Star Wars: The Old Republic: Annihilation

by Drew Karpyshyn

  The scene was even more difficult to fathom when one considered Ziost’s history. The Sith had fled here over twenty thousand years ago when a war of succession reduced Korriban to an uninhabitable wasteland. They adopted Ziost as their new homeworld, and at one time it had even served as the capital of the Sith Empire.

  No one from the Republic had ever even officially set foot on Ziost; since its founding it had remained under the absolute control of the xenophobic Sith Empire. Even as recently as a decade ago, the only nonhuman, non-Sith purebloods on the world would have been slaves in chains or cages. Now, however, the planet had been reinvented as the gateway to the Empire: the place where anyone seeking an alternative to dealing with the Republic was welcome to come and do business with the Sith.

  While some might see Ziost’s newfound openness as proof the Empire had become more tolerant and accepting, Theron wasn’t fooled. The Imperials were losing the war; they were desperate. So desperate they were willing to swallow their bigotry to welcome the so-called lesser species with open arms, at least on this one planet.

  Theron’s thoughts were interrupted by a subtle nudge from Gnost-Dural. The Jedi Master was looking up at a nearby holoscreen running an official news report. The images primarily showed the mangled wreckage of several medium-sized Republic ships—the kind used in hit-and-run attacks on Imperial fleets. The voice of an Imperial shill played over the images of death and destruction.

  “A recent attempt by the Republic and anti-Imperial separatists to conquer the loyal citizens of the Boranall system was easily repulsed by the might of the Imperial defenders.”

  One shot in particular grabbed Theron’s attention—two halves of a Republic vessel floating side by side, the hull split cleanly between bow and stern, like a giant saw had sliced it through. He knew of only one ship in the galaxy with laser cannons powerful enough to inflict that kind of damage.

  The images changed to show several city blocks on the planetary surface that had been leveled by an orbital bombardment. Most of the buildings were reduced to rubble; those few that still stood had huge chunks torn away to expose the bent and twisted durasteel beams that supported their frames. The streets were impassable, choked with debris and the bodies of innocent civilians.

  “Before the arrival of their Imperial saviors, the citizens of Boranall were subjected to a cowardly assault from the Republic fleet orbiting their world.”

  Theron couldn’t help but shake his head in denial at the blatant Imperial propaganda. Orbital bombardment of civilians wasn’t something the Republic practiced, and none of the vanquished Republic ships they’d shown had the firepower to wreak that kind of havoc.

  The more likely explanation was that the Spear had wiped out the Republic ships, then turned its guns on Boranall. Whether Karrid was eliminating resistance on the ground or simply punishing the planet for daring to harbor anti-Imperial separatists didn’t matter to Theron—there was no excuse for the kind of slaughter she’d unleashed.

  He saw Gnost-Dural stiffen, and he realized the Jedi Master had come to the same conclusions he had. Theron hoped seeing the horrors his former apprentice was capable of might convince Gnost-Dural to abandon his hope that she could be redeemed, though he knew enough about Jedi in general to realize this probably wouldn’t change anything.

  The two men continued in silence through the spaceport to where Gnost-Dural had arranged to have a speeder waiting for them. Stepping outside, Theron was struck by a cold blast of wind. Shivering, he pulled his cloak tighter around his body. The air was dry and gritty with tiny particles of dirt and dust swept along by the breeze, and he squinted, wishing he had a cover for his face. The Kel Dor, with his goggles and breathing mask, didn’t seem bothered by the harsh wind, though Theron took some small satisfaction in seeing him also shivering from the cold.

  Fortunately their speeder was as luxurious as their shuttle had been, with a sealed climate-controlled dome to shield them from the elements. Once again Gnost-Dural sat in the pilot’s chair and Theron took the seat beside him. Theron wasn’t much of a follower, but he was happy to defer to his partner on the little things.

  They zipped through the bustling streets of Ziost’s market district, their speeder whisking them above the crowds. There were still several hours of daylight, and Theron was clearly able to see the people below them in the light of the world’s distant and faded orange sun. Although he only got a brief view from above, the market district had the same vibrant, cosmopolitan feel as the spaceport. As soon as they passed into the neighboring residential district, however, everything changed.

  It was still crowded—Ziost was a heavily populated metropolis. But the life and color seemed to vanish in an instant. Everything was drab and gray—the buildings, the streets, and even the clothes of the people in the crowd.

  “You can feel the oppression of this place,” Gnost-Dural said. “The hopeless despair of the entire city.”

  Theron nodded, knowing the Jedi wasn’t referring to something he sensed through the Force. Under Imperial rule there were harsh penalties for even minor infractions, and it wasn’t hard to see the impact. Unlike the chaos of Nar Shaddaa, here there was an orderly, almost rigid flow of traffic, both on the ground and in the air. Pedestrians moved with brisk purpose, heads down, eager to get off the street and back to the anonymous safety of their homes. Speeders stayed in their designated lanes, and nobody dared to go faster than the posted limit. Swoop bikes were nowhere to be found, and if there were gangs on Ziost, Theron imagined they’d be careful to stay well hidden.

  It made for good Imperial propaganda; they claimed their worlds were free of all petty crime. But Theron would gladly take a few pickpockets and some graffiti over a sterile, lifeless existence under a completely totalitarian government.

  “We’re almost there,” Gnost-Dural informed him as they left the residential district and passed into an industrial area populated by square, windowless warehouses. “I hope your friend’s contact comes through for us.”

  “Me too.”

  He brought the speeder down just outside the door of one of the buildings. To Theron’s eye it looked exactly like every other structure on the street, but he trusted the Jedi to deliver them to the address Teff’ith had provided.

  Bracing themselves against the bitter wind, they rushed from the speeder to the door. It opened as they reached it, and they hurried inside. Beyond the door was a small open-air office and reception area. Four desks were arranged around the room, though none of them was currently occupied. A single door on the far wall led into the warehouse at the back.

  “Good to get out of the cold, isn’t it?” their host said cheerfully.

  He was a middle-aged human. The crown of his bald head was surrounded by a ring of curly brown hair. His face was ruddy, his features plain. His loose-fitting clothes were unremarkable, but Theron could tell they had been selected partly to hide the man’s flabby chest and protruding gut.

  Unassuming and nonthreatening. The perfect front man for a brutal group like the ZLF.

  “Name’s Vinn,” he said, thrusting out a meaty hand. “You must be Teff’ith’s friends.”

  Theron shook the man’s hand but didn’t offer his name. Gnost-Dural followed his lead.

  “Everything you sent ahead is here, safe and sound,” Vinn said, getting right to business. “Got it all safely hidden away back in the warehouse. Even that burned-out computer core.

  “Kinda curious as to what you need that for,” he added with a chuckle.

  “What did you find out about the Orbital Defense Command Center?” Theron said, not bothering to satisfy Vinn’s curiosity.

  “Got the architectural blueprints right here,” he said, pulling out a datapad. “And everything anyone could possibly want to know about the security systems they have in place.”

  He hesitated for a second, as if debating how much he was willing to share with these strangers based solely on Teff’ith’s referral.

  “You know,” he
said, drawing the words out slowly, “if you’re looking to cause trouble for the Empire, I have some friends who might be interested in lending a hand.”

  I bet you do, Theron thought. But if any of your ZLF brothers get captured, the Imperial interrogators will make them sing. Can’t take that risk.

  Out loud he simply said, “We prefer to work alone.”

  “Understood,” Vinn said with a cheery nod. “Just putting it out there.”

  Theron took the datapad and briefly flicked through the contents.

  “Top-of-the-line system; redundant fail-safes,” he muttered. “No surprise there. I’m probably going to need some extra high-tech equipment,” he continued without looking up. “If I put together a list, can you get me everything I need?”

  “That’ll cost extra,” their chubby host said apologetically.

  “We can pay. As long as you deliver the goods.”

  Vinn’s chest puffed up with pride. “Hardware and equipment is my specialty. If somebody manufactures it, I can find it.

  “Could take a couple days, though,” he added.

  “Until then we should try to keep a low profile,” Gnost-Dural said. “Stay out of trouble.”

  You’ve been talking with the Director, Theron thought.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, holding up the datapad. “I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

  CHAPTER 15

  IN KEEPING WITH HIS COVER as a wealthy industrialist, Gnost-Dural had rented them a two-bedroom suite on Ziost that was the height of luxury and comfort—nearly twice the size of Theron’s apartment on Coruscant. It had taken a good hour to thoroughly sweep the place for bugs and recording devices.

  The bed in Theron’s room was the most comfortable one he’d ever had the pleasure of sleeping in, but he was never able to get more than a few hours’ rest while on a mission. By the time Gnost-Dural emerged from his own quarters, Theron was already hunched over the counter of the breakfast nook, studying the information on the datapad Vinn had given him.

  “You’re up early,” the Jedi remarked.

  “I’ve been thinking about the mission,” Theron said, eyes on the screen. “I think we need more than a simple bombing to distract the Empire from what we’re really up to. For this feint to work, we need to rattle their cage. Give them something to really worry about.”

  The Jedi took a seat in the chair across from Theron. “Sounds like you already have something in mind.”

  “We need to make this look like a failed assassination attempt on the Minister of Logistics,” Theron said, finally looking up from the datapad. “Convince the Empire that the cipher was damaged accidentally when the assassins were discovered trying to set up explosives in the minister’s office.”

  “That would certainly give them something else to focus on,” Gnost-Dural agreed. “So how do we pull it off?”

  “I break into the minister’s office and switch the cipher cores. Then I start setting up explosives under his desk. You send an anonymous tip to the Imperials about what’s happening so that they charge in and catch me in the act. The explosives go off ‘accidentally’ during my escape and they think the blast caused the cipher’s self-destruct sequence to trigger.”

  “The second I tip the Imperials off, every guard in that place will be swarming that office from all directions,” Gnost-Dural warned. “You won’t have a chance.”

  “Not necessarily,” Theron replied. “I’ve been looking over the security plans. The Orbital Defense Command Center’s primary function is to guard against a Republic fleet attacking Ziost. Their biggest fear is that an enemy force will take over the station during a full-scale planetary invasion.

  “Because of that, they have an emergency lockdown state that automatically triggers if certain protocols are met that indicate a possible Republic invasion. During lockdown, every floor on the building goes into quarantine to restrict movement of any enemy troops that might have infiltrated the facility.

  “Every door and lift in the place is locked and disabled. And the Empire is so worried about being betrayed from within, even the Imperial soldiers inside the building can’t open them. There’s no way to override the lockdown until a special emergency response unit has swept the building and verified it’s clear of hostiles.”

  “How are we supposed to simulate a Republic invasion of Ziost?” Master Gnost-Dural asked.

  “What’s the first thing any fleet does when it’s trying to put troops on the ground in a heavily defended enemy city?”

  “Knock out the power,” Gnost-Dural replied after a moment’s consideration. “Leave your enemy fumbling around in the dark.”

  “Exactly. If there’s a citywide blackout, the ODCC’s auxiliary generators kick in to keep the place running, and the whole facility goes into lockdown automatically. Even after you tip off the Empire that there’s an assassin in the minister’s office, they won’t be able to send reinforcements in my direction until they restore primary power or the emergency response team finishes its sweep.

  “If we hit them at night, when the minister and his staff aren’t working, that floor will only have a handful of guards patrolling it. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “If the whole place is locked down,” the Kel Dor asked, “then how are you going to get out?”

  “The emergency response team can still use the doors and turbolifts during lockdown—all it takes is an ID badge and a matching retinal scan from one of their officers.”

  “Do you think Vinn could get his hands on something like that?”

  “Maybe, but he already knows more than I like. Give him too many pieces and he might put the whole puzzle together.”

  “You think he’ll betray us?”

  “Probably not, but I’d rather not take any chances. The ZLF has its own agenda, and I don’t want it getting mixed up in Operation End Game any more than absolutely necessary.”

  “So how are you going to get the badge and retinal scan?”

  Don’t worry,” Theron assured him. “I’ve got it covered.”

  From a table in the back corner of the bar, Theron watched his target closely as he tossed back another drink with his fellow soldiers. The Hammer and Nail was located only a few blocks from the Orbital Defense Command Center, making it a popular hangout for the troops stationed there. It was easy to spot them in the crowd, as they tended to wear their uniforms even when off duty, particularly the officers.

  The Empire was a martial society, and there were status and perks given to those of higher rank. The waitress made more frequent trips to tables where the officers gathered; the bartender filled their glasses right to the rim. He’d even seen a handful of civilian patrons and enlisted troops surrender their tables if there weren’t empty seats when the officers entered, though the manner in which they slinked away made it seem more like fear than a sign of respect.

  Theron had set his sights on a man named Captain Pressik, commander of one of the ODCC’s emergency response teams. Tall, blond, and handsome, the broad-shouldered officer carried himself with the privileged air of someone who had grown up being taught he was better than everyone else. Even among the other members of his elite unit, he carried himself with an air of arrogance and superiority.

  Theron’s investigations had uncovered Pressik’s reputation for being a hard drinker when he wasn’t on duty. And when he got drunk, he got violent, though he was smart enough to pick his fights with civilians to avoid any consequences that might harm his military career.

  Pressik’s shift had ended several hours ago; since then he had been here at the bar drinking with a handful of other officers. But while most of them nursed glasses of wine or ale, he was tossing back White Nova doubles with reckless abandon. Not that Theron minded; the more Pressik drank, the easier this would be.

  He said something to the others at his table, eliciting a round of ribald laughter. Then he got up and made his way toward the refresher. Theron moved quickly to cut him off, walking with a pronounced drunken stagger
. He bumped into the soldier as they both tried to enter the refresher at the same time, using the contact to get in close enough for the scanner in his pocket to read the data encoded on the ID badge prominently displayed on the left breast pocket of Pressik’s uniform.

  “Sorry,” Theron grumbled.

  “Watch where you’re going!” the man snapped, roughly shoving Theron back with his shoulder and forearm.

  “Mind if I go first?” Theron asked, taking a step toward the refresher, stalling to give the scanner the thirty seconds it would take to download the data from Pressik’s badge. “Kind of an emergency.”

  The soldier didn’t reply as he squeezed past Theron and into the refresher, the door whooshing shut behind him.

  Theron remained standing just outside the door, considering his options. He knew the scanner hadn’t had enough time to finish the job. And the holorecorder in the implant of his left eye hadn’t captured a clear enough shot of Pressik’s face to duplicate his retinal scan. He had no choice but to try again.

  The refresher opened a few moments later and Pressik stepped out, giving Theron a dangerous glare when he saw him still waiting by the door.

  “What’s your problem, Subjugate?” he said, using the Imperial term for those without citizen status.

  The implication in the word was clear: Here on Ziost, you have no rank. You have no rights. Back down.

  “I was here first,” Theron said, slurring his words and leaning forward as if he were having trouble keeping his balance. “You cut the line.”

  From the corner of his eye, Theron noticed the patrons at the nearby tables scooping up their drinks and rapidly retreating to a safe distance.