8 ABY

The triage docs had been up for days, screening millions upon millions of citizens. And yet they still came, lined up like lambs to the slaughter. Every vessel in known space had come to take on passengers as soon as another planet had opened up refugee space.

Lieutenant Meldo Tavia was in charge of a platoon of Imperial Army troopers sent to guard an intake checkpoint for civilians. He had recently been part of the reclamation teams on Bestine IV and when the call came for assistance in getting people off of Wroona came in, his troops were ordered to help organize the evacuation.

Wroona was an Imperial world with some New Republic infiltrators. According to Intel, said rebels had brought in a team to assist in teaching resistance techniques. Unbeknownst to them, according to the interrogation teams, the New Republic agents had an ulterior motive: releasing the Bandonian Plague on both the local Imperial garrison and the orbitting Wroona Stardock.

Their mission unmasked, the local Rebels were abhorred and captured and turned over the agents, who were quickly interrogated and then executed. If the foolishly meant to only harm the Imperial military, they were sorely mistaken.

From the Stardock, the infection spread to other Imperial worlds, such as Liaana and Jaemus. Word was Eriadu was infected and at least one or two others worlds.

Meldo wasn’t quite sure. His job was hard enough without considering it being just as bad elsewhere.

The garrison had been here a few years. Long gone were the early days where soldiers bottled up in the garrison and only came out to show the flag every so often. They came into the city to shop, to drink, some to raise families. Wroona was a soft station, and that is what started killing people en masse.

From the markets and homes to school, the infection meant to kill only Imperial soldiers and sailors spread quickly to the local populace.

By the time the Vast Empire and other Imperial factions got the word, the only thing to do was to quarantine the infected and get as many people either out of the way or just plain off-world as possible.

So, Meldo and his platoon had come with thousands of other troops to aid in the refugee effort. For the Vast Empire, this meant staging a refugee camp on Bestine IV, with plans to quickly build refugee facilities on some of the newly joined worlds deep in the Outer Rim for semi-permanent housing. Imperials were Imperials, and they took care of their own, despite any factional bull. Politics meant nothing when lives were in danger, though stacking New Republic citizens in the VE’s backyard wasn’t yet in the plans.

His troops had ringed a perimeter in whatever they could grab. They emptied the starport’s parking structures and built a wall of vehicles, which they then clad in ferrocrete slabs and whatever metal they could grab. The garrison building itself was off-limits, one of the first buildings set up for quarantine. If anyone was going to live through the outbreak there, they were going to do it themselves.

Meldo watched as First Squad manned the gates, processing citizens in small groups, checking their credentials against the local database, then checking their gear. To the side was an ever-growing stack of luggage and personal goods. Refugees were literally being asked to leave with little more than the clothes on their backs. It was a hell of a way to run a railroad, but orders were orders.

From there, the scared, angry, and desperate Wroonians were given over to the medical staff. Third Squad watched over this step as each person was checked for any signs of infection. If detected, they would be escorted, either singly, or as a family in some cases, to the quarantine barracks that had been erected on a couple of the launchpads. They were basically tents, and quickly filling up, but as much as no one had a clue what was happening, the Empire knew how to move people.

Second Squad was resting up to cover someone’s duty rotation, so it was up to Four Squad, nominally his HQ people, to escort those who passed the checkups over to the Embarcation Teams. These were the poor saps who had been tasked to assign people to whatever berths could be found. Tramp freighters jockeyed with troop transports, retired luxury liners, and ever a decommissioned Cantwell-class Star Destroyer. As soon as each vessel filled up, it got clearance to take off, only to be replaced by another vessel needing refueling and resupplying before taking on another load.

He’d been here seven days and there was no way all of these people were getting out of here.

He wished for a cup of caf, but that was a long ago dream. He was quietly husbanding his cigarras, knowing that when those were gone, he’d be out of those too.

Outside the lines, more troops tried to keep the lines orderly but that was getting harder to do. Yes, the infections were getting worse, but that was not the main fear. The government had taken off days ago. Only the obedience taught in boot camp kept the military together. The nearest gates were staffed with Thrawnists and some of the rear staff in charge were Isard’s lackeys. It didn’t make a bit of different to his platoon however. There was no glory to be found here. They just had to get as many folks off this rock as possible.

With the government gone, the whole damn planet turned to anarchy. The capital city burned and his people had had to repel various groups of gate crashers, mostly rich people and their private security trying to jump the lines. They failed.

Killing civvies sucked, but it wasn’t the worst thing he could imagine in this chaos.

What *really* kept him up all hours of the day were the rumors. Having known there was a New Republic set of cells here, Intel was sure they were planning to take advantage of the situation. Wroona had it’s fair share of military installations and production facilities. At this point, most of them were probably just standing there with their gates open.

In his hand was his datapad, with new orders. Seasoned Imperial units - like his - were mobilizing to move into the city to capture what they could of this materiel, and to slot anyone who got in their way. Suddenly, babysitting hungry, crying refugees didn’t seem so bad.