Star Wars - dark forces - soldier for the empire

by William C. Deets

  It wasn't the wholehearted endorsement that Jan might have hoped for, so she let the subject slide. "I think you'll like Mon Mothma. Everybody does."

  Kyle took note of the familiar way in which Jan used the Mothma's name, wondered if all the Rebels were so casual, and guessed that they were.

  The twosome rounded a corner, walked the length of a short hallway, and stopped in front of two heavily armed guards. Jan motioned for Kyle to slide his ID card into a newly mounted scanner, waited for it to emerge, and pointed toward his blaster. Kyle felt self-conscious as one guard confiscated his side arm and the other patted him down. Apparently satisfied, the doors slid open, and Jan ushered him through. "Have a nice meeting, Kyle. I'll see

  you later."

  The ex-officer nodded, stepped through the portal, and heard the doors close behind him. The cabin, built to pre Imperial standards, was large but musty. Some of the furnishings were more than a hundred years old. The single occupant, a woman whom Kyle judged to be in her middle forties, turned to greet him. She had short auburn hair, greenish blue eyes, and wore a long white robe. Energy crackled around her, and Kyle could practically feel the power of her mind. She smiled and extended her hand. It was slim and cool. "Greetings, Kyle. It's a pleasure to meet you. I was sorry to hear about your father. He was an important leader."

  Kyle, surprised that she knew about his father, forgot his manner "You knew my father?"

  Mon Mothma shook her head. "Not personally, but through a mutual friend, a Jedi named Rahn. He had a high level of respect for your father and sends his greetings."

  Kyle was stunned. His father had known a Jedi? And earned the Jedi's respect? What else had been concealed from him?

  Mon Mothma, unaware of Kyle's thoughts, gestured toward a conference table ringed with chairs. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

  Kyle did as he was bid. Mon Mothma sat on one corner of the table. "Jan tells me that you want to serve as one of our agents. Why?"

  Kyle, who hadn't expected any sort of challenge, was taken aback. That being the case, his words were more direct, more honest than they might otherwise have been. "I want to find the people who murdered my father and kill them."

  Jan, who was watching the proceedings via an array of small, barely noticeable vid cams, lifted an eyebrow. Though understandable, a desire for revenge could cloud Kyle's judgment, and lead to mistakes. That being the case, she expected Mon Mothma to dismiss him on the spot and was surprised when she didn't.

  "I understand how you feel, Kyle, believe me, we all do, but we must struggle to remain objective. The people who killed your father were evil, but the greater evil lies behind them, and sits on a stolen throne. Once we defeat that, once we defeat Palpatine, the murderers will be found. So tell me, could you put your personal needs aside long enough to tackle a mission so important, it may change the course of the Rebellion?"

  Kyle felt conflicting emotions. A healthy dose of skepticism, a leavening of fear, and pride at being asked. "Yes. I think so, anyway."

  Mon Mothma weighed him with her eyes. "Good. May the Maker help me if I'm wrong, but I'm going to take a chance on you, and hope for the best. Watch the center of the table. I have a story to tell."

  Mon Mothma regarded the slowly morphing holo with obvious distaste. "The Imperials call it the Death Star," the leader said grimly, "and it's an apt description given the fact that once the battle station is completed, it will be capable of destroying an entire planet."

  Kyle frowned. "How?"

  "It mounts the most powerful superlaser ever constructed."

  Kyle tried to imagine it - a laser capable of drilling down through miles of rock, hitting the planetary core, and triggering an explosion so massive it would tear the world apart. What had Governor Donar said? " . . . The Emperor has a thing or two in store for the so-called Alliance, and your father will be revenged"? The statement made sense now - and sent a tingle down his spine. He gestured towards the holo. "Does it actually exist? Or are they planning to build it?"

  Mon Mothma nodded. "Oh, it's real all right. The battle station is being constructed in orbit over the Despayre penal colony. Once completed it will measure a hundred and twenty kilometers in diameter, will have a complement of twenty-seven thousand and forty-eight officers, seven hundred seventy-six thousand, five hundred seventy-six troops, pilots, and other combat personnel, along with an additional four hundred thousand support personnel and twenty-five thousand stormtroopers.

  "Besides the necessary crew, the Death Star will carry assault shuttles, blast boats, strike cruisers, drop ships, land vehicles, and more than seven thousand TIE fighters. Its hull will be protected by ten thousand turbolaser batteries, two thousand five hundred laser cannons, and more than seven hundred tractor-beam projectors."

  Kyle didn't know which amazed him more, the Death Star itself, or the detailed information regarding its capabilities. "No offense, but how could you possibly know these things?"

  Mon Mothma looked him in the eye. "We know because beings sacrificed their lives to find out."

  Kyle nodded soberly. "And the mission?"

  "The research complex where the Death Star was designed is located on Danuta. We want you to go there, find your way into the facility, and retrieve those plans. Assuming the engineers identify a weak spot, the Death Star could be destroyed."

  Kyle felt his heart sink. Fighting to avenge his father was one thing - throwing his life away was another. "What you describe is little more than a suicide mission. Why not launch a commando raid instead?"

  Mon Mothma nodded and touched her remote. The Death Star exploded into a thousand points of light. A series of overlapping 3-D surveillance photos appeared. They grew successively more detailed as increasing degrees of magnification were introduced. An arrow appeared and moved from object to object. "This is the city of Trid. The spaceport is here, the fusion plant, here, and, assuming our information is correct, the research facility is here . . . Within a thousand meters of these are homes, a school, and a temple. I'd be interested in your opinion. Which is better? To send an agent? In hopes of a miracle? Or, assuming such a thing could be done, put a company of commandos on the ground, and accept the collateral damage? The imperials would - why shouldn't we?"

  Kyle felt blood rush to his face. Mon Mothma knew he'd been an Imperial officer, knew about the atrocities on Sullust, and was pushing his buttons. The knowledge made him angry. "Is this the way you get people to risk their lives? Through psychological manipulation?"

  Mon Mothma nodded. "Sometimes . . . If I think it'll work."

  Jan watched in open fascination as Kyle's and Mon Mothma's eves locked and stayed that way for a long, long time. Kyle was first to look away. "Was that all? Did your agents provide anything else?"

  "Just this," the rebel leader replied. "Some video of the room in which the plans are kept."

  Another holo appeared over the table. This one was grainy as if shot with a low resolution lens from inches above the floor. The kind of footage a maintenance droid might capture if it had been enlisted as a spy.

  Kyle watched equipment racks roll by enough uniform clad legs to go with five or six troopers, a large expanse of highly polished floor, and there, on the far side of the room, a

  vaguely T-shaped construct, suspended in a U-shaped frame.

  "That's it," Mon Mothma said. "The memory matrix in which the plans are kept."

  Kyle was about to reply when an officer crossed in front of the lens. There was something familiar about the image. He motioned to Mon Mothma. "Would you back up, please?"

  The Rebel leader complied with Kyle's request, hit play, and allowed the video to jerk forward one frame at a time.

  Kyle looked and looked again. There was no doubt about it, the officer was none other than Meek Odom, his ex-roommate and best friend. It appeared that Odom's request for a Special Operations assignment had been granted. And quickly, too. Kyle felt tiny beads of sweat dot his forehead and resisted the temptation to wipe
them away. "Thank you."

  Mon Mothma's face was expressionless. "Do you know that officer?"

  Kyle shrugged. "I thought I did - but I was wrong."

  Mon Mothma nodded noncommittally and the holo disappeared. "So what's your decision? Will you take the mission?"

  It was crazy, stupid, and possibly fatal, but Kyle nodded. Not for the Rebel cause, or in reaction to Mothma's blandishments, but for his father and those who died with him.

  The interview ended shortly thereafter. Mon Mothma watched Kyle go, shook her head thoughtfully, and walked to the viewport. Jan entered through a concealed hatch. The leader spoke without turning. "So? What do you think?"

  Jan shrugged. "He's scared - but who wouldn't be? The chances for survival are slim."

  "And that bothers you?"

  "Yes."

  "Do the two of you have a relationship?"

  "Not in the sense you mean. No."

  "Could you kill him if you had to?"

  Jan frowned. "Yes, if he deserved it. What are you suggesting?"

  Mon Mothma turned. Their eyes met. "Katarn lied. The officer in the holo is named Meek Odom. He was Katarn's friend at the Academy, his only friend."

  Jan struggled with conflicting emotions. "So? Maybe that means something and maybe it doesn't. Don't forget about the lives he spared on that asteroid, or his actions on the Star. Not to mention the fact that the Imperials killed his father."

  Mon Mothma turned back to the viewport. "Yes, but what if the whole thing were planned? The head could be faked. What if his father is alive? Held prisoner against Kyle's actions? What if the whole thing is part of a complex plan to place a spy in our ranks? The Empire is capable of that and more. I want you to follow Katarn, watch his every move, and kill him if he flips. Can you do it?"

  Jan nodded. "If I have to. But what then?"

  Mon Mothma turned to take Jan's hands in hers. "The only thing better than a well-laid plan is a well-conceived backup plan. Our forces on Toprawa may have a shot at the Death Star plans as well. The problem is that while the Toprawa plans include the battle station's hull

  design, and life support infrastructure, the Danuta plans include additional engineering schematics, and, if we're lucky, a complete map to the offensive and defensive weapons emplacements. We need both sets to ensure success."

  "You could send someone else. Someone like me."

  Mon Mothma shook her head. "Katarn was one of them - he knows how they think. Besides, a man stands a better chance of getting into what may be an all-male facility."

  Jan released Mon Mothma's hands. Her words took on the sound of an accusation. "And Kyle is expendable."

  Mon Mothma allowed her hands to fall- The resentment in Jan's eyes was plain to see. So was her duty to the Alliance. "Yes, Jan. Kyle is expendable. We all are."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kyle felt lonely and depressed as he made his way through a maze of corridors, passageways, and drop shafts to the hangar deck. In spite of the fact that he'd been granted the very thing he'd hoped for, a chance to join the Alliance, there was none of the "hail fellow well met" camaraderie he'd expected. Just an impossible mission, minimum support, and a none-too-emotional parting of the ways. Yes, Mon Mothma had shaken his hand, and Jan had sent an E-mail "Have a new mission sorry I can't see you off - best of luck."

  Pleasant enough, but not the sort of send off lavished on departing heroes. Not in holovids, anyhow. It seemed he was and would forever be an outsider. Ah well, he was on his own, which beat the heck out of taking orders. That was something he was truly tired of.

  A horn beeped, Kyle stepped out of the way, and allowed the auto cart to pass. The hangar bay was just ahead and he stepped into the main lock. A group of techs continued their noisy debate as they crowded in behind him. The discussion centered around the question of which one of the ship's meals was worst - breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Kyle cast a silent vote for breakfast, smiled when dinner won, and followed the men and women out into the bay where an avalanche of stimuli assailed his eyes, ears, and nose.

  Where the Star's hangar deck had been only two-thirds full, this one was crammed with X-wing starfighters, assault shuttles, and a bewildering array of other craft. It was almost impossible to hear himself think over the screech of power cutters, the rattle of chain hoists, the whine of hydrospanners, and the announcements made via the overamplified PA system.

  Not only that, but where Kyle had encountered just the occasional whiff of ozone aboard the liner, he now inhaled a rich amalgam of exhaust fumes, fresh paint, hot metal, bonding agents, cleaning compounds, and lubricants. The total effect was overwhelming.

  Kyle spotted a sign that read "Deck Master," along with an arrow which pointed the way. The first arrow led to a second arrow, and so forth, until he arrived at the edge of a yellow-and-black striped "no park" zone. A ten-meter exoskeleton occupied the center of the space. The operator was nearly invisible within his protective cage. He yelled amplified instructions to an overhead crane operator who raised a thumb by way of reply. Their failure to communicate via comlink seemed strange, but consistent with the overall atmosphere. The decal on the front of the exoskeleton's chest plate read "Deck Master."

  Kyle stepped over a power cable, ducked under a wing, and entered the striped area. A Mon Calamari, a Wookiee, and a human were in line ahead of him. Fifteen minutes had passed by the time his turn came. The DM towered above Kyle and his voice rolled like thunder. "Don't ask for a maintenance droid. They're busy right now."

  Kyle shook his head. "No, sir. I'm here to select a ship."

  The DM shook his head. "Can't hear you, hold on." Kyle watched with alarm as a pair of skeletal arms reached down, got a grip on his torso, and lifted him up. The DM had bushy eyebrows, bloodshot eyes, and at least three days' worth of beard. "There - that's better - say it again."

  Kyle said it again. The DM raised an eyebrow. "Select a ship? What do you think this is? A supermarket? You got a chit?"

  The data card was in his right-hand pants pocket. Kyle felt more than a little ridiculous as he searched for and found it. Was everyone staring at him? Or was this sort of thing so common that no one paid attention?

  The DM locked his mechanical arms in place and used the flesh-and-blood versions to accept the piece of plastic. The terminal mounted on his roll cage ate the rectangle and spit it out again. Characters flickered, steadied, and scrolled down the screen. The DM read them, shook his head in disgust, and grumbled about the "metal heads on the bridge."

  Kyle, who was used to an atmosphere in which superiors were never criticized, not even jokingly, must have looked concerned because the deck master chose to explain. "People in civilian clothes rarely return the ships they borrow, or if they do, we spend weeks patching the battle damage. I don't know where you folks go, or what you do out there, but it's hard on my inventory. Here - check these out, and whichever one you pick, take good care of it. The Alliance will deduct the damages from your salary."

  Kyle didn't have a salary so far as he knew, but he smiled politely. The deck master laughed and put Kyle down.

  Relieved to have both feet on the deck again, Kyle scanned the printout. He saw three hull numbers and the spaces they were parked in. Nineteen, twelve, and three. He left the no-park zone, found a slot number, and worked his way down a line of X-wings. Could it be? They were hot ships by all accounts, and he'd love to fly one. Assuming he could cut the mustard. Engineering students were trained to fly a wide variety of support craft but limited to thirty hours in TIE fighters. Kyle was perfectly willing to lea rn, however, and would like nothing

  better than a sleek one-seater of his own.

  The numbers dwindled and Kyle's hopes went with them. A halfjunked shuttle occupied twenty-two, followed by a grease spot in twenty-one, and a lifeboat in twenty. Kyle's heart sank as he inspected the pre-Empire gig that occupied slot nineteen, the courier ship that slouched in twelve, and the Corellian-built lighter that overflowed three. The Sorry was nowhere
in sight but would have been preferable.

  Kyle gave a sigh of disappointment, returned to the gig, and started a lengthy inspection of each ship's hull, drives, armament, life-support systems, and controls. It was a laborious process but necessary, since his life would depend on the choice he made.

  In the end, with all the facts he could muster before him, the choice was rather simple. In spite of the fact the ship in slot three looked as if had bounced around the inside of an asteroid belt for a month or so, she was only ten years old, and Corellian-built. A good beginning for any ship. He also liked the fact that her drives had been overhauled only three months before, her shield generators tested ninety-six percent effective, and her logbooks were up to date. Last, but not least, was the fact that he related to the name painted along both sides of her

  atmosphere-scarred bow the Moldy Crow. It sounded the way he felt - like a bird no longer accepted by its flock.

  Kyle registered his choice, submitted reqs for eight hundred and seventy-eight pieces of

  equipment ranging from a reconditioned navcomp to toilet paper - and received five hundred and twenty-seven of diem. That left a three hundred and fifty-one item gap which he narrowed to two hundred and forty-five by "borrowing" one hundred and six tools, parts, and components from storerooms and surrounding ships, an activity that he thought went undetected but which was monitored by Jan Ors, and tolerated by the DM at her request.

  And so it was that six days and seven hours after being inducted into the Alliance, Kyle Katarn set forth on what seemed like a highly improbable task. Two women watched him go. One focused on the importance of his mission The other on him.

  Like most of her kind, the courier ship had been built for speed, with scant attention paid to creature comforts. Jan made her way aboard, discovered that the pilot was little more than a teenager, and was amused by the pigtails she wore. The pilot accepted the agent's satchel, grumbled about women who carried too much makeup, and forced the bag into a tiny locker.

  Jan considered telling her the truth, that the satchel contained energy cells for her weapons, a half dozen grenades, two knives, an ounce of plitex, a garrotte, a lock pick, electrobinoculars, a couple of comlinks, and a toothbrush, but decided to let the matter go.