It is not the power of the army
nor even of the weapons,
it is the strength of the will alone which achieves victories.
(Johann Gottlieb Fichte)
***
A storm raged outside the window, but inside the room it was quite warm. But even standing by the window, it was frightening to watch the fury of the elements. It wasn't that Orliss had never seen such storms before—they rolled in periodically, sometimes two or three times a year, and in his lifetime he had seen more than a hundred of them. But every time he looked at the wall of rain and the flashes of lightning in the sky, he couldn't help but shudder.
Although Jabiim was often cut off from the rest of the galaxy by its atmosphere, flights were still possible in rare windows. However, even a madman wouldn't risk taking a ship into the air now.
Orliss took one last look at the window, then walked over to the table. It was yet another worktable—he had gone through many of them since he'd had to go into hiding. The setting reminded him of his worktable in peacetime: a datapad, holodisks, a family photo… Thoughts of his family were both comforting and melancholic. His wife had died six years ago, leaving him alone with an eleven-year-old son. Since then, he had devoted all his free time to the boy. Looking farther, he noticed an object that was out of place among the usual surroundings. A blaster rifle. Yes, times had changed.
"Father, what are you thinking about?" a voice broke the silence in the room.
Gillmunn turned his head.
"Nolan. Are you back already?"
"Yes, Father. What weather." The lad shook raindrops from his hair. "The storm promises to be a long one."
"How's it going?"
The young man shook his head. Orliss paused for a moment, mechanically sorting through the holodisks, categorizing them according to criteria unknown even to himself.
"You know, this is all taking too… long. I assumed that as soon as the Republic sent us help, everything would work out. However…"
"Yes, Father, but… Stratus is to blame for all this. While all the Nimbuses are busy with the clones, we're trying to get this bastard… We've already destroyed ten—ten!—outposts, but he manages to slip away every time."
"Not only that, son. The Confederacy keeps sending more and more battle droids… and their mercenaries… They're doing terrible things. Even the Jedi can't handle them."
"Father, do you think the Jedi… will lose?"
"Over the years, I've learned that you have to be prepared for anything. However… we must hope, because victory is the only thing we need. The defeat of the Republic will mean our defeat. Yes, we can continue our struggle, but it will be… hopeless."
"We'll see about that," Nolan replied angrily.
***
After washing my face—although this was not very productive, given the weather conditions—I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It was clean, just as it had been before washing. Nevertheless, I did this constantly, almost on schedule, morning and evening—if possible. And not at all to wash away dirt. It wasn't a necessity, no; it was more of a ritual, a small thing that meant a lot. It kept me from going crazy, from completely losing my mind… Often, only things like that save you in war. Washing, being able to sleep in a normal bed, being able to eat hot food, a few kind words, and a barely noticeable smile. Nonsense, of course, but I've learned from experience that this is the only way to survive this slaughter… this war.
Some, like Ahsoka, hide their exhaustion from the endless battles and deaths—deaths that flash by like the bright lights of oncoming speeders, blinding the eyes—behind jokes. Some, like Mirro, during short breaks, curl up in the far corner of their bunk and drown their sorrows in alcohol. Some, like Li Noriega, bury themselves in work, driving themselves to frenzy, until feelings retreat deep inside and no longer play any significant role… There are many options.
Jedi are famous throughout the galaxy for their composure and calmness, but I am far from an ordinary Jedi. A good half of me is an ordinary person, a layman with his own petty problems, who knew what war was only from books and movies. And studying battles and historical events doesn't make things much easier. One death is a tragedy; a thousand is a statistic. Once upon a time, our ancestors worked hard to ensure that their descendants would never know the horrors of war—and they succeeded. And then, the state always protected us, no matter how shitty it was. And there were no such serious conflicts at the time when I was born. And here I am, up to my ears in this shit.
Although the former Vikt didn't have much experience in this field either. The closest conflict of any significant scale was the mess with Stark and bacta, but even that was limited to a couple of star systems and a dozen planets. And, what's more, all of that passed me by.
War… it really changes intelligent beings. It's hard to imagine how a person can be transformed in an instant—and not just a person who has taken up arms. Everything changes: their worldview, their sense of self, their attitude toward others. One thing is beyond doubt: weapons are power and authority. They give confidence and dictate behavior, creating the illusion of self-importance. That's what happens in peacetime. What, then, must happen in war—especially on the front lines, where everyone has a weapon and its use becomes a duty rather than an option?
In this regard, it is much easier for clones. They were created for war, trained for war, and they see nothing unnatural in this state of affairs. Someone once said… I don't remember who: "Our job is to kill, and our duty is to do that job well." These words encapsulate the entire motivation of the clones, their entire philosophy. I wouldn't be surprised if something had been tweaked in their brains long before they were born.
The rest, once they find themselves in war, change. The Jabiimi—Nationalists and Loyalists, Jedi, Padawans, officers—Sumeragi and Christen, Ahsoka… Hutt, just two or three miserable months ago, we didn't know each other, didn't even suspect each other's existence, and now, divided into two camps, taking up arms, we're killing each other with relish… Looking back, I realize that none of us will ever be the same again.
Perhaps it would be much easier for the Jedi, because the weapons in their hands are much more powerful than blasters or tanks. And it doesn't matter whether it's the Force or simply a lightsaber—in the hands of a Jedi, both are weapons. That is their strength… and their weakness. Jedi begin training in the use of their weapons at a very early age, but the very nature of the Order rejects violence, and they are taught not to use their weapons, but to control them. Faced with the realities of war, which forces them to kill, they become lost and begin to lose their faith, drifting off the path… It is possible that many of them would have turned to the dark side if they hadn't died earlier…