found on old Earth. I felt a bit of comfort shuffling the thing and dealing out a hand of solitaire. A difference I had found between earth and here was that solitaire was played in reverse, though I still don’t know why the hell I know any of that, or for what karking reason the Maker gave me those memories. I’ve found to just ignore the knowledge most of the time, I fall back on it when I need it for inspiration, but I leave it be the rest of the time.

  I finish off the ale by chugging it down and move to get another round for me and the departed. After drink number eight I start slowing down again, the deck of cards returning to my pocket. The bar is starting to fill up again and I’ve turned to people watching. Some clones are flirting with some girl. A Rodian is trying to convince a clone to try out death sticks and eventually convinces the poor sod. A group of clones are playing sabbac and a different group have started an arm wrestling competition. The bar’s music is kicking on too, it’s loud dancing music that plays in every damn nightclub in the galaxy, with the occasional march or popular Jizz song thrown in for flavor and to remind everyone that this is a military bar.

  Honestly the damn revelation just reopened the wound. It had been closing well enough with my mind on the war and Dao’s death being honorable, but now it reeked of corruption and decay, of failure. It was making me angry. What could I do? Solomahal seemed like a good contact to keep at this point, better even than Tarkin or Kaine since they were well known associates to the Chancellor.

  This all seemed fishy but I can’t do shit about it. I needed to climb the ladder, keep gaining allies. In the Senate I could have counted on my mother’s connections in the Ministerial Office of Fondor to get an inroad with our Senator, but with Fondor on the opposite side of the border that road in was shot. Though I would probably have been more likely to shoot or duel Senator Rodd than to ask him for help, the bastard that he was. Any other connections to local systems through the Ministerial Office of Fondor were shot too with Bestine, Yag’Dhul and Thyferra on the Separatist’s side and Abregado Rae cutting contact for the duration of the war.

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  I needed some kind of inroad there. I take another gulp. Maybe through the Dac Senator? What was her name again Trils? No Tills like gills but with a T, right. Would Raddus be willing to introduce me to her? Maybe, he is a fun drinking partner. If I scratched Chief Nossar Ri’s back some he might introduce me to her. I take another swig, finishing the glass. The full glasses at the other end of the table were starring at me guiltily.

  I should slow down some more. Thinking about plans while drunk may be smart, but making them while drunk is very much not. I got up to grab another pair of ales anyway. I manage not to bump into anyone on my way to the bar and only stumble slightly on the way back. Luckily none of the drinks spill out, unluckily someone is in my booth. And he was drinking from Dao’s half pints.

  “Get ‘way. Those ain’t for ya.” I grumble out, placing the glasses on my end of the table.

  The mildly intoxicated clone looks up from the table and stares at me. He’s clearly unhappy himself.

  “Who are they for then?” the clone asks.

  “A friend.” I reply.

  “Then I’m sorry, but they were just standing here unattended.”

  “No, I’ll be pourin’ em out when I leave.”

  “That sounds wasteful.” the clone says with a frown.

  “Not where I’m from.” I reply coldly.

  “And where is that you sleemo?” the clone asks.

  “To answer your queston, Fondor. Now fuck off. You’re disrespectin’ the dead.” I say putting a hand on my holster. An empty threat in my condition, never mind tradition, but the clone doesn’t need to know that.

  “Just sit down you fool.” The clone says in the tone of a drill instructor and like a cadet in basic I sit my ass in my seat.

  I scowl after realizing what I’d done: “That was uncalled for.”

  “Clearly not if you were willing to shoot me over it.”

  “If ya’d known anything ‘bout my homeworld trooper you’d’ve known betta.” I slur out.

  “It’s Captain actually. Lock is the name.”

  “Commodore, Thraken. I’ll buy you a drink if you stop drinking from the dead.” I offer.

  “Fine. I didn’t know it was for the dead, sir.” the Captain says, his tone slightly demure.

  “Cut the sir crap. Finish the one ya started, Dao would’ve let ya have it.” I say. We both start drinking the ales.

  “If I may ask, sir. Which unit are you in?” The clone eventually asks.

  “97th Outer Rim Squadrn is my comman’, I’ve recenly been assigned to Jedi General Eith Koth’s comman’.” I reply slurring my words a lot more than I’d like.

  “Well, I’m the Captain of 243rd Battalion under General Eith Koth.” The clone replies.

  “Why’re you a Captain if you’re in charge of a battalion?” I wonder aloud.

  “Minor genetic defect, sir. My eyes are green.”

  I stare at him, like he’s a muddpuppy that got caught in someone’s garbage. Finally I gather my thoughts: “I’m sorry, you ain’t getting promoted cuz you’re fuckin eyes ain’t brown? That’s gotta be racist.”

  “Yes, sir.-” “I said drop the sir.” “-No, sir. Officially the Kaminoans have yet to appoint a Commander for my Battalion and for the inter-rim I am in charge.”

  “How long has the inter-rim been?”

  “The entire war so far, sir.” Comes the reply.

  “Well shit. You gotta start complainin up the chain of command.” I say back, then take a swig.

  “Sir, we can’t.”

  “Course ya can. Republic Military regulations as adapted from the Judicial forces say if an officer is commandin’ a force larger than he ought ta for longer than a week, excluding extreme circumstances, they should imminently be relieved of command or if for longer than a month be promoted immoderately. Wait no, immediately. Course that ain’t the precise wordin and I can’t for the life of me member what paragraph that this is from, but your superior ought to have dealt with it by now.” I say.

  “Sir, even if that is true.-” The clone starts.

  “It is.” I interrupt, “I had to look it up after my unit suffered over fifty percent casualties at Dellalt, cursed be it, and I got placed in command. I got promoted after, but I read up on the regs.”

  “Despite that being true, sir, Clones do not have the permission to complain up the chain of command.” The clone says demurely.

  “Kark, you fuckin with me? That can’t be right. Though It’d explain why the kark Chain didn’t complain about any decisions I’ve made to the higher ups.” I mumble.

  “I don’t know Chain, but that sounds about right, sit.” The Clone replies.

  “I’ll make a meetin with Koth and complain for ya.” I say pulling out a different piece of flimsy and writing it down.

  “Why do you have that?” the clone asks.

  “It’s comforting. Bit messier than writin on a datapad, but it’s nice. Plus it stops me from forgetin' when I don’t have a datapad on me.” I answer.

  “You don’t say. You know, sir I don’t think I’ve seen a report on Fondor’s defenses.”

  “You wouldn’t, got pressured into the Sepies’ fold. When Bestine, Thyferra and Yag’Dhul go somewhere Fondor follows, even if Abregado Rae says otherwise. Fondor needs the import market of Bestine, the bacta of Thyferra and the trading hub of Yag’Dhul. Without it Fondor falters, Abregado Rae is a good trading hub sure and our third largest food provider, but not as good as all the others together. It’s how most civil wars in the past went. Even if you don’t like it, you follow your neighbors unless there’s an army on your doorstep. Thanks to her location those five worlds an’ the other ones around em always managed to be a backup for Republic naval production during the Sith wars. Now, they’re stuck on the side of the C.I.S.” I say angrily.

  “I don’t really understand galactic politics, sir.” Comes my reply.

  “Sorry, forgive me my historical ramblings.” I say finishing off my drink.

  “Nothing to forgive, sir.”

  “I better head back. I’ll need to schedule a meeting with Koth soon, if it’ll happen before I leave Coruscant.” I say, grabbing an empty tray off a serving droid and starting to assemble Dao’s drinks on it. The Captain starts following me out of the bar. I place a couple extra chits on the bar as a tip and leave the establishment.

  It isn’t raining and the sun is starting to get low. I raise the first glass to the sky before smashing the thing on the ground. It causes Lock to jump a little in surprise. I take the next glass and pour its contents over the smashed glass, expanding the pool of ale. The next glass is poured out on the same spot, then the next and the next. When there’s only one glass left, the empty one Lock had drunk from I raise it to the sky again before smashing it down like the first one.

  I press a chit into the Clone Captain’s hand and start walking away. It wasn’t fully traditional, but Dao would have forgiven me, good, kind hearted, idiot of a friend he was. I hear Lock say something but I wave him off. I hail a cab and order the sapient to get me to my hotel. I stumble back inside after tipping the man and stumble into my room to find R4 wheezing at me angrily. I groggily pull out the pieces of flimsy and toss them at the chair by the desk and flop into my bed, passing out.