The following entry has
been excerpted from the personal journal of Captain Troy Schills of the
Rebel Alliance navigation coordinator's team two days before the Battle
of Endor.
I would mark today's date at
the top of this entry but I've long since lost track of time. Surely they
wouldn't let us see the calendar and certainly not a clack. We've been
constantly working, only stopping when we are told to stop. Oh what I
wouldn't give to have a clock to at least know how long I've been seated
at this cold steel chair. How many hours do they make us work and how
many do they let us sleep?
Furthermore, I don't even know what it is I do all the time. Sometimes I
fear that my job here is the same as it was in the Empire; pressing
buttons that obliterate entire populations, while I thought that I was
simply operating factory machinery, building useful, harmless tools for
colonization purposes. Oh how deceptive they were. An evil dictatorship
that made stupid slaves out of its officers. And Alderaan! How dare
they...
And now I've come here to participate in the revolution, willingly
becoming a criminal against Imperial law. The Rebel Alliance couldn't
possibly be as deceptive--as cruel. After all, we are fighting for a good
cause, for the freedom of the galaxy. But then again, what constitutes
good and evil? An evil alliance could conceivably be fighting for a good
cause, perhaps to further profit themselves later on. Maybe the Alliance
is doing just this and plans on being traitorous to the very people they
appear to be trying to save.
No, I musn't think this way. I couldn't have let myself be deceived yet
again. I would've seen it coming. But then why is it that I still don't
know what purpose my job here serves? I sit here for hours on end, doing
what I'm told--push this, trace that, copy this data, record that
distance and so on. I don't actually know what I'm doing. When I push
this, what happens? Why am I tracing this? What does this data I'm
copying represent? This is my career. My life. I would at least like to
know what it is.
Why do I keep a journal? In my experience, nothing is written without the
intent of it being read. I never meant anyone to read this. In fact, not
even I will read it after its been written because my days are numbered.
My ship is joinging the fleet on its pilgrimage to the sanctuary moon and
I believe we are fighting a losing battle.
So I will set this as my final entry and try not to worry about the
nature of my job here, because I expect it will all be over in short
time. Perhaps within the day--night...is it day or is it night? It
doesn't matter. There is no day and night in space, for I can always see
the sun but the sky is always dark.
-Troy
