STAR WARS DARK FORCES
Soldier for the Empire
BY
William C. Deets
Dean Williams
CHAPTER ONE
The relay that failed, and thereby saved Morgan Katarn's life, was an integral part of the pumping station that served the southeast quadrant of his homestead. Without the relay and the pump, his variform beans would wither and die. They, like the rest of the crops, needed the
water that Morgan's one-thousand-year-old tap tree brought to the surface via tubular roots, or "taps" that descended hundreds of feet to siphon water from the underlying aquifer - water that was shared with Morgan's crops via endless lengths of imported irrigation tubing.
The workshop was a spacious area in which Morgan spent nearly all his time, when he was home, that is - which was less than he would have liked. His responsibilities as an agro-mech craftsman took more hours away than was good for the farming he did on the side as did the resistance movement. In the workshop were cupboards where his spare parts were stored, countertops strewn with tools, and bins filled with printouts, schematics, and designs. Morgan circled the worktable to peer at one of six monitors. It provided a rotating 3-D view of the pump's inner workings. The lines that described the offending relay had changed from green to red and blinked on and off. Annoying - but easy to remedy.
Morgan made a note of the part number, opened a storage cabinet, found the matching box, and removed it. A puff of air touched the back of his neck and he heard Wee Gee's cooling fans. He turned and grinned. "Hey, old boy . . . how's that solar panel? All fixed? Good work."
Morgan had designed the droid himself. Since he was a self-taught roboticist, it hadn't been easy. Form had been allowed to follow function - and Wee Gee looked anything but
human. Though capable of assuming hundreds of configurations, Wee Gee always reverted to an inverted U shape. His right arm was three times more powerful than his left. It boasted no less than four articulated joints, and a C-shaped grasper. The left arm was less sturdy but was
mounted with a human-style hand that could use the tools carried on the utility belt cinched around Wee Gee's processor housing.
What Morgan called the drive assembly linked both sides of the droid together - and served as a platform for the vertical sensor pod that provided Wee Gee with the electronic equivalent of sight. Thanks to a repulsorlift engine salvaged from an Imperial speeder bike, and
steering jets adapted from a junked probe droid, the machine floated two meters off the ground. An oval-shaped lens tilted toward Morgan and the droid made a chirruping sound. The human
nodded in response.
"Sure, we'll tackle that in the morning. First things first, though . . . I've got to replace a part on pump four. You're in charge till I get back."
Wee Gee squeaked agreeably and plugged himself into one of the many data ports scattered around the complex. Once connected, the droid could monitor the entire farm from that single position.
The farmer considered a vehicle and decided against it. The walk would be good for both his spirits and his waistline. Morgan checked to ensure that his comlink was charged, grabbed the walking stick from a corner, and slipped through the door.
He took a breath of the crisp evening air and paused to watch Sullust rise. Morgan had friends there, many of whom belonged to the Alliance and were working towards the day when the New Order would be destroyed. That was no small task on a planet where the Emperor ruled through the vast SoroSuub Corporation. Still, where there's a will there's a way, and they would succeed, Morgan was certain.
Walking briskly so as to raise his heart rate to aerobic levels, the farmer struck out towards the southeast. Dry grass crackled beneath his boots, lume bugs danced before his face, and stars appeared in the sky. They reminded Morgan of his son Kyle - and the fact that he
would graduate soon.
The thought that financial necessity rather than free choice had played a major role in Kyle's decision to attend the Imperial Military Academy still filled Morgan with guilt. The Katarn's were from the Outer Rim, with limited financial resources, and the Academy had
represented Kyle's best chance for a good education.
Morgan frowned. Perhaps if he'd been a little more flexible, a little less focused on how money was made, there would be more of it. What would Kyle be like when he returned? Like the boy he'd said good-bye to? Or like the stormtroopers who swaggered through the spaceport? The stars were silent, the lume bugs danced, and there was no way to know.
The vengeance was not one of the Empire's larger Star Destroyers, nor was such a vessel required for the matter at hand. After all, why use a sword when a dagger would suffice? The thought pleased the mind that conceived it. The bridge was large and open. The crew stood in
semicircular trenches cut into the highly polished deck. The Dark Jedi known as Jerec stood above the command pit and stared at the moon that floated beyond.
What he saw was a great deal more complex than what those around him perceived. Jerec was tall arid thin to the point of emaciation. He kept his head shaved and black facial tattoos glowed on his brown skin. Empty eye sockets were hidden behind a band of black leather. His tunic, trousers, and boots were black. Jerec wore no insignia other than the symbols visible on his blood-red collar - and kept his Jedi abilities secret.
Such was the nature of the man, however, and the power he commanded, that no signs of authority were necessary. Jerec acted under orders from Emperor Palpatine himself and looked forward to the day when all would kneel before him, though he was careful to hide such ambitions behind a veneer of loyalty.
Captain Thrawn stood behind Jerec, slightly to his right. He was as tall as Jerec but the similarity ended there. Thrawn had shimmering blue-black hair, pale blue skin, and glowing red eyes, all of which testified to his alien origins and were rare in the Empire's xenophobic navy.
However, much as Palpatine might distrust other sentient species, he loved a winner, and Thrawn had collected more victories, medals, and promotions than most officers with twice his years of service. He stood with hands clasped behind his back and waited for his superior to speak. When the words came, Jerec's voice was soft, almost feminine. "The probe returned?"
"Yes, sir. There was no sign of a security breach. Surprise will be complete."
"The drop ship is ready?"
"Yes, sir. Loaded and ready."
"Excellent. You may begin."
"Yes, sir."
Thrawn had turned, and was about to leave, when Jerec spoke again. "One more thing . . ."
The officer turned at the sound. of Jerec's voice. "Sir?"
"I want Morgan Katarn alive."
Thrawn was well aware of what Jerec wanted but nodded dutifully and said, "Yes, sir," with exactly the same intonation he had used the first time the order had been issued. Besides being a brilliant tactician, and even better strategist, Thrawn had still another virtue, and that was his absolute lack of ego. Something of a necessity for an officer with alien origins in a military organization rife with patronage and politics.
Jerec, who wanted a great deal more than the next pathetic rank in another being's power structure, nodded and stalked away.
Thus dismissed, Thrawn tackled the business at hand. Orders had been given and he would carry them out.
Though roughly the same size as an Imperial assault shuttle, the Corellian built stock light freighter had less armament and still bore the scars accumulated while running supplies to Space Station Kwenn. Captured with a hold full of black-market technics, she'd been added to the rag-tag coll
ection of ships the Empire used for clandestine missions. She was typical of vessels pressed into service by the Alliance. Painted with registration numbers identical to those worn by one of their commerce raiders, she made a believable stand-in for the real thing. Retro's fired as she matched velocities with Sulon and prepared to land.
Within her hull, in a cargo compartment that still stank of the hydroponic supplies she had carried, a team of Special Operations commandos prepared for combat. Their leader, a thirty-something first lieutenant named Brazack, watched with all-seeing eyes. He had earned his commission the hard way in a battle so bloody, every single one of his superiors had been killed. His subsequent promotion came in the wake of a mission that produced no less than four medals of valor - all awarded posthumously.
His peers, almost all of whom had graduated from the Academy, resented Brazack and his almost mystical linkage with the troops assigned to him. In this case, his troops were the second platoon, B company, of the legendary Special Ops Group, also known as the Ghost
Battalion.
In spite of their common membership in one of the Empire's most elite military organizations, every single member of the platoon was dressed in a rag-tag collection of mismatched clothes and armor meant to resemble what volunteer elements of the Alliance wore.
And the disguises would have been believable if it weren't for the standard-issue weapons they carried - and the fact that they were exclusively human, a rare circumstance where Reb units were concerned.
Brazack had objected to these discrepancies, and argued for a delay while they were remedied, but was overruled. He reacted the way he always did, with a shrug and a lopsided grin. And why not? It made no difference to Brazack if someone saw through the fiction, especially in
light of the fact that he had lodged his protest in writing and retained a computer generated receipt. Such precautions were second nature to someone who' d risen from the ranks.
The pilot announced, "Three to dirt," and Brazack walked slowly down the center corridor. He made eye contact with each member of the team as he spoke. "All right, men, you know the drill. We land, secure the Landing Zone, and collect the prisoner. Questions? No? Good! Nail this sucker and the drinks are on me."
The men grinned. They knew most officers would hardly acknowledge their status as human beings - much less buy them drinks. Which had everything to do with the fact that they would rather die than disappoint their leader.
The freighter came in out of the sun, sank to rooftop level, and opened up on the farm south of Morgan Katarn' s. It belonged, they had been told, to a family named Danga. Lasers burped, buildings burst into flames, and variform cattle broke free of their holding pens. The
Imperial pilot, a Caridian named Vester, grinned and circled for another pass. Give the groundies plenty of time for an ID, that's what the briefing said, and that's what he'd do.
A woman and two children broke from the cover provided by the fiercely burning farmhouse and ran for a nearby gully. Vester kicked the ship to the left, centered their images in the heads-up sight, and pressed a button. There was a satisfying flash as the colonists died.
"Missile . . . " his co-pilot said matter-of-factly, well aware of the fact that the freighter was way too low for the shoulder-launched device to arm itself, and fired a waist turret in reply. Bolts of energy hit the center of the vehicle park, marched towards the maintenance shed, and
found Don Danga trying to reload. The shoulder-launched missile exploded and he disappeared.
The freighter shuddered, steadied, and headed north. By attacking the Danga farm prior to hitting the Katarn place, and greasing still another family on the way out, they hoped to create the impression of a hit-and-run Rebel raid. Vester didn't much care so long as he did alI of the shooting and someone else did all of the dying. He chinned the intercom button. "Okay, Lieutenant . . . thirty to dirt."
Brazack acknowledged the message, took one last look at his men, and stood on the belly ramp. He took pride in leading from the front - and planned to be the first one out.
Vester watched the Katarn farm grow larger, swerved to avoid an enormous tree, and lit his repulsors. The ship staggered, caught and pancaked in. Not very pretty - but ideal when seconds count.
Brazack felt the skids hit, slapped the button next to the hatch and dived through the opening. He executed a shoulder roll, allowed forward momentum to bring him up, and opened fire. That would keep down the heads of anyone waiting in the farmhouse. Windows shattered
and curtains started to smolder. No one fired in return. The platoon poured out of the ship, formed a skirmish line, and waited for orders.
Vester waited till the commandos were clear, lit his repulsors, and departed northward. His job was to inflict additional damage, provide fire support if called upon to do so, and make the final pickup. A quick check confirmed that a flight of five TIE fighters had secured his escape route. The mission was on the rails and Vester was happy.
Morgan Katarn had arrived on the south slope of the hill that stood between his house and the southeast quad when he heard the rumble of in-system engines and saw the low-flying ship. He viewed the vessel as little more than a curiosity at first, a pilot so stupid that he or she
had missed the spaceport to the east and was searching for landmarks. Then he noticed that the running lights had been extinguished and that the vessel was flying below official minimums, and his stomach felt funny. That kind of feeling had protected him in the past.
Within a fraction of a second from the time the doubts first entered his mind, the ship opened fire. Morgan stood stunned as lasers stabbed the ground, an SLM went off high above,
and something exploded.
Morgan fumbled the electrobinoculars out of their belt pouch and brought them up to his
eyes. The device captured what light there was, enhanced it, and fed the results to the eyepiece. By pressing "zoom" followed by "record" Morgan was able to document what was happening.
The Katarn house was a modest structure, only half of which appeared aboveground. The rest, for reasons of cost and insulation, was surrounded by carefully packed earth.
Brazack waited for Corporal Koyo to kick the door in, waited for defensive fire that never came, and entered with his weapon at ready. The living room had a dusty, unlived-in feel, as if it was more for show than use, and contained little of value or interest. Brazack pointed
toward a pair of doors. "Kayo . . . Santo . . . see where those go. And keep your eyes peeled for Katarn."
The men had memorized Morgan's face during the simulation briefing. They managed to withhold the "Yes, sirs" that came naturally to their lips and said "Gotcha," instead.
Rank hath privilege and Brazack had assigned the most interesting avenue of investigation to himself. It led through an archway and into a workshop. He had no more than passed through the entryway when something struck him in the chest and threw him backward. The armor beneath his shirt prevented serious injury but it hurt nonetheless. The missile consisted of a partially disassembled servo mechanism, and in spite of the fact that Wee Gee had thrown the device with unerring accuracy, the threat index was extremely low. However, the commandos reacted as they would to any threat, and used overwhelming force.
The antipersonnel grenade hit the floor, launched itself into the air, and exploded. The droid squeaked pitifully. Santo put a beam through the machine's speaker grill. Wee Gee
considered further resistance, decided against it, and sent an electronic warning to Morgan Katarn.
High on the hill behind the farm Morgan both heard and felt his beeper go off, knew the raiders had found Wee Gee, and touched the button that would silence it. A lump formed in his throat. Yes, Wee Gee was a machine, but he'd been a friend as well.
Helpless to do anything more than document what transpired, the farmer saw fires appear among his outbuildings, and saw the ship return from the north and squat in front of his house. There was something about the raiders that bothered M
organ. It eluded him at first, but then he had it. The so-called Rebels carried identical weapons! Not to mention that every single one of them was human. They looked like Rebels, but they weren't Rebels, so what did that leave? The simple answer, the obvious answer, was Imperial troops. Sent to kill and/or capture Reb leaders. That would explain the attack.
Morgan dropped to the ground as the ship fired repulsors and rose into the air. Fires, the last ones no larger than sparks, marked the ship's passage to the west. Morgan shook his head sadly. If the Imperials thought such raids would suppress the Rebellion, the' were wrong. Many
would suffer this night - and their hatred would grow. The challenge was to focus their emotion, to transmute negative energy into positive.
Morgan watched the fires in acid around leis house disappear. Activated by the household computer, and fed by the tap tree, his sprinkler system had cut in. He frowned and bit his lip. Possessions could be replaced, but what of Wee Gee? And more importantly, the map
which Rahn had entrusted to him. Was it intact? Did the Imperials understand how valuable it was? Morgan ached to return, to check on his home, but knew a trap could be waiting.
Morgan turned, low-crawled off the skyline, and trudged toward the east. Opportunity dwells within disaster. That's what his friend Rahn liked to say - and he hoped it was true.
Thrawn received the unenviable task of telling Jerec that while the raid had been successful, the commandos had been unable to find and capture Morgan Katarn. Never one to delay an unpleasant task, Thrawn marched down a gleaming corridor, nodded to the stormtroopers who stood guard outside Jerec's suite, and requested entrance. It came without delay. Having no eyes and no sight, not in the ordinary sense, anyway, Jerec sat in almost total darkness. Only the soft glow provided by the bridge repeaters and light switches lit the room. The lack of illumination was intended to be intimidating, and would have been for anyone but Thrawn, who came from a species that boasted exceedingly good night vision. He waited for Jerec to speak.
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