Tales From the New Republic

by Peter Schweighofer

  officers alike. For his concentrated efforts in detail and accuracy, he

  graduated in the top two percent of his class-a distinguishing achievement.

  Newly commissioned as a lieutenant, he went on to a prestigious posting as

  senior tracking officer aboard a Victory-class Star Destroyer.

  His ambition and eye for competent and cost-effective action made an

  early reputation for him-then a newly graduated officer, serving in the

  desolate Outer Rim, in the area of space commonly referred to as the wild

  frontier. And while it was no auspicious duty for an officer of his caliber,

  it was to be a short-lived tenure with many notable accomplishments that would

  earn him the sympathetic eye of Captain Nolaan. Having also served on the

  Outer Rim as ajunior officer, Nolaan took an instant liking to Vharing. To

  spite several of his junior officers, Nolaan called in several favors and

  arranged for Vharing's transfer-to the bridge of the Interrogator, where he

  made no attempts to shield his partiality.

  Within one year, Vharing would live up to the high expectations set for

  him by his ill-fated mentor. After Nolaan's untimely execution, Vharing became

  one of the youngest men to achieve the rank of captain. As such, he would be

  one of the youngest officers to ever receive command of an Imperial II Star

  Destroyer. And with it, he inherited the burden of Tremayne's exacting demands

  and the resentment of every Imperial officer on the bridge.

  Death was a shadowy cloak surrounding the captaincy of the Interrogator.

  Promotion was by succession-the kind of succession one sees in a toppling

  house of sabacc cards. Vharing's promotion to captain was simply a complicated

  ploy by his executive colleagues to stay well out of Lord Tremayne's

  omniscient shadow. Vharing, as did his predecessor, would serve as a buffer.

  When the next blunder surfaced, when the next inaccuracy arose, his would be

  the name spoken by Tremayne and his would be the neck crushed by the wrath of

  the High Inquisitor.

  So, as with all things, Vharing threw himself, mentally and physically,

  into the endless pursuit of perfection. His was the highest efficiency rating

  in the fleet and his men the most steadfast and loyal. At a formal dinner for

  the executive staff of the Interrogator, Vharing was forced to fend off the

  curious inquiries of his fellow officers, who for the last six months had

  stood by and gawked in envy of his ability to motivate men and support staff,

  even under the most extreme circumstances. When asked what was his single,

  greatest achievement, Vharing replied, "Serving under High Inquisitor

  Tremayne."

  A moment of quiet met the comment; the jovial atmosphere usurped by a

  darker, fearsome mood. Staring at each other and then at Vharing in turn, the

  assembled Imperial officers were speechless and deferred to the talents of

  their more outspoken members.

  "Are you insane, Vharing?" General Parnet whispered. The disgruntled

  officer glanced over his shoulders, as if expecting High Inquisitor Tremayne

  to be nearby in the shadows, listening.

  "Oh, come, gentlemen," Vharing scolded, raising his goblet in a toast.

  "The man is not so dreadful as all that-oppressive, demanding, unforgiving.

  He's no different than our drill mentors back at the Academy or any of the

  superior officers under whom we served before our grand appointments to

  executive commission."

  "And there's your mistake, Vharing," Parnet said evenly. His cruel,

  handsome face was as expressionless as the shadows flanking the corners of the

  room. "Failure at the Academy was expulsion. Failure in the line of duty oft

  times means reassignment to some shameful task, demotion, perhaps court-

  martial in the worst cases. Here-was He put his goblet down to candidly

  decline the toast to Tremayne. "Here the penalty for failure is death. And

  that my friend, is the longest fall any man can take-alone or with his

  friends." Parnet paused and glanced around the table at each of his colleagues

  in turn, waiting for a consensus from the group.

  "Well spoken," Lieutenant Uland concurred. He swallowed the entire

  portion of his wine and set the goblet aside as the first warm charge rushed

  through him, warding off the intoxicating chill brought on by Tremayne's name.

  Vharing met Parnet's statement with a thin smile, marveling at the black

  mockery of fear behind the General's insipid eyes. "Then to Death, gentlemen,"

  he raised his goblet, "the longest fall."

  As Vharing's face met the cold embrace of the deck floor, he was as a

  dead man. Hot surges of agonizing sensation lanced through his battered skull,

  and he awoke from that desperate state-alive by every indication of the pain

  that swept through his heightened senses.

  With a child's wondrous delight, he experienced the sharp agonies of

  living-the nagging aches and stiffness of his joints, the twisted pinch of his

  uniform, chafing uncomfortably at his skin. One of his insignia pins had

  broken in the fall and was piercing the muscle of his chest. Dead men do not

  bleed, he thought to himself, feeling the warm adhesive of his blood against

  the fabric of his uniform.

  There was a dull roaring in his ears as his physical faculties returned.

  A momentary stab of pain confessed itself to be a separated rib, possibly two,

  suffered in the fall to the waiting-room floor. His right index finger would

  not move on command and any effort to coerce it brought a secondary wave of

  sensory anguish. And there was more. Something was terribly wrong-he could not

  breathe.

  In desperation, Vharing searched the room, his lethargic eyes slow to

  focus on his surroundings. The delay in his vision brought terrifying images

  back to his bewildered brain, making the few objects in the immediate area

  seem gigantic in comparison to his frail, battered body. This appalling effect

  redoubled his terror, prolonging the agony of his asphyxiation.

  Why doesn't he finish it! Vharing demanded in his mind, unable to speak.

  His throat was on fire. The salted aftertaste of blood repulsed him and caused

  him to gag, aggravating his desperate circumstances.

  Then as his will to survive conquered the army of dull sensations numbing

  his brain, Vharing opened his mouth. The frigid chill of the waiting room

  sliced at his tongue as he took his first gasp of air. The experience was a

  miserable agony to endure; the icy sting swept through his mouth and then into

  his nostrils.

  Vharing coughed, continuing to wheeze as his lungs began to function.

  "Alive?" he rasped, startled by the hoarse growl of his voice. Had Tremayne

  left him for dead? Impossible.

  Slowly rising from the floor, Vharing swallowed with deliberate caution.

  He closed his eyes, near fainting, as the agony in the back of his neck

  intensified. There was undoubtedly some damage caused by Tremayne's wrath, but

  nothing the surgeon droids in the Interrogator's sick bay could not fathom.

  Spreading his fingers wide and wiggling his toes inside the hardened leather

  of his boots, Vharing grinned and turned for the door.

  Pausing momentarily, he stared at his reflection in the observati
on

  glass, noticing the thin trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth

  and from one nostril. Quickly pulling the handkerchief from his pocket, he

  moistened the corner and dabbed at the wound. The injury at his chin would

  bruise by morning, but he was not worried. He would wear the bruise as a mark

  of distinction among his colleagues.

  Hurrying through the bulkhead door, Vharing stepped into the corridor and

  abruptly fell back against the wall. The overhead illumination grids were

  blinding to him. Hands shielding his eyes, the young captain blinked back

  painful tears and quickly made his way through the wide passage. His heart was

  pounding frantically in beat to the patriotic cant that still lingered in his

  memory.

  Everything was so poignantly clear. The detail of the deck plates, an

  organized mosaic of tiles along the corridor floor. Though indiscernible to

  the preoccupied mind, he could see the variations in shade and texture. The

  illumination grid panels troubling him from overhead were spaced exactly one

  and one half meters apart, two meters in the corners where the corridors

  intersected, and three meters where the passage led off to the enormous

  labyrinth of the officers" quarters. A sanitizing chemical taint rose in the

  air, stinging his nostrils for the first time as his heightened senses allowed

  him to experience, with fullness, the world around him.

  Yes, everything was exquisitely clear to him, including his plans for

  Lieutenant Leeds! He would call a complete escort of Imperial stormtroopers to

  accompany him to the bridge. Then he would head directly to the command center

  and he would arrest the ambitious lieutenant in front of everyone. And at the

  expense of several favors of his own, he would oversee the courtmartial

  procedures himself. Admiral Hennat, as yet a keen friend of his, would gladly

  preside over the entire affair, insuring a judgment of gross negligence

  against the lieutenant. Leeds would become the scapegoat, buried in a list of

  charges ranging from murder to treason, while Vharing's own record remained

  perfectly clean and clear.

  After snapping the restraints on Leeds's wrists himself, the young

  captain would summon his com-scan officer, Lieutenant Waleran front and

  center. With great ceremony, befitting a field promotion in combat, he would

  advocate the industrious young officer to the rank of senior lieutenant in

  front of the entire bridge crew. And as Nolaan had done for him, Vharing would

  take Waleran under his wing, insuring him a place on the executive staff as

  his personal military aide.

  At the end of the corridor, the turbolift was situated between an

  auxiliary maintenance shaft and a small storage room. Closing his eyes,

  Vharing rubbed at his neck, barely able to tolerate the excruciating pain,

  which seemed to intensify as he moved closer to the turbolift. His hands

  gently caressed the area under his throat and he felt the disfigured swelling

  of his larynx and the distended glands along the sides of his neck.

  Nothing the medical droids can't see to, he told himself. His tongue was

  also swollen, all but blocking the airway to his lungs. Vharing paused,

  leaning against a heavy equipment chest. Loosening the collar of his uniform,

  he swallowed a cool draft of air, in the hopes that the chill might alleviate

  some of his discomfort.

  Puzzled that he had not yet reached the turbolift, the captain fought off

  a bout of panic. His heart quickened as he opened his eyes. For every step he

  had taken, it appeared as if the lift entrance had moved three steps beyond

  him. Vharing closed his eyes again, rubbing the sensation back into them as

  the numbing cold of Tremayne's waiting room prevailed over his senses.

  "Delirium," he whispered, willing the tension and anxiety to leave him.

  When Vharing again opened his eyes, he was standing on the bridge of the

  Interrogator. What a breathtaking sight she was-a tribute to the perfection

  and dedication of the Imperial technicians that created her! Lieutenant Leeds

  was nowhere on the flight bridge. Vharing smiled with conceited satisfaction,

  reminding himself to pay a visit to the destitute officer, if only to offer a

  few choices as to his next career, as foreman in one of the Emperor's spice

  mines.

  Vharing nearly laughed aloud at the thought. Brushing his hand

  reflectively over his lips, he took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind

  his back. He swayed rhythmically back and forth on his heels, conscious of the

  habit but too intrigued with the rapture of living to care.

  Across from him, Lieutenant Waleran was speaking with the navigation

  team. A set of new insignias adorned his uniformed breast, casting a steady,

  proud glare over the dramatic gray of his formal command appointments. It

  pleased Vharing to see the newly promoted Senior Lieutenant so fully engaged

  in his work and enjoying it. He seemed well at ease on the bridge and from the

  atmosphere, the crew was at ease with him, too.

  Ahead of them, the nebula was breaking up into fragmented sections of

  discernible stars and distant planets. The bridge crew was preparing to leave

  this sector, bracing themselves for the jump into hyperspace. When had the

  order been given? Shrugging off that uncertainty, Vharing straightened his

  broad shoulders. He wanted to pose for the crew to show his complete

  confidence in the new bridge officer. In his absence, Waleran must have

  received the orders and was prepared to carry them out.

  Vharing raised his chin with a measure of pride. The action caused a

  crippling streak of pain to shoot through him. There was a literal explosion

  of sensory information at the base of his skull as his brain shuddered in

  agony. Gritting his teeth against the anguish, the captain forced his body

  into a rigid pose. Once he had given the order for the jump into hyperspace,

  he would officially turn the bridge over to Waleran and would retire

  immediately to the medical bay for a complete physical examination.

  As the pilots signaled the all clear for the jump to hyperspace, Vharing

  opened his mouth to give the command - com a loud, tortured wheezing escaped

  his throat. He tried to swallow but the tightness in his throat would not

  give. Lieutenant Waleran turned to him, as if looking through him, and then

  turned back to the pilots' station. Straightening his shoulders in a haughty

  imitation of his commanding officer, Waleran nodded to his subordinate and

  gave the order for the jump to hyperspace.

  Vharing winced beneath the onslaught of the hyperdrive engines as the

  shriek of the motivators jarred his bones, right down to his teeth. There was

  a secondary explosion of light and color as the telltale points of stars

  elongated and stretched across the viewscreen, becoming the seamless fabric of

  hyperspace. As the radiant glow intensified, Vharing squinted, desperately

  afraid to close his eyes against the brilliance. For to close them would mean

  never to open them, never to see this world, or exist within it again. But the

  glare was too intense, the pressure at the base of his skull too powerful. He

  was forced to escape int
o a world where there was no light, no sound-just

  blackness.

  Neck broken, his spinal cord pulverized at the base of his skull, Captain

  Jovan Vharing was dead. His head swung listlessly back and forth from his

  shoulders as two stormtroopers dragged his corpse from High Inquisitor

  Tremayne's waiting room.

  ***

  Conflict of Interest

  By Laurie Burns

  Standing on the steps of the Verkuylian Imperial Governor's Hall waiting

  to present her fake credentials to the stormtrooper at the door, SelbyJarrad

  took another swipe at the sweat trickling down her temples and wished she'd

  been warned about the blasted stink.

  Just another "minor" detail Intelligence had neglected to mention during

  the mission briefing, she thought. The city-the whole sweltering planet-reeked

  of alazhi being stripped, pulped and simmered for refinement into bacta. Of

  all the attacks that the New Republic team might face while helping Verkuyl's

  rebelling native workers oust the Empire, this obnoxious olfactory assault had

  never come up.

  She slanted a glance at the tall, dark-skinned man beside her. Before

  landing, the stiff, formal collar of Major Cobb Vartos's business suit had

  been crisp and clean, but it had long since wilted in the suffocating heat.

  Grimy marks showed where he'd pried it away from his perspiring neck. Selby

  didn't even want to know what she looked like. Her own suit clung to her, and

  the thick auburn hair piled atop her head felt hot and heavy.

  "I'm not sure which is worse," Vartos murmured to her, hooking a finger

  in his collar and giving it another yank. "Breathing through my nose and

  smelling the blasted stuff, or breathing through my mouth and tasting it."