Trumpets blared their symphonic voices into the high-posted arches of the Imperial Cathedral. Drums rattled their snares in quick succession as the dramatic undertone to the most harmonious of marches, Impresario Intricii – processional march of the Galactic Empire. It had been played for fifty years, written for a very special occasion: the coronation of Emperor Palpatine I had called for a unique musical piece as the event signified the change in the galaxy from order to chaos, from an old Republic to a new Empire.
The tempo of the march quickened to take on a more resonating form, brass from lower echelons of the register standing to at their cue. Behind hundreds of rows of seats appeared the Grand Marshal of the Empire, Simon Kaine. He strode down the central aisle from the entrance-way to the orator’s pulpit with a full spring in his step and solemnity on his face. The first of the day’s events over which he would preside was a delicate one and a happy one. Happy, though, only when one considered just what price had been paid to achieve the day’s festivities.
Tanaab, Gir’siz, Gyndine, Ora’drell, Omiat XVI. So many worlds affected in this past crisis. So many Imperials fallen. I can only hope our monument does them justice.
The every step of the Grand Marshal brought the people to their feet as was custom. It was awesome to know that so much Imperial indoctrination had made the day’s events possible without drill or rehearsal. HoloNet was running at all hours with programmes that extolled the virtues and glories of the Empire, none that dared show too many of its weaknesses and shortcomings. Nary an episode of Tarus River, the Empire’s newest syndicated teenage romantic comedy, was played without some picture of an imposing Civil Defense Force soldier or relaxed gentleman-officer of the Imperial Fleet carefully woven into the plot by the delicate and skilled hands of the Ministry of Propaganda.
His arrival at the pulpit brought a cache of aides and various dignitaries to stand next to him from the wings of the massive cathedral. To say they had marched on stage would be only partially correct for while the military men had no trouble finding the left-right cadence step in any piece the civilians merely strolled in line as impressively as puffed-chests would allow.
Standing below the pulpit was a yeoman, doubtless an Altairian Cossack. His uniform bore a wide array of medals, his trimmed muzik beard a wide array of grey strewn in with black. He stood at attention while one arm held at height a long cavalry lance, the kind his people had used to conquer a dozen worlds when energy weapons were thought too costly. The Altairians were a fearsome people as any – and all – who heard their booming voice would attest.
“ His Excellency, Admiral of the Fleet Baron Telan Desaria.”
Just beyond where the Grand Marshal had appeared to make his entrance appeared the man aforementioned and introduced to the crowd of diplomats, soldiers, officers, and officials. The Admiral recognized many among them from first glance. Among the most prominent was Vice-Admiral Jitaari Ginson, one of the Baron’s instructors at the Imperial Academy on Raltiir. An old and graying man, his career had been marred by calamity and scandal – only his excellent ability as a teacher had saved him from forced retirement and doubtless disgrace.
Baron Desaria closed his eyes and savored the moment, for every man woman and being in every seat had remained at the feet and now faced each other across the aisle like one titanic sea, sea through which the Commanding Officer of the Demasi Sector Fleet was now to march.
March he did, every pride and accomplishment borne on his chest in the form of one medal or another. From left shoulder to right side ran the red sash of the Grand Cross of the Meritorious Service Citation; aiguillettes dangled from his right shoulder under the gold-braided epaulettes that adorned both shoulders; six red pips sat over six blue on his rank plaque. Most importantly and doubtless most prestigiously of all the medals, more so than the Order of the Emperor affixed to his tunic was the Imperial Cross with Pforr Leaves and Crossed Sabres that hung just below the collar-clasp of his tunic. Just half a decade past thirty years, the Admiral-Baron cut quite an imposing figure - a figure not hindered in the least by the padded shoulders of a white uniform tunic.
Every row of seats had at least half its populous composed of military men: as the Admiral passed, you could hear the turn of their jackboots on the polished stone floor followed by the stomp of those boots as they came to a stop, their eyes and chests faced forward to the waiting Grand Marshal of the Empire. Like the other officers there above the rank of Colonel – or Captain in the Fleet – Generalfeldmarschal Kaine was dressed in a white tunic complete with white breaches, black jackboots and visor-cap, the latter of which was nowhere in sight. The Grand Marshal had a habit of only wearing his cap when the weather was less than hospitable, but such was the privilege of the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military.
Desaria came to a stop before the tiered steps leading up to the raised pulpit, his heels clicking together as he stood at the fullest and most proud attention of his career.
“ Admiral Telan Desaria, commander of the Demasi Sector Fleet. You have performed a magnificent service to the Empire, saving it from the perils of reactionaries and fanatics. You lead your officers and men in one of the largest hunts the Empire has seen since the Rebellion the aforementioned traitors so desperately wanted to emulate. Your forces performed excellently, their actions disciplined and actions stayed. All is a credit to intensive training, training you ordered. Your actions in the past campaign were exemplary, commensurate with the best tradition of the Imperial Military – you achieved victory.
“ It is with great honour that I present to you the Grand Cross of the Imperial Cross!”
The tempo of the march quickened to take on a more resonating form, brass from lower echelons of the register standing to at their cue. Behind hundreds of rows of seats appeared the Grand Marshal of the Empire, Simon Kaine. He strode down the central aisle from the entrance-way to the orator’s pulpit with a full spring in his step and solemnity on his face. The first of the day’s events over which he would preside was a delicate one and a happy one. Happy, though, only when one considered just what price had been paid to achieve the day’s festivities.
Tanaab, Gir’siz, Gyndine, Ora’drell, Omiat XVI. So many worlds affected in this past crisis. So many Imperials fallen. I can only hope our monument does them justice.
The every step of the Grand Marshal brought the people to their feet as was custom. It was awesome to know that so much Imperial indoctrination had made the day’s events possible without drill or rehearsal. HoloNet was running at all hours with programmes that extolled the virtues and glories of the Empire, none that dared show too many of its weaknesses and shortcomings. Nary an episode of Tarus River, the Empire’s newest syndicated teenage romantic comedy, was played without some picture of an imposing Civil Defense Force soldier or relaxed gentleman-officer of the Imperial Fleet carefully woven into the plot by the delicate and skilled hands of the Ministry of Propaganda.
His arrival at the pulpit brought a cache of aides and various dignitaries to stand next to him from the wings of the massive cathedral. To say they had marched on stage would be only partially correct for while the military men had no trouble finding the left-right cadence step in any piece the civilians merely strolled in line as impressively as puffed-chests would allow.
Standing below the pulpit was a yeoman, doubtless an Altairian Cossack. His uniform bore a wide array of medals, his trimmed muzik beard a wide array of grey strewn in with black. He stood at attention while one arm held at height a long cavalry lance, the kind his people had used to conquer a dozen worlds when energy weapons were thought too costly. The Altairians were a fearsome people as any – and all – who heard their booming voice would attest.
“ His Excellency, Admiral of the Fleet Baron Telan Desaria.”
Just beyond where the Grand Marshal had appeared to make his entrance appeared the man aforementioned and introduced to the crowd of diplomats, soldiers, officers, and officials. The Admiral recognized many among them from first glance. Among the most prominent was Vice-Admiral Jitaari Ginson, one of the Baron’s instructors at the Imperial Academy on Raltiir. An old and graying man, his career had been marred by calamity and scandal – only his excellent ability as a teacher had saved him from forced retirement and doubtless disgrace.
Baron Desaria closed his eyes and savored the moment, for every man woman and being in every seat had remained at the feet and now faced each other across the aisle like one titanic sea, sea through which the Commanding Officer of the Demasi Sector Fleet was now to march.
March he did, every pride and accomplishment borne on his chest in the form of one medal or another. From left shoulder to right side ran the red sash of the Grand Cross of the Meritorious Service Citation; aiguillettes dangled from his right shoulder under the gold-braided epaulettes that adorned both shoulders; six red pips sat over six blue on his rank plaque. Most importantly and doubtless most prestigiously of all the medals, more so than the Order of the Emperor affixed to his tunic was the Imperial Cross with Pforr Leaves and Crossed Sabres that hung just below the collar-clasp of his tunic. Just half a decade past thirty years, the Admiral-Baron cut quite an imposing figure - a figure not hindered in the least by the padded shoulders of a white uniform tunic.
Every row of seats had at least half its populous composed of military men: as the Admiral passed, you could hear the turn of their jackboots on the polished stone floor followed by the stomp of those boots as they came to a stop, their eyes and chests faced forward to the waiting Grand Marshal of the Empire. Like the other officers there above the rank of Colonel – or Captain in the Fleet – Generalfeldmarschal Kaine was dressed in a white tunic complete with white breaches, black jackboots and visor-cap, the latter of which was nowhere in sight. The Grand Marshal had a habit of only wearing his cap when the weather was less than hospitable, but such was the privilege of the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military.
Desaria came to a stop before the tiered steps leading up to the raised pulpit, his heels clicking together as he stood at the fullest and most proud attention of his career.
“ Admiral Telan Desaria, commander of the Demasi Sector Fleet. You have performed a magnificent service to the Empire, saving it from the perils of reactionaries and fanatics. You lead your officers and men in one of the largest hunts the Empire has seen since the Rebellion the aforementioned traitors so desperately wanted to emulate. Your forces performed excellently, their actions disciplined and actions stayed. All is a credit to intensive training, training you ordered. Your actions in the past campaign were exemplary, commensurate with the best tradition of the Imperial Military – you achieved victory.
“ It is with great honour that I present to you the Grand Cross of the Imperial Cross!”