Even Stars Die

Above the ecumenopolis of the galaxy, ships orbited in a seemingly peaceful dance across the exospheric currents. Stars glittered like cold diamonds, inhibited by the yellow glare of the nearby sun. Below, the surface of the planet was starkly clear, a complex interplay of molten lights and the glint of polished chrome.

In the crystal silence of inky darkness, vaccuum cast the hulls of the Venator-class Destroyers in an uncannily clear fashion. Elegantly, the flotilla of the Republic's mainstream naval vessels banked portside. As the as the rays of the sun played their first golden flittings on their durasteel hulls, in the distance a mass of light and movement filled the skies, beautiful as the lakes of Alderaan in their summer glory.

With majestic splendor this dance of light resolved itself into hundreds of vessels, large and small. Giants in a vast ocean, a vistas of movement and undulation too complex to comprehend at a simple glance. The susurration of blooms of energy searing the retinas, blacking the sensor screens. Above the sheerest clouds there was no ether to propagate the screams of the dying, the cries of the helpless, the agonizing pleas of doomed pilots as they flew in gently luminous parabolas to their fates. Looking at the beauty of the sparkling planet below one could only resolve oneself to the last bitter sight of the squandered fruits of civilization's utterest folly.

In a beautiful surge of light and motion, the ballet of ships thus continues. Perhaps a historian could pretend to comprehend the enormity of the price paid for this venture. But to the participants of the deadly fray, when all one cares for is the sinking sensation of doom in the pit of the stomach, as a Federation buzz droid breaks through the clearplaz cockpit window to terminate, beyond all clear and reasonable doubt, one's hopes for the continuation of one's life, there is only one concern. No more shall he stand with his comrades in celebration or loss. No more shall he feel the breeze of a virgin planet upon his face. No more shall he feel a touch of a loved one. No more shall he comprehend the truth of his purpose in a purposeless galaxy.

And silently, another bloom of clear and beautiful light blossoms, elegant as the flowerings of newcome spring.