Star Wars - dark forces - soldier for the empire

by William C. Deets

"You bring bad news."

  Thrawn took note of the fact that the comment came in the form of a statement rather than a question. How did Jerec know? There was no way to tell. "Yes, sir."

  "You may continue."

  The naval officer delivered his report the same way he delivered all reports - without excuse or elaboration. Once Thrawn was finished, thirty seconds elapsed before Jerec spoke. "Was Katarn warned?"

  "There's no evidence to support that theory, sir. Lieutenant Brazack believes the subject left the farm on some sort of errand."

  "Or felt a need to go elsewhere," Jerec mused out loud. "He feels the Force, and even uses it on occasion, but is afraid to reach out and seize his inheritance. `What if I make a

  mistake?' he wonders. 'What if I abuse the power?' 'Can I be trusted?' Such silliness is beyond all reckoning! I can feel his presence from orbit. Working, fussing, scheming. All for naught."

  Thrawn allowed one eyebrow to rise. In spite of the fact that Jerec went to considerable lengths to hide certain abilities from those above him, chosen subordinates were allowed the occasional glimpse. "Sir . . . yes, sir."

  "Of course this holds no interest for you," Jerec sneered. "For you're a being of the physical world, a doer of deeds, a manipulator of objects. Well, O doer of deeds, I will provide

  you and Lieutenant Brazac k an opportunity to redeem yourselves and collect yet another of the commendations you thrive on. Listen carefully, for there is much to do."

  The room was circular and packed with people. With the exception of an Alliance news team, dispatched to record the proceedings as part of the communications effort required to unite hundreds of sentient species under a single command, the colonists came from all over the

  district. They were hard men and women, lean of body, used to adversity. Each had been elected to represent at least ten others. They paid strict attention to what was said.

  Everything about Skorg Jameson was big, starting with his body and extending to his voice, hand gestures, and movements. He had long shaggy hair that touched the tops of his shoulders, a chest that bulged under his leather jerkin, and boots planted like tree trunks at the

  center of the hard-packed floor. He stood with his back to a massive fireplace and glared at those around him. "I say the time is now! You saw what happened to Danga, to Katarn, and a dozen more . . . It's time to make a stand and show others what we can do!"

  It was a brave speech, and Morgan admired Jameson for making it. Especially in light of the fact that a spy could be present, or a listening device so sophisticated it had escaped the pre-meeting sweep. Of course the words did have a rehearsed quality, and could be part of Jameson's campaign for Sector Leader. There was applause and Morgan allowed it to fade away

  before speaking his mind.

  "I too tire of the pressure, the extortion, and the attacks. That's why it's tempting to look for an opportunity to strike back . . . but at what cost? Yes, some extremely interesting intelligence has come our way. Assuming that citizen Jameson's source of information is correct,

  and Imperials disguised as Rebels or mercenaries are planning to attack the G-Tap. "

  "Which would force us to buy a fusion plant from the SoroSuub Corporation, and pay taxes to the Empire," Jameson added pointedly.

  "Exactly," Morgan said agreeably. "Which is why we sold shares and drilled the shaft to begin with. But what if there's an even deeper purpose? To not only destroy the Tap, but to lure us into a pitched battle and eliminate the Rebel infrastructure on Sulon? Guerilla raids are one thing, but our forces aren't trained or equipped to fight Special Operations commandos. If we

  lose, we lose more than the G-Tap, we lose Sulon herself."

  A good many heads nodded, and voices murmured agreement. Still, only seconds elapsed before one of Jameson's cronies stepped forward to reiterate the big man's point of view. The meeting lasted a full four hours, and by the time it was over, a consensus had been established. The time had come. The Sulon Rebels would defend the G-Tap with everything they had.

  The meeting was adjourned and the colonists headed for their vehicles. A highly modified probe droid watched from the cover of some trees. The robot counted the number of people who left, made infrared recordings of their movements, and listened to their parting comments. A summary went to the Vengeance seconds after the last conspirator departed and reached Jerec only minutes after that. The Dark Jedi listened to the report and returned to his carefully scented meal. He smiled. Seeds had been sown, crops had flourished, and the harvest was at hand.

  The upper end of the Geo Thermal, or G-Tap, was located in a sizable cavern chosen both for its relative proximity to the heat trapped in crustal rock formations three kilometers below, and the fact that it was impervious to air attack. A number of prefab structures had been erected around it, including buildings to house the water injection pumps, giant turbines, and adjunct control rooms. Morgan's assignment lay elsewhere, but he paused to catch his breath, and admire what the colonists had accomplished.

  The principle was relatively simple and had been put to use on various worlds prior to the rise of the New Order. Crustal rock formations are warmed by volcanic action, an upwelling of magma, and the natural decay of potassium, thorium, and uranium. By drilling extremely deep

  wells, the colonists could force water down through carefully engineered cracks, where it could be heated and pumped to the surface. There it would bring isobutane to a boil which would be forced through power-generating turbines. And all this was done without radioactive waste, potentially dangerous technology, or governmental taxes.

  That was the idea anyway, and, judging from the nearly completed complex, would soon be a reality. Assuming they could defend it. A voice caused Morgan to turn. "Citizen Katarn? I hoped I'd run into you."

  The information officer's name was Candice Ondi. She had brown hair, large intelligent eyes, and an ever-ready smile. In spite of the fact that she was dressed in the ubiquitous gray coveralls that many Rebs wore instead of a uniform, Morgan knew she had a nice figure. He'd have been interested under normal circumstances, but the possibility that many of those around him might be dead soon acted to neutralize any such thoughts.

  Ondi traveled with a specially equipped chrome-plated protocol droid called "A-Cee." The robot spoke dozens of languages, had a zoom lens where its right eye sensor should have been, and the ability to record and digitally store more than a thousand hours of audio and video.

  A-Cee walked with the slightly jerky motion typical of his kind and was engaged in a never-ending search for pickup shots.

  Morgan found the possibility that the droid might be recording at any given time more than a little annoying and forced a smile. "Captain Ondi . . how nice to see you again."

  The officer laughed. "I see you're thrilled. Listen, I wanted to thank you for the footage. I'm sorry about what the commandos did to your farm, but a picture's worth a thousand words. Hundreds of thousands of sentients will see it and know what happened here."

  A column of Rebels jogged by, weapons held across their chests, headed for the canyon below. That was the most direct approach to the cavern and the one they expected the Imperials to take. The river which was to have fed the G-Tap would provide the stormtroopers with a

  straight-ahead approach. Morgan turned to Ondi. She dropped a holocam and allowed it to dangle from her wrist. Her eyes were greenish-brown and seemed to see his innermost thoughts. "So, Morgan Katarn, you don't think much of our chances, do you?"

  Conscious of his role as a leader, and the importance of good morale, Morgan lied. "On the contrary, Captain Ondi, I think we'll win."

  The information officer clearly didn't believe him. She nodded soberly, smiled crookedly, and removed a piece of lint from his shoulder. There was something personal about the gesture, which reminded Morgan of Kyle's mother. He smiled. "Take care of yourself, Captain. No matter what happens today, make sure they see it."

  Ondi nodded, a noncom called Morgan's name,
and he turned away. They never saw each other again.

  In spite of the fact that Major Noda had nominal command of ground forces, he was well aware of the fact that Jerec monitored everything he said and did via comlink transmissions, probe droids, and his own seemingly supernatural powers. The knowledge added to the already considerable amount of stress Noda was under.

  Though naturally cautious, Noda was no coward, and had bumped the ATAT's commanding officer to see the terrain for himself. The walker was over fifteen meters tall and lurched from side to side as it waded upstream. Heavily eroded banks, their tops decorated with hardy-looking bushes, rose to either side.

  A great deal of time and energy had been spent painting Rebel insignia on the ATs. Noda considered such efforts a waste of time. After all, the very notion that the Rebels could capture such powerful weapons and turn them against their owners was absurd. Still, orders were orders, and the charade would continue.

  The pilot, who had spent most of the last three days in an AT-AT simulator preparing for this precise moment, handled the current with ease. Water swirled white around the machine's massive legs and raced downstream. A bend obscured the river ahead and Noda watched as the

  second of two AT-STs disappeared behind it. There was an explosion, smoke boiled up from the point the walkers should be, and the battle began.

  Although Morgan didn't actually sec the missile hit the AT-ST, he heard the comlink chatter that described it, and saw the smoke boil up from the canyon. In spite of his position as a resistance leader and respected member of the community, Morgan had relatively little military expertise. That's why he'd been relegated to what the Rebels commonly referred to as the "back door," the flat area above the cavern, which was accessed via an easily defended passageway that wound down through a series of caves and vaults and into the main chamber.

  Which explained why the twenty-six soldiers under Morgan's command were teenagers or senior citizens. They cheered as the walker exploded and were still celebrating when a woman named Crowley touched his arm. She'd been a Master Sergeant in the Republic's Army and was the only member of his platoon with real combat experience. "Look, Morgan! Coming out of the sun!"

  Morgan pulled his visor into place and turned towards the sun. The vessel was too far away for a positive ID - but the Rebel knew what it was . . . The same Corellian-built freighter that had attacked his farm. Loaded with commandos and headed his way. He switched to the platoon frequency and warned his troops. "There's an imperial assault ship headed in. Don't be fooled by the Rebel markings. Everyone but the missile team into the passageway. Trot . . . Jen . . . kill that ship before it lands."

  "Gotcha!" Trot said e nthusiastically. "Don't worry, Morgan - the ship is toast. Come on,

  Jen - load my tube."

  The teenagers took up a position behind some boulders as the rest of the platoon scurried for the protection of the passageway. Trot, his eyes on the heads up display projected on the inside surface of his visor, watched the ship grow larger. The launch tube rested on his right shoulder. The trick was to wait, thereby increasing the chance of a hit, but not too long since the SLM needed time to arm itself. That's where old man Danga had gone wrong. Trot was determined to do it right.

  Vester fired retros, lit his repulsors, and allowed the bow to rise as the ship sank. That blocked his view of the ground but put more metal between him and whatever the groundies chose to send his way. It was a trick that infantry officers frowned on since it exposed the ship's

  belly to more enemy fire.

  Brazack felt the deck tilt, knew what Vester was doing, and swore under his breath. This wasn't the time or place to deal with the pilot, but later, after the battle was over, he would find the little creep and teach him a lesson.

  Trot heard a soft beeping sound through his car plug, checked to make sure the crosshairs were properly centered on the underside of the ship, and pressed the firing stud. The tube lurched as the SLM raced upwards, hit the freighter dead on, and exploded. The ship lurched, slipped sideways, and steadied under Vester's hands. The Corellian shields, built to withstand the rigors of space combat, held.

  Trot felt a vague uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, waited for Jen to shove a second SLM into the tube, and fired again. The missile had barely left the launcher when the laser beam found it. Trot, Jen, and the boulders they had been hiding behind vanished in a flash of light.

  Morgan winced, thought about their families, and winced again. Then the freighter was down, commandos disguised as rebels were pouring out of its belly, and lasers were probing the rocks. Morgan fired and had the satisfaction of seeing an Imperial fall. Then it was time to pull back, take up a position behind the first of many preprepared rock barricades, and fight the first of what would turn out to be a long series of delaying actions.

  The Rebels fought well, much better than Jerec, Thrawn, Noda, or Brazack thought they could or would, but the result was inevitable. Just as Morgan and his steadily diminishing team were driven inexorably down, the rest of the Rebel force, those who had confronted Noda down in the canyon, were forced up and back. The Imperials paid a bloody price for each and every foot of ground they gained, but there were more of them and they were better trained. Finally, after four hours of intense combat, both contingents of stormtroopers met in the main chamber. The ensuing fight was brief and more than a little one-sided.

  Only thirty-seven colonists were left by that time. Those who could stand were lined up in front of the nearly completed G-Tap and sorted according to instructions issued by Jerec. Major Noda consulted a data pad as he inspected each face. Information provided by Jerec's agents combined with data compiled by probe droids had been used to create detailed profiles. Most of the Rebels would be put to death. A few, those who held leadership positions, would be held for interrogation.

  Morgan Katarn had been wounded two hours before. He swayed slightly as Major Noda made his way down the line. The Rebel leader harbored no illusions. He knew what awaited him and felt nothing but sadness, not for himself, but for the young people whose lives had barely begun.

  Noda's face was little more than a blur when it appeared in front of him. Morgan had the vague impression of black hair; almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones. The voice was brusque and unemotional. "Jerec wants this one - take him to the shuttle." Hands grabbed Morgan's arms; he struggled to free himself, and fell as vertigo pulled him down.

  A noncom slapped Morgan across the face while a medic injected something into his arm. Whatever it was cleared the cobwebs and left him unnaturally alert. So much so that he

  could see nearly microscopic differences between hull rivets, hear air as it passed through the recycling ducts, and feel drops of sweat as they popped through the surface of his skin. All for what? So he could feel pain more acutely and tell them what they wanted to know.

  Morgan felt the toes of his boots bump over durasteel hull plating as the stormtroopers dragged him into the interrogation chamber and allowed him to fall. He was admiring the precision with which the construction droids had mated two of the floor plates when a pair of shiny black boots appeared in front of his face. They frightened him and he wasn't sure why.

  Hands grabbed Morgan under the armpits and lifted him to his feet. Black tattoos covered the lower portion of the face before him. The drugs in his bloodstream brought them to life. They slithered back and forth. He searched for his tormentor's eyes, for the pathway to his spirit, and found nothing but blackness. The man's words were soft and smelled of mint. This was the one known as Jerec. Morgan had heard of him.

  "Citizen Katarn - how nice to see you. Which would you prefer? A long, painful conversation? Or something brief and to the point? I would choose the second, less difficult path if I were in your position."

  Morgan's mouth felt desert dry. He worked his mouth as if preparing to speak, mustered some saliva, and aimed for Jerec's face. The liquid fell woefully short and splattered on the other man's boots. Jerec shook his head mockingly.
"How disappointing. I expected more from someone of your reputation. A snappy reply, a Rebel slogan, or heroic silence. Ah, well, it's always better to overestimate one's opponents than the other way around. Now tell me, who do you take orders from, and where are they?"

  Morgan felt his heart pound against his chest. So that was it. Jerec hoped to start at the bottom and work his way up through the Rebel chain of command. Kill the leaders and you kill the revolution. It was as simple as that. He thought about Kyle, wished he'd been allowed to see

  him one last time, and willed himself to die. It didn't work. His mouth was still dry and words felt unwieldy. "A Gamorrean princess delivers my orders every morning and lives under my barn."

  Jerec fingered the baton-shaped vibroblade. Energy sizzled. The stink of ozone filled the air.

  Morgan thought about Kyle and the man he hoped his son would be. There was an explosion of light, his wife's face, and a feeling of peace.

  Jerec heard Morgan's head thump against the deck, found the vibroblade's off switch, and restored the device to his belt. "Many years ago I had the somewhat dubious pleasure of passing through Sulon's spaceport. A plain, rather spartan facility, as I recall - has it changed?"

  A noncom, the most senior trooper present, snapped to attention. He was terrified and unable to conceal it. "Sir! No, sir!"

  "Excellent. That being the case I would like to add a little color to the place. Install this head where all may see and take inspiration from it. In the meantime, I want the following message sent to Emperor Palpatine `Sulon has been pacified. Your obedient servant, Jerec .'"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kyle Katarn didn't want to die. Not for the Emperor, not for the Empire, and not for anyone else. The realization brought color to his cheeks and Kyle was grateful for the glossy while armor that protected his body and concealed his features. The men around him were real stormtroopers and, if it weren't for his helmet, would have seen the fear in his eyes.

  Of course that's what the Omega Exercise was for - to test cadets in battle and see what they were made of. Those who completed their missions with a satisfactory score would receive their commissions and graduate from the Imperial Military Academy at Cliffside on Carida. Failures like Kyle would serve in the ranks. An honorable occupation for anyone but a cadet. Maybe the Rebels would kill him before he could embarrass himself. A rather unusual wish for a cadet to make.