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That, he thought, summed up the very nature of this decrepit and dying Republic he was about to destroy. Warships that weren’t supposed to threaten. Leaders that never led. And citizens who were really slaves.
“Impressive.
Reading Galaxy's Edge #4
“Probably, Captain Desaix?” queried the wide-optical sensored bot innocently.
His favorite attempt at unity through diversity had been Revision Day.
The devastating flurry of blaster fire from the freighter’s hidden tail cannons didn’t even register in Viper Twelve’s mind.
on paper there was no elite governing class. And yet it existed. It survived.
Both sides had gone in screaming at top speed straight for each other’s throats.
She hated the average Repub beta male with all his mincing social justice hesitations. Apologizing for asking a girl out.
She’d have been more successful had she been squat and butch—just diverse or minority enough to make rank for all the wrong reasons.
They took the steps that led up to the central courtyard where strange and enigmatic sculptures, sculptures that had once represented diversity and correct thought, were now made even more bizarre by the drifting smoke and bonfires of everything that could not be planned for.
Like a line of spectral wraiths appearing in the mists of a morning that would never become day, they entered the silent lobby and did the killing work that needed doing.
