There is another possibility, taris is also worth recycling. At this time Coruscant is still recovering from being sacked from the Siths attack, where do they get the metals, permacrete etc to rebuild? Send some disposable troops and refugees (catharsis) to clear and "rebuild". With a fair portion of the materials that the teams clear, processed and shipped off planet. sound crazy and implausible? Why ship materials halfway across the quadrent? Here are a couple of real world examples. Toyota's first cars were made from steel recycle from old American cars. The cathedral in Mexico city was built from the Aztec temple that stood not far away. Back to Star Wars, Feed the truly desperate a **** and bull story about reclaiming Taris, you could empty many a ghetto on many a core world, get building materials for you own infrastructure, force the empire to commit materials without and real gain. And there is the additional possibility that the colonist might actually succeed.

Prologue: “Victories and Costs” "Fight!” A thought, an instinct, “Fight, damn you!” Slowly I swim up pushing myself through the darkness. For a split second I see the red flashing display, and hear a alarm screaming in my ears. My heart’s pounding, I’m gasping for air, my skull is splitting, feeling like it is tearing itself apart. The world goes black. “You’re dying.” It’s the voice of Darth Renthus, “You’re dying, boy, because you are weak.” He cackles with glee, “You were never Sith, just a pathetic animal!!!” "Stronger than you, Old Man!” I curse him in return. Then out of anger, out of hatred out of spite, I refuse death. Reality comes crashing home. “I am not weak! I am not dead!” I scream. The pain in my head is unbearable. My hands shake as by body strains against my safety harness. “CALM!”A new voice implored, Tosh, beautiful or not, ever the nag, “You must not give in. Your anger sows the seeds of your own destruction!” “Easy for you to say, you dumb Jedi *****” I growl, “If you were more than a figment of my imagination, I’d tear your throat out with my teeth.” I can almost feel her soft had on my forehead, for a moment I catch her scent as her lips brush my cheek. I relax my body and will my breathing and heart to slow. She is gone. I tell myself she was never there to begin with. “Thank you Tosh,” I whisper, “I miss you.” I open my eyes, painfully scanning the heads up display. Carbon Dioxide at 3.6%, scrubber’s saturated. Slowly, clumsily, my fingers grope at my suit’s chestplate. After what seemed like hours, I hear the hissing of gas as I purge the near fatal air mix for my flight suit replacing it with air from the reserve tank. Slowly the throbbing fades to just dull pain “Better,” I whisper to myself. Temporary fix, the tank won't last long. My hands, long use to the drill twist open the primary line. I shake out the cartridge, bringing it up to my face mask for inspection. Nodding I slip the spent cartridge into one of the loops on my pant leg, replacing it from one of the spares from my shoulder. Two more spares, eighteen hours each. Fifty-two hours of life. Longer if I slow my heart. A chance, not much of one but a chance. “Better than I had ten minutes ago.” I say half laughing, as I watch the stars streak by. I’m spinning, tumbling through the void. How had I gotten here? The Imperial fleet had jumped into the system, surprise attack, battle, the collision warning,,,, Fallon yelling “EJECT, EJECT, EJECT!” Checking the chrono I see that was over twenty hours and probably 500,000 km ago. Reaching out, I slow the ejection seat until I can see the Varkin sun shining dimly in the distance. “Hope you made it, Fallon.” I say thinking of the young twil’lik, “ ’we aliens have to stick together’.” He’s alive, I’d know if he’s dead, at least I think I would. I just sit there for several minutes doing nothing, it’s hard to breath. I don’t know how many G’s I pulled when I ejected, but something feels broken. My mind drifts, can’t seem to stay focused. As I glance back to the chrono, I’m horrified to see that several hours have passed. “This will not do, old son.” I say to myself as I bite down on the comm tab, “PT flight, PT flight, PT flight, this is torpedo-3, repeat torpedo-3, please respond. Over” Nothing, static, I repeat my hail two more time, same result. Probably out of range anyway. Leaning my head to the side, take a sip from helmet’s ******. The water is flat and tasteless. My mouth absorbs most of it. I try not to think about the micro pumps and filters that are processing my urine and ***** to refill the reservoir. Still better than dying of thirst. The dune sea, hot and dry. Endless sand,,,,,, I shake my head trying to focus my brain. Must have knocked my skull pretty hard. I take stock. The battle was over. Fallon’s alive, somewhere, but not everyone's as lucky. I can feel them, on the edge of my perception. The dying. Out there in the darkness, one a capital ship in particular is in its final death throws. It must have been badly damaged. Left to die a slow death, with most of its crew left aboard. I could feel their fear, their anger at being left behind. They are dying, by twos, by tens, a fifty here, seventy there. Emergency shielding must be failing throughout the ship. Their cries slowly subsided, their lives faded. Everything they were is now gone like tears in rain. I’ve met more than one Sith that would revel in these deaths. I remember seeing Tralana, a true-blood, almost climax as she waded through more than 30 republic troopers, hewing them down like some psychotic thresher on so much wheat. Even Jedi can get a taste for bloodletting, though they’d never admit it I’ve seen more than once with that dull look of pleasure in their eyes. As for myself I never found mass slaughter appealing. The predator in me abhors the waste of good meat. As more and more of the sentients die out there in the dark, a pit grows in my stomach, I feel pity for them. Pity, most would say a Sith does not feel this. Most would be wrong. Both Sith and Jedi feel everything see everything more than a non-force user could ever understand. Jedi try to shield themselves from it, shutting off all emotion. If that's even possible. Sith follow our passion, diving deep. It allows us to see the beauty of life and its horror, both in exquisite detail. But passion, I’ve found is also a lie, and a trap. It makes us arrogant, seeing other who don’t understand as lesser beings. “They always prove us wrong, don’t they, Renthus,” I say out loud, hoping that the bastard’s grinding his blacked teeth in that muddy grave. A Jinda dancer on some forgotten moon showed me how short sighted we could be. She asked me how I perceived the universe about me. “How could you describe a sunset to someone who’s blind.” I replied. She took my hand and pressed it against the window where I could feel the heat of the setting sun. That night on a deserted beach I explained it to her as well as I could. “It’s like, every life is an ember burning off of this fire” I whispered to her as I held her close, “Beautiful to behold, and as the ember burns out, a little sad as well.” She laughed and told me as was the strangest Sith she ever met. “What was her name?” I wondered. I regretted breaking her neck that night, but she did try and kill me in my sleep. I never knew why she wanted to kill me in the first place. She was nervous and full of regret. Don’t think it was personal,,,, “What is that?” Part of my brain asks snapping my mind back to the present. On the capital ship, someone, no it’s a group. They haven’t given up. Going into one of the reactors trying to repair something. There is fear but there’s hope. I stretch out, touching their minds. It’s suicide, they know it. None will leave the reactor core alive. Fear begins to overtake most of them, death will come for them soon. I drop into a trace, slowly their fear subsides. They see their comrades around them, the jobs they must do, their victory if they succeed. They work quickly as one. Even as some drop, they don’t stop. Before long it’s done. But at a cost, as they die I try and comfort them whispering, “Your strength has given you victory. Through this victory, you have broken your chains, you are now free.” They slip away it is without fear, victory. Others aboard the crippled ship realize that their deaths are now delayed. There is hope. Before I recede back into my own mind I whisper again. “Survive, honor them, remember their passion and strength, find your own victory!” As I release my influence I can feel them acting as one, a crew again, what was left of one. They may yet live to find their own victories. Many of my brethren see this as a perversion, a heresy of our code. They have perverted our code, or maybe I never truly understood it. I am not a true Sith, I am not a Jedi. If I do not follow the path of light or the dark path what am I? Regardless, I still call all I’ve done victory and refuse to be bound by any of their chains. But everything costs, my victory costs. I cough sending a fine spray of blood and spittle across the lower half of my face mask. I’ve ripped something, ripped it badly. I recede into myself, bones are broken, muscles torn, and vessels burst. Must heal, I relax, feel the force flow over me, like an incoming tide, as I drop into meditation. I’m buoyed up and carried away. I don’t know to where or if I’ll ever wake up. I wonder if this peace is a lie. As I drift away, I find I don’t really care. Next installment. “Episode 1: Beginnings”