Captain Forial’s finger hovers over the communications circuit, withdraws. Then it flips out straight, like a retractable antenna, only to retreat again. Now she’s holding her fist against her mouth. She would go through the cycle again, maybe, if the channel hadn’t flared open, if a tiny version of her nemesis hadn’t appeared.
“Captain,” says the tiny, glowing light man.
“Yes, Admiral… Neeb,” is her precision engineered reply. She had discovered that saying Neeb without laughing was as hard as anything she’d done in her life. And she’d recently secured Captain over a Chiss. So.
“We’re moving the AT-ATs to Endor, as you saw in my recent communique. After their tremendous success routing the Rebels on Hoth, I see no reason not to press this advantage on other fronts.”
“Excellent, Admiral. We await their arrival.” Establish a front. Then, flank: “Have we considered that there may be environments whose native terrain might deliver even greater results than on…”
“AT-ATs are All Terrain vehicles, Captain,” burps Admiral Neeb. His voice is fringed with exhaustion; he can’t believe he has to explain this. “All Terrain.”
From the observation deck, she looks out at Endor’s third moon. It’s green. Very, very green. Except where it’s blue.
“I forget,” she says, her voice thin. “Does Hoth have any trees?”
He doesn’t answer right away. She hears him typing something. And when he comes back:
“No, no trees.”
“Just a big ball of ice, right?”
“Snow and ice.”
She lets that one go. She has to. If she swings at the console, she’ll need the medical droid again. And then, the medical droid will need the repair droid. Again.
She thinks about moisture for a little while. Specifically, farming it. She wonders if it’s too late for a career change.