These are letters from a time hard to remember now, words that can be pinned down to a time closer to the old republic than to the vastness of our empire and the six quadrants.
When the past feels so far away and our lives extend past that of our ancestors by a century, what ties us down to the now? As time passes, the books of the old earth that cradled us turn out to be more myth than reality.
A planet that once held all of civilization, where the great ships of today were once needles created on soil to pierce the atmosphere, a planet that held many banners and many nations that all lived in harmony. The greatest myth of all.
What ties us down to the now? What made the Earth mythology so important to us? It was words, the words, and those who said them. These are letters from a time hard to remember now, words closer to legend than reality, but in those words, we can find the anchors that hold us down in our time of need.
Earth isn't real, the myth of old Earth won't save us, we will save ourselves, we have to save ourselves now.
Dear Father,
How long has it been? All that time feels like a blur now. Mom doesn't cry for you anymore; she spent the first five years after your departure in inconsolable pain, crying at anything that wore your face.
Sister barely remembers you; she is more interested in spending time with her friends and playing with her toys. I, myself, have been trying to do my best to keep this house from crumbling. Just last week the military police raided the town, and many of our neighbors haven't been found, so we think they fled because they were allied with forces from the five provinces, or so the rumors say.
Everyone is quieter now; every conversation I've had since that week has felt like a test or an interrogation, and the news of the five provinces getting stronger has elevated the sense of suspicion amongst everyone. But life goes on, and the landlords haven't stopped inquiring for more money, despite most men having left for the front just like you did, Father. Curse those greedy pigs.
Life goes on. That's what I tell myself. I found a girl that I've taken a liking to. She's beautiful and stronger than many men here, but she isn't the brightest, and I have to help her with the things one would assign to women: cooking, milking, cleaning, and the like. But I enjoy her company, and she makes me happy. I think I make her happy too.
I wonder how your life over at the front works? News from the war arrives rarely and is inconsistent. One day we are left pale from horror when a messenger comes and tells us that half of the front was blown to hell, and the next day we allow ourselves to breathe when news comes that the front is stable and the army is pushing through the 4th quadrant. Mother is the only one left unfazed by any news; she truly resents you for leaving. I try to convince her that the choice wasn't yours, but she screams if I try to mention your name. Sister doesn't seem to care; she simply commands her toys to torment me as I rest.
I wish I could say I understand your leaving, but I don't. Why did the army come to our town? I always ask myself that. I'm trying to keep my head up, but it's hard, knowing you're fighting for us and I'm just here waiting. I've never felt such prolonged powerlessness. I pray for this war to end; I pray for you to arrive.
My dearest hopes,
Your son
The separatist war is one of the most important events in the history of our empire. It went on for 200 years, from 150 BSC to 50 ASC, and it saw 10 generations come and go, all swept under the banner of loyalty.
It was a tragic war; brothers killed each other for their allegiance, families were torn apart by the hand of the fathers who couldn't accept that their sons would choose the empire over the republic, or by the Military Police, that savage institution, which single-handedly caused the sharpest drop in life expectancy in every urban region across the republic.
A concrete figure of the death toll could not be tallied, as the propaganda machine of the military police muddied the waters of information, making it impossible to get an accurate figure; modern historians put the tally up to 20 billion deaths in the last fifty years of the conflict.
What we do know is that from a population of 90 billion souls across the known quadrants, nearly fifty percent was lost.
The "front" mentioned in the letters refers to the place where the highest concentration of battles and loss of life occurred. It was located around what is known today as Halfaand planet-province. Every record we have from the "Front' refers to it as red-skied; this alludes to the fact that artillery rounds would eviscerate bodies, leaving a red mist in their stead.
This mist would accumulate and rise to the atmosphere after a long time, giving the region the red sky that was so famously reported.
People from across the republic didn't know of the brutality of the "front", and if they did, their minds couldn't imagine the horrors of the place. Records of what happened in the front are scarce, but one thing remains clear: no one who set foot in the "front" came back alive.
NO ONE.