Resistance

Stuart Mackey · Post by **Stuart Mackey** » 2006-07-20 04:51am

Join the Service they said, see the universe, they said, yeah right..KP detail for ten years! bah!

Good chapter, I like how thew Imps are useing US records and systems to keep track of people. It will be interesting to see the difference between an Earth millitary and the Imperial's forces, how they compare and contrast and all that.

phongn · Post by **phongn** » 2006-07-20 10:24am

Well done, jegs.

darthdavid · Post by **darthdavid** » 2006-07-20 09:20pm

Nice.

jegs2 · Post by **jegs2** » 2006-07-26 01:28am

Resistance

Chapter 7

The construction paper displayed its various colors proudly to the fluttering South Florida breeze. Not so hot today as so many others, it was closing in on Christmas. Soon, Greg would be released from school for the holidays, but today was only another day, albeit closer to his favorite holiday of the year. The clouds were fast-moving today, but they were no competition to the deep blue hue of the wide-open sky, and the sun shone brightly even for what passed as winter here in the southern most portion of the USA. Greg heard the ding-ding-ding of the bells before he saw the warning arm lower itself across the road. As usual, he ignored the warning device and drew closer to the drawbridge itself.

Greg’s sister had made it to the other side of the bridge before it began to split itself in half, looking like two great-big ramps rising into the sky. The bridge tender was in his tower, above her, and as usual he yelled at him to move further away from the operational part of the drawbridge. As usual, Greg ignored him. He looked off to his left and saw the cause of the bridge’s activity. A forty-foot fishing boat slowly maneuvered toward the center of the drawbridge, its tuna tower stretching it further into the sky than it otherwise would have reached. Once the drawbridge was fully extended, the boat’s engines roared, churning the maximum-allowable wake behind it and propelling it quickly beneath and clear of the bridge. Greg lifted his Christmas chain made of stapled construction paper loops into the air as a friendly gesture to the boater, though the skipper took no notice of the little boy.

The two sides of the drawbridges lurched into motion, and they began their slow descent toward each other, shrinking the ramps closer to the ground. Suddenly, a stiff breeze caught Greg’s paper chain into the air, temporarily pulling it free from his grip. Greg reached out toward the chain to seize it from the air. He gasped as the leading edge of the span lowering trapped his small arm between the fixed portion of the guardrail, and Greg realized with horror that his arm was slowly being turned in-place and crushed by the overwhelming and unrelenting force of the massive bridge span as it maneuvered back into position. He glanced quickly at his sister on the other side of the bridge and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Stop the bridge! Stop the bridge! My arm is caught!”

Greg’s sister looked up toward her brother over the nearly level spans and formed an “O” with her mouth. An instant later she screamed at the bridge tender above, pointing frantically at her brother across the way. The bridge tender looked first annoyed and then shocked as his gaze was drawn to Greg and his arm being relentlessly twisted and crushed by the bridge. He quickly maneuvered some controls, and the bridge lurched to a stop. He then pulled the appropriate levers to raise the bridge. Greg turned his body as the opposing guardrails slowly released his arm. He cradled the almost completely white arm with his right hand and noticed with shock that he felt nothing.

Greg awoke in a strange place. The room he was in served a basic function – the berthing of multiple military personnel. What made it strange was its basic design. It was clean and sterile, as a training barracks should be, but there were strange computer terminals in the walls, complete with a myriad of blinking lights here and there. It still took some getting used to for Greg, even after four weeks of continuous training. The Empire didn’t have weekends, at least as far as Greg and his cohorts were concerned. The bunk in which Greg was lying was of the make one might expect from a typical bunk, except the mattress reminded him somewhat of a hard foam, rather than what he had been accustomed to. His wall locker was a bit larger than what he had known, and instead of being secured by a padlock, it was opened with a digital key that also passed as his identification. He and his cohorts had learned early that it wasn’t a wise idea to misplace that digital key. Greg looked up at the lights, which seemed to be embedded in the wall in offset intervals. They didn’t emit the flicker he would have noticed with fluorescent lights, nor did he think they were incandescent lights. They provided sufficient light for the room all the same. They were brighter now, as Greg in his cohorts were supposed to be waking up and preparing for yet another day of training.

Greg began to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Absently, he reached for his left arm. There, just above the elbow, his skin was a bit too tight against the bone. Muscle that had stretched beneath the skin had been torn away long ago, and the skin seemed to look concave in an odd location. You had to look directly at the area to even notice it anymore, and Greg had full use of his left arm. He smiled dryly as he recalled a doctor telling him so long ago that they might have to amputate the arm. Too much irreparable damage had been done by the drawbridge. The doctor had been wrong in his initial diagnosis, though he did not forewarn the boy of the insufferable teasing he would receive at school.

“Hey, you’re the idiot who stuck his arm in a bridge, ain’t ya!”

Greg remembered the teasing with a slight tinge of bitterness. He rubbed his fingers over the tight skin. He was here now, and his arm was still okay.

“Good morning, Yost,” said someone to Greg’s right. He glanced that way and saw a young man with close-cropped light brown hair. His features looked somewhat European, and Greg might have marked him for a German. Greg knew that the young man was actually from a planet called Sullust, and he had never even heard of Earth, or the Sol system, as the Empire now called it, much less Germany. His family had long been under the employ of the SoroSuub Corporation, and the man had no idea where his family had originated. His name was Kip Bradon, and he had taken a keen interest in Greg and his home world. Greg was a bit older than Kip and most of the others undergoing training. Everyone had heard of Greg’s planet, and many were brimming with questions about the strange world supposedly completely outside the known galaxy. Greg wasn’t very helpful about how the Empire had located Sol, but he freely shared what he knew of the history of his planet. Most were amazed that so many nations existed on a single planet, and they were equally amazed that it had experienced so much brutal warfare throughout its history.

“Good to see you, Kip,” Greg answered in BASIC. Greg now did all of his speaking and most of his thinking in the language of the Empire. Every so often, a word in English would slip out while he was conversing, which would prompt strange glances from Greg’s cohorts, but for the most part he kept all of his words in BASIC. He was the only one from his planet at this installation, so far as he knew. The Star Destroyer Ash had made several stops at different star systems throughout the galaxy, dropping off Earth natives at different locations. Greg noticed that no two were ever dropped off at one location together.

As Greg and Kip enjoyed their breakfast, they chatted with each other and two cohorts who sat with them. As usual, conversation drifted to Greg’s strange world.

“They say your planet had nothing but humans on it, Greg,” announced a tan-skinned man with dark hair and dull grey eyes. Greg gave Nallis a half-smile in answer to his statement.

“Who is they?” retorted Greg, half-jokingly, “… and besides, Sol has a great many different animals.”

“I do not know, and you know what I meant. I hear rumors. From what I have heard, the Sol system is not even in this galaxy. It would take even hyperdrive a very long time to reach the next closest galaxy, and yet it took you only a short time to reach here,” said Nallis. His expression further illustrated his puzzlement.

“Look. When the Empire came to Sol, I was part of the US Army,” said Greg. The word, “US,” came out in English, prompting puzzled looks from the others gathered at the table. He quickly explained that it was one of the more powerful nations on the planet and then continued, “We had not had space travel for very long, and we had no knowledge of hyperspace or any kind of faster than light travel. We had barely sent probes to the outer edge of our own solar system. So far as we knew, we were the only intelligent beings in the entire universe.”

Two of the men blurted out laughing at that comment, while Kip seemed to think about the statement with some form of seriousness. He said, “You really thought you were the only beings in the universe?”

“I didn’t say that, Kip. I said we had no knowledge of any other beings in the universe, beside ourselves. Plenty of people on Sol believed there were others out there, and we sent out probes to try to locate them. The US government funded large planet-bound devices designed to scan space for life outside our world, but we never found any evidence, or if we did, I never knew of it.” The conversation drifted toward the space programs of Sol and then to the wars fought on the planet. Greg was just beginning to cover Adolf Hilter’s rise to power in 1933, when Kip pointed out the time on his chronometer and the men rose to begin the day’s training.

Greg was used to creating situational templates based off of enemy doctrine. He was accustomed to providing a commander with the best possible picture of what an enemy would be, know and do in order to allow the commander to get inside that enemy’s decision-making cycle and disrupt it. He was still puzzled at the Empire’s vision of intelligence and its seeming lack of a single focus. The instructors here seemed to be more focused on systems and background checks than on discerning and comprehending enemy systems and doctrine. When he first brought up his concerns to an instructor two weeks prior, the NCO gave him a stony glance and told Greg to pay more attention to his training and spend less time poking holes in how the Empire chose to conduct intelligence operations. Greg decided to keep such opinions to himself from that point on, but he still couldn’t help thinking of how lackluster his training was. Sure, he was learning Imperial Naval intelligence systems and procedures, but there was very little analytical thought involved, or so it seemed to him.

As Greg had studied the history of the Empire over the past month, he discovered that it had lacked a dedicated and determined enemy for the past twenty years. What he read on his monitor referred to a Clone War against an army of robots, but the history seemed to leave glaring gaps and questions within it. It spoke of a republic that had preceded the Empire, but that republic was depicted as hopelessly corrupt and mired in baseless politics and backstabbing among squabbling factions. The Empire on the other hand was depicted as bringing order and balance to the chaos of the crumbling republic. Passing mention was made of a superstitious order of sorcerers who propped up the republic and helped spread its corruption among an unwilling population. These sorcerers had apparently nearly succeeded in murdering the Emperor, but their efforts had been heroically thwarted by someone called Darth Vader. It all seemed a bit confusing to Greg, and much of the story seemed untold.

The day was filled with the yellow light of the sun, though Greg knew it to be a star completely alien to that of his home world. The planet of Bordal had apparently been one of the separatist worlds during the Clone Wars of which Greg had read. The Empire now had a sizable garrison there, along with one of several intelligence training centers throughout the galaxy. It was on one such training center in which Greg now found himself, basking in the warm glow of the star at the center of the Taroon system. LTC Bertha had told Greg that he would reach him when the time was right, but Greg began to wonder at the feasibility of such a statement, especially in light of the staggering size of the Empire. He looked down at his grey trousers, and then to the rest of his uniform. Not so long ago, he had considered those wearing such outfits to be enemy soldiers from an alien world. Now he wore that same uniform with a single silver patch of the Empire on his left sleeve. That he had to wear the oversized helmet when conducting daily duties added little to his enjoyment of this strange uniform. Graduation from the school was but a week away, and the past seven weeks had filled his head with Imperial naval intelligence systems and functions. Greg could quickly follow the orders of officers and NCOs, plugging data into terminals and routing requests with utmost speed and precision. Greg remembered almost as an afterthought that NCOs had been referred to as petty officers in the US Navy, but such distinctions appeared to be meaningless here. Today, the men were to learn of their next assignment, and some already had been informed.

“An Imperial star destroyer!” exclaimed Kip with great excitement. He had raced to greet Greg with the news upon finding out. Greg had grown fond of the younger man, and he was truly pleased to learn that Kip was overjoyed about his assignment. Kip had explained that assignment aboard an imperial star destroyer was a big deal, because there were far fewer of those powerful warships than the smaller ones that comprised most of the fleet. Greg had congratulated the exited young man, who then raced off to tell his good news to others.

Greg walked down the path, studying the plants off to his right. The bush he was looking at somewhat reminded him of a holly bush he had seen in Orlando, but enough dissimilarities were there to inform him that this was indeed an alien plant. The plant seemed not to care on which planet it was, and its green leaves drank in the light of the planet’s star readily enough. Absently, Greg wondered what type of alien microbes constantly bombarded and invaded his body, and he wondered what kept him from getting violently ill or dead from such microbes. The Empire had apparently thought through such things, or quite dead he would be by now, not to mention the Imperial forces on Sol itself. Greg thought he spotted a small insect that reminded him of a walking stick, although this one was dark green in color and was shaped slightly differently. He thought about reaching out to let it crawl onto his finger as he had done with walking sticks on Sol, but then he thought better of it. The thing might bite him. Greg sighed and turned to head back to his quarters. As he started walking that way, here came Kip running to meet him. He appeared out of breath, and his forehead was a bit moist from sweat.

“Th … the … you … you are on the …” panted Kip as he tried talking to Greg,” the Dominion. Ah … I should have … waited for you to find out, yourself. Sorry about that, Greg,” said Kip with regret now mixed into his facial features. Greg smiled at the young man, now composing himself and straitening his grey Imperial uniform. He did look a bit ridiculous with the cap starting to slide down his head. Unlike the first few weeks, the trainees were now allowed to wear the grey soft caps, and it was a far sight better than wearing those ridiculous oversized helmets he had so detested. Greg clapped the young man on the shoulder, who eagerly led him to the central bulletin board.

The central bulletin board wasn’t so much a board, as it was a large monitor embedded into the wall. On the bulletin board, information constantly shifted and scrolled in various windows. Greg quickly isolated the window with the information he sought. He was indeed to be assigned to the Dominion, and he saw that it was a dreadnaught. Greg found himself visualizing the vessel. He had seen holo-images of a dreadnaught before. They were older vessels but formidable enough. They were bulky in appearance and they were not handsome. Even so, one of them would now become home for Greg.

A week later, graduation commencement had taken place. Greg thought it to be a singularly unimpressive event, not comparable to what he had experienced graduating from advanced individual training as a young soldier on Sol. They received no paper certificate or adornment for their uniform, which remained almost entirely blank, save the Imperial patch on their shoulder. Instead, some long-winded officer gave a fine speech about service to the Empire, and he mentioned the ongoing fight against the Rebellion. The men had to stand at attention in formation while the officer droned on. Some things, it seemed, never changed, regardless of location in the universe. Soon thereafter, the men were sent to the spaceport on shuttles, all at varying times and days. Greg was with one man he had seen in the dining facility once or twice but had never met, when his time for a shuttle to the spaceport came. The man had pinched features and liked to keep to himself. Fortunately, the shuttle ride was short in duration, and they boarded a transport. The transport ride was not terribly long, but Greg had time for a short nap and took it.

Greg awoke to a gruff-looking NCO glaring at him. He noted the three belt boxes on the man’s uniform and stood up quickly.

“Now that we’re all awake,” the NCO said while glaring at Greg for the latter portion, “I would like to welcome you to the Dominion. This is the finest ship in the Imperial fleet, and you will find that the standard here is tough, and we are all held to it.” The NCO covered some basic rules and then led the two men to their berthing area. Greg stowed what little gear he had in his new wall locker, noted that the bunks were three high, and then he was escorted by the NCO to his station in the bridge pit. The controls at his station were familiar enough, and he began routing requests on his terminal.

Toward the end of his shift, Greg let his thoughts drift. He learned that the Dominion was on a patrol in space somewhat threatened by Rebel elements. Some suspect vessels had already been boarded, but they were false alarms. These Rebels apparently were not born stupid, and they steered clear of the Imperial warship. Greg had noticed a man with red hair looking at him throughout the day, and he was beginning to be annoyed when the man approached him.

“You’re Greg, right?” said the man with a low voice.

“Yes, and you are?”

“I am Griff, but that is not important right now. I was told to look out for you.”

“Look out for me? What do you mea…”

“Shhhh! Not here; not now. Do you play Sabaac?”

“I know of the game and the basic rules, but it isn’t a favorite past time for me,” replied Greg, keeping his voice low. Here in the pit, the two were not looked on with any suspicion for talking to each other, especially this close the end of their shift.

“Join me and some friends tonight, in recreation room seven.”

“Okay,” said Greg with some puzzlement, and he was ready to ask Griff some questions, but the man turned and left. A friendly game of sabaac it would be.

Stuart Mackey · Post by **Stuart Mackey** » 2006-07-26 02:38am

Ahh, first contact with the Rebellion! I get the feeloing our hero will be quite usefull with his 'Sol' millitary knowledge.

Einhander Sn0m4n · Post by **Einhander Sn0m4n** » 2006-07-26 03:32am

This is addictive fanfic par excellence. I suppose it's possible it may achieve similar standing as TBO or Wong's fics!

darthdavid · Post by **darthdavid** » 2006-07-27 01:39am

I must agree with Ein, this fanfic = Kickass!!!

phongn · Post by **phongn** » 2006-08-10 08:49pm

Stuart Mackey wrote:Ahh, first contact with the Rebellion! I get the feeloing our hero will be quite usefull with his 'Sol' millitary knowledge.

Well, you know, those backwards primitives from Nep^H^H^HSol make solid infantry

jegs2 · Post by **jegs2** » 2006-08-14 12:53am

Short chapter for now, but lots of thing on my plate, so enjoy...

Resistance

Chapter 8

The deep-blue glass stretched out for what seemed an eternity, and what passed for a sky shifted with varying colors, mostly composed of a purplish hue. Greg peered down at his feet and they appeared suspended over the glass, beneath which appeared to be nothing at all. How thick was the glass, and why did it have no end? What held it up? Just as quickly as those thoughts flitted through his mind, they vanished like a haze in a lazy breeze. Ahead of him, Greg could see shadows in the distance. They appeared so far away that he couldn’t make them out. Every so often he thought he could hear whispers, but he couldn’t make out what they said. Greg walked toward one of the shadowy figures, which got larger but strangely less descript. The whispers became louder, even if they were coming from different directions, but Greg could not make out even one word. He looked down and noticed that he was no longer walking, but instead he was gliding over the strange, glass ground. Suddenly, he stopped as though he had hit a wall. The still nondescript shadow closed in on him and whispered unintelligibly into Greg’s face. One piece of a phrase made it through to him, “It is a lie!”

Without warning, the glass ground and purple canopy of the sky vanished, replaced by hot ash. Greg felt himself sliding down a hole beneath, which led to but more ash and a glowing of a great flame. Downward he slid on the ash. He was not burned, but he did feel hotter the further down he slid, and all about him he could hear laughter. It wasn’t a happy sound, but a twisted and corrupt laughter, filled with darkness.

Greg awoke with a gasp, looking at the bunk above his own. He quickly realized the time and knew it was at least two hours until his time to report for his shift. The Dominion was a large ship by crew standards. These older dreadnaughts apparently required a great amount of men to crew, and that was one of the reasons the Empire maintained so relatively few of them, or so he had been told by one of the senior enlisted men. Something else had been eating at Greg too. Several days ago he had lost a Sabaac game to some men he scarcely knew. The man who had invited Greg to attend had been very guarded about what he told Greg. He told Greg that all was not as it appeared. He also gave Greg a name to keep on the lookout for from incoming communication. Griff gave him the name of Ms. Linda Elliott. The name meant nothing to him, but Griff told him to expect communication from her. Greg shrugged to the darkness. Two hours or more of sleep couldn’t hurt, and the next day promised to be interesting.

“I granted you some of my time, because I felt you might provide me with something useful, “ said the lieutenant. Greg consciously did not shake his head or change his facial expression. He had just spent the past twenty minutes describing the use of situational templates and basic pattern analysis to the Imperial officer, who seemed either not to get it or just not care.

“Sir, I’ve laid out here,” Greg indicated the paper in front of him, “how we can use this pattern analysis diagram to determine where the Rebels are likely to strike next. All huma… er .. beings, set a pattern of behavior over time, whether they want to or not. As you can see by looking at these circles, we divide our pattern by type of incidence, time period, and we look at all of them over an extended period of time. Look here at the orange dots. Those represent…”

“I know what you said they represent, crewman, and you’re wasting my time. Our computer systems are more than capable of picking out patterns from the Rebels, without the use of your … drawings. We have been beating Rebels for some time now without the assistance of outmoded and grossly outdated tools of a conquered race. If you’ve nothing more valuable to add, then I’ll thank you for wasting my time.” The lieutenant rose from the table, a sneer of contempt still on his face. Greg wanted to grab the snotty idiot by his collar and smack some of that arrogance out of him. Greg knew all about the analysis systems embedded in the Imperial mainframes, and he was not impressed by what he’d seen. Not once had the computer accounted for instances of resupply, confirmed or suspected caches, or even safe houses (or safe planets in this case). This officer had no clue of how to conduct actual analysis. He had no concept of putting on the “red hat” and thinking like the enemy. The enemy got a vote in combat too, but the Empire seemed to think that military might and overwhelming superiority by itself was sufficient to carry the day. Greg winced inwardly – it might be enough, but at unnecessary cost, and the result would be an endless civil war or a simmering insurgency at best. The pattern analysis wheel might look foolish to the Imperial officer, but at least he could have taken some time to attempt to understand it. Instead, he was wholly dismissive of Greg and anything he had to say.

“I have one more word of advice for you, crewman,” said the lieutenant as he turned to face Greg, “Spend less time doodling on scratch paper and pursuing foolishness, and spend more time concentrating on doing what you’re here to do.” The officer was gone, so Greg did shake his head now. Over 16 thousand men were aboard this ship alone, and that didn’t come close to the thousands of men on the other ships in the local sector fleet. The computer was very good at tracking combat actions by the Rebels, and it even conducted pretty good analysis on the attacks themselves, scanning for weaknesses in both enemy and friendly systems, but it did little to analyze the overall picture. Realization slapped Greg like a drunken woman. Tactical intelligence: From what Greg could see, the Imperial navy simply had no concept of it. Senior officers appeared not to have the extensive staffs that Greg was accustomed to seeing in the US. No dedicated S2 or G2 provided an uncooperative enemy against whom to wargame. Amazingly, the operations section was left to conduct much of the analysis, and what they did provide was spit out by these infernal computers. More amazing still, nobody to whom Greg had spoken concerning his observations seemed to care one way or another. His shift would begin in about one hour, and he intended not to waste anymore of it here in this cramped briefing room.

“So, you’re a crewman then, “ said the man with short brown hair and a slight bit of facial growth. Greg looked up at the man sitting to his left at the bar. He looked down at his drink, really wishing it contained alcohol right now.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Greg. The man wrinkled his brow at him, which Greg could have foreseen.

“Can’t place your dialect, friend.”

“Sol.”

“No kidding! You know, I know of one of my mates who was supposed to pacify that planet,” said the stormtrooper. The man was wearing civilian clothes, but he had felt it somehow necessary to strike up a conversation with Greg and had during the course of that conversation revealed to Greg his occupation. Greg was still depressed about his conversation with the lieutenant, so he found the conversation less than stimulating. He gave the stormtrooper a half-smile, wondering why the man looked inebriated when his drink contained nothing more in the way of alcohol than did his own. The stormtrooper, Fluun was his name, smiled at Greg.

“You think there’s something in my drink that makes me … looser, eh?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

Fluun leaned in closely to Greg. “I got some stuff, or access to some stuff that will help put your mind at ease, or at least let you forget about your hardships for just a little while. As Fluun smiled, Greg was reminded somewhat of a used car salesman.

“… and is this stuff, legal?”

“It’s as legal as we need it to be,” replied the stormtrooper. Greg wrinkled his nose. He had been briefed on different types of contraband, including the penalties for being caught with it. This Fluun would likely want credits for whatever stuff he was offering, and then again he might be trying to set him up. Credits were transferred electronically via data pads, which were undoubtedly tracked by Imperial computer systems. Either way…

“Think I’ll pass on it for now, Fluun, but thanks anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” replied the stormtrooper nonchalantly, as he returned to his drink, “but I can see you have some issues. Greg gave the man a sideways glance.

“What makes you say that?”

“You look like a man with a lot on his mind. You don’t behave like a run-of-the-mill ship crewman, and you think you’re limiting yourself.”

“So, you’re a shrink now too, Fluun?” The word, “shrink” came out in English, so Greg quickly explained. Fluun laughed and shook his head.

“No, I’m not one of those, but I’ve been in service of the Emperor a long time, and so I can detect certain things. Why don’t you tell me about it, or did you have something pressing to do instead?” Greg thought about it. He had only recently completed his shift.

“Fluun, when is the last time the Empire faced an enemy on par with itself?” The other man appeared baffled by the question.

“The Rebels…”

“No, Fluun – a real and dedicated enemy with a standing military force on par with the Empire; that’s what I’m talking about.” The man scratched his hair and peered at the far bulkhead.

“Separatists…”

“Clone War?” replied Greg.

“Yes. That was it. I wasn’t around for it – not in the service of the Emperor, but one of my instructors served during that time.” He seemed to be recalling something that had taken place long ago, swishing his drink as he furrowed his brow.

“The Jedi were there. Were they military commanders?” The other man glanced sharply at Greg, narrowing his eyes.

“You ask too many questions.” Greg was taken aback at the man’s sudden change, but he looked all the part of an off-duty stormtrooper now, and his glare was full of suspicion.

“Sorry I asked. You forget where I’m from.” Fluun’s visage softened only slightly, but then he smiled weakly and nodded.

“Friend, some things are left better unsaid, and some questions are better unasked. That … war was what sealed our Empire as the ultimate power, and no one can stand up to us now.” The older man rose to his feet and turned to leave the bar. He slowed and turned his head, “And you would be really wise not mention those … sorcerers again. They’re dead now, so let them rest in peace.” He strode out of the bar, and Greg was left alone with his drink. Belatedly, he wished he had asked about that “stuff” for his drink.

Griff peered at Greg over his cards, eyeing Greg with almost a detached interest. The room was mostly dark, save for the low lighting offered by the recreation room, and the droning of a holovid a couple of other crewmen were watching. Greg had acquiesced to playing another round of Sabaac with Griff and his quiet pals, so he had read up on the game. It was a game of chance, much like card games he had known back home. There, he knew only the games of Solitaire and Heart. He returned Griff’s gaze, who then glanced down at his cards and dealt one.

“So you like talking to stormtroopers?” Greg blinked at the unexpected question and glanced quickly at Griff and then to the man in the shadows to his right. Like Griff, he appeared interested in his hand of cards, but Greg could feel his eyes through the darkness.

“He talked to me first. Was I supposed to tell him to pound sand?” Griff smiled weakly and leaned back.

“I forget you don’t know much about … how things work.”

“What do you mean?” returned Greg. The other man chuckled quietly.

“Stormtroopers. It’s not a good idea to get involved with them.”

“How did you know I was speaking to Fluun anyway?” inquired Greg with suspicion edged on his words.

“You're on a first-name basis with him," said Griff with a smile. Seeing Greg open his mouth to protest, he held up his free hand and continued, "It may seem like a big ship to you, Greg. But when you spend nearly a lifetime on this bucket, it shrinks. Not a lot goes on that I don’t know about … or find out about.” The man leaned forward and eyed Greg thoughtfully, “You check your messages?”

“What do you mean?”

“Messages – on your terminal.”

“Oh, you mean email.” Greg recognized the looks of puzzlement and explained what he meant. Griff nodded.

“Might be a good idea to look at your … email. Might have some of your friends from your world missing you. You never know,” added Griff indifferently. Greg nodded.

Griff said, "Looks like we'll get an opportunity for some shore leave within the next week or so, so you might want to save up some credits."

Greg studied his hand, and it didn’t look strong. He also didn't have much in the way of credits, and who knew what opportunities shore leave would offer. He folded and said goodbye to Griff and his buddies. Greg stopped at the holovid to take a look. Despite the entertainment being depicted in truly stunning 3D, the story didn’t appeal to him, so he left the recreation room.

Code: Select all

Dear Greg,

It has been a while since we were together in Pensacola, and I would very much like to see you again.  I am so happy to see that you’re serving in the space navy, but I want to see come back to Earth nice and safe.  Mr. Belter asked me to say hello, and Chrissy misses you too.  I will be in touch with you!


Love, 

Ms. Elliott

Greg considered the message. He knew none of the people in the email, but he had been told to expect something from Ms. Elliott. One of the choices included a receipt request, and the message requested one. Greg reached out to select the choice, and then he stopped. Why should he reply at all? Ms. Elliott was undoubtedly tied to the resistance on Earth. His reply would necessarily be considered a reinforcement of his commitment. Moreover, it would more than likely soon be followed by instructions. He moved his finger away from the selection. Then again, Griff was the one who had told him of Ms. Elliott. What was his tie in to this whole thing? Many of the crewmen on the Dominion would be eligible for shore leave within the next few weeks. Kothlis was supposed to be rife with Rebels, and the Bothans were not entirely supportive of the Empire. Greg knew that was where he would get his leave, and he figured that any Rebel sympathizers aboard the Dominion would be in contact with insurgents on Kothlis as soon as their boots hit dirt. If one individual on one of many ships could find a way to get a message to Greg, then it wasn’t a stretch to imagine what a planet full of Rebel sympathizers might be like. Someone would know the message was delivered. Someone else would probably be able to determine that he had seen it, and then someone else would ask him questions he didn’t want to answer. In anger and frustration, Greg shook his head. Why did things have to be so complicated?

Greg made his decision.

jegs2 · Post by **jegs2** » 2006-11-24 01:08am

Chapter 9

Lieutenant General Merdon Voss was deep in thought, and for once his message inbox didn’t demand immediate attention; not that his inbox wasn’t always full – it was. Like any other officer who had survived more than 30 standard years of military service, General Voss had sufficient foresight to determine what was and what wasn’t important enough to warrant his immediate attention. Thankfully, Lieutenant Colonel Meridian was a competent aide and was also a consummate screener of message traffic. Glancing sidelong toward his monitor, General Voss saw only two color-coded messages warranting attention that his able aide felt unable to dispatch at his own level. Voss knew what one of the messages would bring to his attention, for the sender was all too familiar. He shook his head with a wry sadness that bespoke his experience. As a young officer, Voss hadn’t been forced to deal with people like this. Sure, the occasional senator would require attention or a briefing, but not individuals like this. The crimson coded message glared from the monitor like a grimace. Only one color was given a higher status, and that was reserved for the emperor himself. Of course, the emperor would hardly stoop to acknowledge the Imperial Chief of Intelligence, but his personal secretaries all but spoke for him. No, the message with this particular special color represented that of one of the Emperor’s Hands.

As a young captain, Voss had been on Coruscant during the Clone Wars, and he recalled the treason of the Jedi that had nearly cost the emperor his life. Of course, Voss knew much more now than he had known as a captain assigned but to one of many joint intelligence centers at that time, but what he now knew of that sordid affair he was smart enough to keep to himself. Imperial Center was now the name of this planet, and the republic that Second Lieutenant Voss had been commissioned to serve was a galactic empire on a scale before unimaginable. Like many others, Voss still refered to the planet as Coruscant. No race had been able to stand before the might of the Galactic Empire, and rebel elements offered only token resistance. Still, something ate at Voss’ mind, and that pulsating crimson message was sure to address that concern.

The Sol system, and its seemingly insignificant population was a terrific puzzle. Voss knew that the Imperial fleet had discovered some sort of portal to another galaxy nearly thirteen years ago. He knew also that the scout ships that explored that galaxy had found it devoid of life – a completely dead galaxy. Moreover, most planetary systems found within in were devoid of nearly anything of economic value. They had explored that galaxy for nearly a decade and had all but abandoned it, and Voss was certain they would have if not for the inexplicable insistence by the emperor to continue the effort. The Grand Moffs and Grand Admirals who ran the Joint Staff had certainly shaken their heads in bewilderment at such insistence, and they had certainly scaled down reconnaissance efforts to the minimum acceptable effort. Only by happenstance did a probe pick up ancient radio signals while on one of the spirals of that galaxy. At first they had believed it to be nothing more than background noise from any number of natural events that dotted the cosmos. And yet there, in the midst of what was certainly an entire galaxy of dead star systems devoid of even the most crude life forms was a jewel almost perfect for sustaining all kinds of life. That was a little less than five years ago, and the buzz that surrounded the discovery was unreal. One would have thought that the Empire had discovered a vast array of populated star systems ripe for the taking, and yet there was just the one.

The early spies sent to Sol encountered little trouble blending in with the population, which was human. Voss still scratched his head over that strange discovery. The DNA of the inhabitants of Sol could have been an exact duplicate of the humans in the Galactic Empire. Of special note to Voss and the task force assigned to studying Sol was the fact that the planet was nearly always in a state of war with itself to some degree or another. When they first embedded personnel on Sol, one of its empires was in its final death throes, and the other was awash in seemingly unexpected victory. The inhabitants had termed it a, “cold war.” A great many religions on the planet served to keep the various cultural groups split apart and at each others’ throats. Even so, the remaining empire, calling itself the “United States,” appeared bent on spreading its influence over the globe and establishing at least an economic global order.
For five years, Imperial agents had infiltrated the United States at nearly every level, and they had also penetrated many of the lesser governments. So when the time to strike finally arrived, the fall of the planet was swift and nearly bloodless, at least by Imperial terms. Voss knew that some elements in the military had pushed for an immediate invasion upon discovery of Sol, but higher-ranking individuals made the case for patience. The people of the planet had barely toyed with space travel and had not even managed to establish a manned outpost even within their own planetary system. While the planet was peppered with thousands of orbiting satellites, with the exception of a very few they were all oriented toward Sol itself.

Voss wrinkled his heavy brows. Why would only one inhabited planet be ensconced deeply and almost undetectably in an otherwise dead galaxy? It didn’t make sense. Sol was too perfectly placed in a too perfect solar system, almost as though it was set up that way on purpose. Voss knew some of the theories that were percolating throughout Imperial academia. Some maintained that an ancient race had planted the system in secret millennia before, in order to hide it. Others maintained that it was an ancient colony long ago cut off from the rest of civilization. Still others maintained that life on the planet evolved that way, though that didn’t explain how humans were there. Voss pursed his lips – all of that was for academics, scholars and scientists to puzzle over.
For Voss were the other mysterious matters at hand. He knew what had happened that sent shock waves through Imperial High Command. Of course, those shock waves were undetected by the populace of the Empire, but Voss was deeply enough entrenched into the inner workings of the Empire not to be informed of matters warranting attention. Lord Vader had been dispatched to Sol by the emperor, but he never made it. From what Voss had been able to gather through his sources, Vader had collapsed when his ship entered into the dead galaxy. Medical droids had barely been able to keep him alive before the commander ordered the ship back into the home galaxy. Once the ship returned, Vader had mysteriously regained his usual vigor and focus, most unexpectedly. It was almost impossible for Voss to picture that black monstrosity in a weakened and helpless state, but his sources were rarely amiss. Then there were the men who had joined the ranks of the Empire and now served in this galaxy.

No more than a handful of those men concerned Voss, but a few had served as officers of Sol’s empire, the United States. Voss knew enough that the indoctrination of and loyalty of those officers to their empire was relatively strong, and alarms were sounded when they seemed to readily drop such allegiance and choose to serve in Imperial ranks. Of further note was the fact that no such officer had held the rank of lieutenant colonel or its equivalent, or above. Many of them had been considered junior officers in their own military structure. Voss knew that the emperor had summoned at least one of those officers before him. Apparently that meeting had unsettled Vader, who was present at the time, as he was noted storming from the palace in agitation afterward. Not that seeing Vader storming about angrily was uncommon, but even menacing beings like him set certain patterns, and it was uncommon for him to appear so agitated when leaving the presence of the emperor. Patterns – yes, that was what Voss now returned his thoughts to.

One of the young officers had joined the Imperial Navy as an intelligence analyst, and he was now serving on a dreadnaught. Voss had assigned the tracking of all newly assigned military members from Sol to one of his task forces, but this particular young man’s name had popped up more than once. Voss knew that the rebels were trying to gain contact with him, and his agents were fairly certain he was in contact with members of his former command back on Sol. He wasn’t certain of what the young man was attempting to accomplish though, and so far as he could ascertain, the young man was serving well aboard his ship. At least one of his agents had posed as a rebel in an attempt to incite him to treason, but he hadn’t taken the bait. Yost was the man’s name, and he had attempted to share some information he thought would be valuable with one of the ship’s intelligence officers. He was predictably rebuffed. Rarely were promising intelligence officers assigned to minor capital ships.
Voss touched an area of the monitor and slid his finger across it. A photo of Yost smiled out at him, and even from the image the eyes sparkled with intelligence. Voss leaned forward, gazing into the young man’s face. Meanwhile the crimson message alert off to the corner of the monitor failed to disappear – Voss would have to deal with it soon. For now though, he shrugged it away – the Hand could wait a little while. He leaned down toward a speaker on his desk and flipped a switch.

“Colonel Meridian.”

“Yes sir?” returned the disembodied voice.

“Where is Yost right now?” Voss returned. He waited perhaps ten seconds.

“Sir, he’s on shore leave. The Dominion is in orbit over Tatooine. They’re scheduled to continue their patrol in approximately sixteen hours.” Voss smiled. That was yet another reason to like Meridian; he was a good aide who constantly tracked what his boss needed, knowing the answer nearly always before the question was asked. He stared back at the image of Yost, his hand still poised over the switch.

“Contact the captain of the Dominion. I want Yost transferred to Coruscant.” The pause on the other end made Voss smile yet again. For all his talent, some things Voss said still took his aide off guard.

“Yes sir. I’ll get the orders cut. Anything else, sir?”

“No, colonel. That will do. I will want to debrief Yost shortly after he arrives.” Yost flipped the switch before waiting for his aide to reply. He looked into the face of the image of Yost once again. Yost had been adamant that he could offer insight into how the rebels worked, where they would strike, and even a reasonable approximation of when they would strike using some of his own military’s analysis tools. An idiotic ship’s intelligence officer’s opinion aside, Voss aimed to see if he could garner something useful from this young former officer from Sol. He allowed himself a half smile and motioned away the image of the young man. The message in red all but demanded his attention, so Voss dutifully opened it to see what was so important to this particular Emperor’s Hand.

pieman3141 · Post by **pieman3141** » 2006-11-24 02:26am

Good stuff. That last chapter was a tad brief, IMO, but it did explain a lot. Data dump, I assume?

Stuart Mackey · Post by **Stuart Mackey** » 2006-11-24 03:06am

I wonder what would annoy Vader so much? I presume we will get to learn soon?. This was most good, if brief.

phongn · Post by **phongn** » 2006-11-24 03:16am

Perhaps the Force does not touch our galaxy? Such a loss would cripple Vader.

That said ... that's a bit much of a data dump, though.

darthdavid · Post by **darthdavid** » 2006-11-24 03:26am

I wonder what our brave hero is going to do? If he helps the empire he gains their trust which helps the rebellion (which I presume he still wants to do) but at the same time helping them in a significant way will hurt lots of rebels...

Stuart Mackey · Post by **Stuart Mackey** » 2006-11-24 03:34am

phongn wrote:Perhaps the Force does not touch our galaxy? Such a loss would cripple Vader.

That said ... that's a bit much of a data dump, though.

I suspect there is not enough force..dead galaxy and all. bar Earth.

jegs2 · Post by **jegs2** » 2006-11-25 11:53am

Yeah, it was a short burst - mainly designed to answer some gnawing questions. I'd toyed with the idea of making the story from only a single perspective, which had been the case up to this point - but where I'm aiming to take the story demands perspective from different angles. The cause for Vader's sudden collapse will become clear before too terribly long. Interesting events are afoot, and some key players are yet to be revealed.

jegs2 · Post by **jegs2** » 2007-01-12 08:53pm

Resistance

Chapter 10

For all the dinginess and filth spread throughout the area, this could have been nearly any city on Earth. This place was hot too, and if possible even hotter than Greg remembered being in Kuwait. Sand was absolutely everywhere, and the streets were crowded … though not exactly with people. Beings of fantastic origin choked the streets of this city, which Greg understood to be far more ancient than any Middle Eastern city back on his home planet. Robots walked about freely, alongside odd-looking creatures wearing clothing of various kinds. Most paid little attention to Greg, for other humans were out and about the city as well. Greg had flirted with the idea of wearing blue jeans and a shirt down to the planet, but his supervisor had advised him against it, so Greg instead sported civilian clothes more likely to be worn by humans native to this area. That did not prevent the occasional strange looks from his fellow humans who colored their glances with suspicion. While it was very unlikely that any of them knew Greg was from Earth, the way in which he carried himself bespoke of a military man – an Imperial military man. Off to his right, Greg saw beings filtering into one of the many squat, sand-colored buildings, and he made his way toward the building.

Odd music floated through the air, and various beings lounged in their own way at filthy booths or tables in the dark room. Computer terminals were scattered throughout the room, and Greg suspected at least one of them was a type of jukebox. Many of the beings were in animated conversation with each other in strange languages that Greg couldn't comprehend, some of them seemingly on the verge of violent action. Greg spotted what appeared to be a bar – some things never changed, regardless of which galaxy wherein you found yourself. As Greg stepped past closely-packed throngs of strange beings and up to the bar, he saw that the bartender had green skin, dark almost insect-like eyes, a mouth that ended in more of a snout, and two antenna sticking up out of his/her/its head. The bartender was dealing with another customer at the moment, and Greg had an odd feeling, as though he were being watched. He peered to his left to see several beings, including a couple of humans at the bar. Most were in conversation with other beings, a couple appeared interested only in meditating on their drinks, but one was an older human, and he was staring at Greg. Having been to different countries on Earth while in service to the US Army, Greg knew that staring was not necessarily a rude gesture in some cultures. But this man’s stare was somehow different. His grey facial hair and brown hood hid much of his face, but his eyes were penetrating and intelligent. All at once, Greg did not feel comfortable, and he turned to leave.

A guttural noise gushed forth from the throat of a strange reptilian creature that Greg had nearly walked into, and it walked on mostly all four limbs. Whatever the creature had uttered, Greg couldn’t recognize the language, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t Basic. It appeared ready to pick a fight with Greg, but Greg wasn’t armed and he was in no position to properly defend himself in a fight on this alien planet. He recalled that on Earth, soldiers had been briefed never to be alone while on pass in a foreign land. Having a buddy at one’s side reduced the tendency for others to be eager to pick fights with you. But nobody on the Dominion had wanted to travel to this planet for their downtime. Most had seemed quite content to remain aboard to play Sabaac or waste time in the ship’s sparse recreational facilities. Those from the ship who were down here with Greg were mostly the ship's complement of storm troopers, and they were here for business rather than pleasure. The crewmen Greg had spoken could not believe anyone wanted to travel to the planet, especially with no high-profile races or gambling events taking place. It apparently wasn’t known as an ideal vacation spot. The angry being hissed at Greg as he tried to step around it and shot out a hand (or foot - Greg couldn’t tell, to block his path. Greg was prepared to punch or kick the thing, when a man in a brown robe stepped to the being and said, “You do not want to fight this young man.”

The being seemed to hesitate unexpectedly, and it uttered some more of its guttural language.

“You have pressing matters elsewhere, and you’ve no time for this,” the old man continued in a soft voice.

The creature appeared to remember something, shook its head and exited the bar. Greg looked up. The old man was the same one who had been gazing at him from across the bar. Greg felt even more uncomfortable than before, but he felt obligated to the man now.

“Thanks, friend.”

The old man lifted a gray brow and turned in the direction the angry being had exited. He turned to face Greg again. “For what? I simply reminded the dug that he had other, more pressing matters to which to attend.” The old man’s eyes narrowed on Greg, and he continued, “You are not from these parts.” It wasn’t a question.

“My name is Greg Yost, and I’m from Ear … uh, I mean I’m from the Sol system.”

The old man appeared thoughtful, and he continued, “And are you happy in the service to the Empire?” He added a hint of derision to the final word.

“Yes sir. It’s strange getting used to traveling through deep space, and … wait, you didn’t ask me anything about Sol. Usually, I get a hail of questions about where I’m from.”

“Your planet was recently invaded and occupied by the Empire, and it is within another galaxy, is it not?” said the older man in a matter of fact way.

“Well, yes, but … never mind. You seem to be well informed.” Greg studied the old man. Why had he taken an interest in him, and why had he kept him from tangling with that creature with a bad disposition? Greg knew that the Rebels had agents scattered throughout this galaxy, and Tatooine was pretty far from the Imperial seat of power. Was this old man a Rebel agent? Or perhaps the old man was an Imperial agent, sent to keep Greg out of trouble. Greg blinked. No, that didn’t make any sense. If the Empire lost one crewman, it would hardly make a dent in their manpower. So then what was this old man’s interest?

“Sir, you know my name, but I’ve not heard yours.”

The old man had already turned to leave the establishment and turned his head, and with a weak smile he replied, “You can call me Ben.” He continued toward the door and vanished into the throng of beings in the dark room. Greg felt it was wise for him to take the same course of action, and he too exited the establishment.

Brilliant sunlight stabbed into Greg’s eyes as he stepped out of the bar, and all at once he remembered that this was a desert planet. The heat slammed into him with equal force, and Greg found himself wishing he had a baseball cap. He smiled at himself. That would definitely look out of place here. Studying his chronometer (what the folks in this galaxy called a watch), Greg determined to make his way back to the star port. A few storm troopers were within the city proper, usually in team-sized elements, but as Greg made his way to his destination, more of them were visible. The alleys were just as choked with beings busily moving from place to place as the streets had been, and this area had a larger proportion of humans. Greg spotted the bay in which one of his ship’s transports was docked.

“Halt!” barked the tinny voice of a storm trooper as Greg approached the door. A storm trooper on the other side of the door held his weapon at the ready. Greg had his identification ready before the trooper asked for it and handed it to the guard.

“You fellows have to be awfully hot in those things,” Greg remarked as he studied the gleaming white armor of the trooper on the right. The trooper didn’t respond.

“You may proceed, crewman,” said the trooper on the left as he handed Greg’s identification back to him. Greg noticed that the trooper had laced that last word with some disdain. He smiled anyway as he entered the dock, walking between the two guards clad in white armor.

In the humble abode of Obi Wan Kenobi, rays of one of the twin suns of Tatooine broke a path through the dust-choked air, illuminating a small section of one of the plain walls. Standing off to one side, a man in a brown robe stood, shimmering and translucent. The man stared back at an old man, sitting on a bench. The ghost and the old man had been in communication with each other for many years, for long ago Kenobi had learned to communicate with those departed from the physical realm.

“Nothing?” said the ghost.

“No, master,” returned the old man, “I felt … nothing. It was as though a hole in the Force existed where the young man stood. It was that … hole, that nothingness … that I felt when first I saw him.”

“Interesting. Where is the young man from?”

“He is from another galaxy … from a place called Sol.”

The shimmering image of a man long dead stood in silent contemplation, stroking his beard. Kenobi looked to the man who had trained him, and then he peered at the wall behind the ghost. Kenobi felt he had good reason to be troubled. He had tried to use the Force in subtle manners when around the young man, but the bubble of nothingness surrounded him and could not be penetrated. What did this mean? The son of Skywalker was in his adolescence even now, and Kenobi knew that his time was near at hand. But this … this had not been foreseen at all. An invasion into another galaxy entirely, and from it a being that not only did not possess any attributes of the Force that Kenobi could detect. The Force seemed to flee from him – to be utterly unable to touch him. Kenobi had heard rumors of another being, in his own galaxy, that had that effect. What he saw and felt today was no rumor. Kenobi could only imagine what affect millions of these strange humans from another galaxy might have on the Force. And what of the Sith?

“Transfer orders?” queried Greg.

“Yes, to Imperial Center,” replied the junior officer. It was signed by Lieutenant General Voss no less. The Dominion was not due to dock with an Imperial facility for at least three months, but the young officer had learned that they would divert their course to one of the closer outposts within a few days. He eyed the young man before him. What made him so important that an Imperial dreadnaught was ordered to divert a preplanned patrol in order to drop him off?

“Coruscant,” said Greg.

“No! The name of the planet is Imperial Center, and you will refer to it as that, crewman,” said the junior officer in a stern voice. Greg checked himself. It wasn’t unusual, even in Earth history, for powers to rename cities upon overthrowing an old regime. Why should it be any different here?

Later that day, Greg found himself on a terminal. He checked his messages, but only the usual announcements and advertisements made their way into his queue. He contemplated the order he had seen. Imperial Center - why there? Who wanted to see him there, and why? Greg had already begun building ideas for a program that would integrate his pattern analysis tools on his personal terminal. He checked those programs now to make sure he didn't leave anything back on the ship once he departed. Other crewman on the dreadnought had cast him some strange glances, since word had passed that he was being transferred. Transfer after so short a time on a ship was nearly unheard of, so such news spread quickly throughout the ship. Greg entered the berthing area to consolidate his gear and belongings.

"So you're going to Coruscant," a voice said from behind Greg. He turned and saw Griff, noticing that the other crewman had uttered the incorrect term for the world.

"Yes, so it would seem."

"We shall miss you at the Sabaac games."

"I'm sure you will do fine without me," Greg said with a half smile. Besides, you've got some of my credits to remember me by." The other crewman returned Greg's smile, though it never quite reached his eyes. He then turned and left Greg alone with his belongings.

Voss walked down the corridor toward his office, passing men in gray and black uniforms along the way. Most of them gave him a wide berth, as his rank insignia proclaimed his more important status within the Empire. Generals weren’t so uncommon, especially here on Coruscant (Voss still thought of the planet that way, though he verbally referred to it in the approved manner). Imperial Command was teeming with senior officers, but most knew that Voss was a senior Intelligence officer, and while it wasn’t necessarily true, many of them assumed he had dirt on nearly every Imperial officer in the galaxy. Voss smiled inwardly. He preferred that people think that. As he turned to enter his office, Colonel Meridian met him.

“Sir, Crewman Yost is en route to Imperial Center, and his ETA is three hours.”

“Very good. Have him in-process and assign him to Section 74B.”

“Yes sir,” replied his aide, who then resumed his seat and returned his attention to the terminal at his desk. Voss continued into his own office, and the gray door hissed shut behind him. He settled down into his chair and stared at his own terminal. A crimson-colored icon announced that another message requiring his personal attention waited in the queue. Colonel Meridian did not screen those, for they never reached the aide's terminal, so Voss jabbed his finger toward the icon and the message opened. As Voss read the message, he sighed. Others within this puzzle palace knew he was bringing in young Crewman Yost. Others from Sol were on the planet, but Yost was the only one donning an Imperial uniform. It seemed that Yost was now set to meet someone Voss had hoped to avoid altogether.

“I’m getting too old for this,” muttered the old officer as he slowly shook his head.

phongn · Post by **phongn** » 2007-01-12 09:52pm

Huh. I didn't know that this started before ANH.

Singular Quartet · Post by **Singular Quartet** » 2007-01-12 10:01pm

Hooray, continuation!

I figured Ben would show up if Tatooine was there. An excellent fic.

jegs2 · Post by **jegs2** » 2007-08-16 04:37pm

Leave is a great thing, as you get plenty of time to waste. This may be the last installment for quite a while (unless I get another stretch of unexpected down-time), so enjoy!

Resistance

Chapter 11

Twigs stung his forehead as they snapped by in the darkness. Ahead of him, Steve Hovey could hear the hurried footfalls of the men ahead of him, and he held his weapon out ahead of him in order to intercept the thin tree limbs that were catapulted toward his face. Steve was as blind as a bat, so he kept his eyes fixed on the twin glowing rectangles ahead of him. The next few steps found Steve sprinting into only inky blackness, as the twin glowing rectangles were not visible. The rectangles belonged to the back of Mike’s cap, and for the moment, CPT Zilliox was to far ahead and obscured by the thick vegetation.

“Ow!” muttered Steve as he swatted yet another invisible biting thing that had decided to make his neck into a late-evening snack. Or was it early morning now? Did it really matter? Steve was starting to feel a small onset of panic. Mike’s phosperescent rectangles had not reappeared, and Steve was making so much noise with his own running that he could barely hear the footfalls of the man in front of him. What if he got lost? The men behind him would certainly take a dim view of him as a junior officer … or they might not live to tell about it. He thought about slowing down just enough to catch where the running men supposedly ahead of him were, but then he quickly recalled why they were running.

Earlier in the evening, all had gone perfectly as planned. Imperial outposts throughout this area of central Florida stuck out like sore thumbs. The Imperials seemed to have an affinity for their prefabricated buildings, and Steve’s battalion had struck a number of them over the past several weeks. The Imperials were often slow to react, though every once in a while an alert stormtrooper sentry would react in time to take down one or two of the battalion’s men before being himself neutralized. But tonight was different. The Imperials had been waiting for them.

Steve’s group was the flanking force, while another force had served as a support-by-fire. As always, reconnaissance had revealed no external positions defending the small Imperial compound. On queue, the mortar team launched its attack into the compound, and suppressive fires arched toward the main gate. Then Steve’s group began maneuvering to their own objectives with high explosives in order to breach the plasteel wall. Their explosives had become quite effective over time, especially after some previously successful raids on Imperial outposts and small depots. Just as Steve’s group was getting into position, a swarm of Imperial craft dove from the night sky, obliterating the mortar team and creating significant attrition on the supporting effort. Some of the Imperial craft set down and vomited forth swarms of stormtroopers. Unlike the early versions who had stuck out in all white armor, these newer versions sported camouflage armor that was well suited to the forested terrain. Their shots were deadly accurate, and the battle was short. The signal sounded for retrograde, and the remains of the battalion were on the run.

Steve grimaced into the inky blackness as he remembered the men of his unit dropping like flies. He recalled some of the stormtroopers firing into the bodies of his men to make sure they remained motionless before pursuing new targets. Steve shook his head. He’d have done the same to them. There were no rules of warfare in this day and age.

“Halt!” came a sharp hissed whisper from in front of Steve. He froze in his tracks. He could see two dimly-glowing rectangles appear and then disappear.

“Captain Zilliox, is that you?” he whispered tentatively while holding his rifle at the ready.

“No, it’s Mister Rogers you flipping moron.”

“Sorry sir, but you know I don’t have nods,” replied Steve to the darkness. Only a few in his group had the luxury of night vision goggles, and CPT Zilliox was one of them.

“Get a head count of the men behind you,” ordered Mike. Steve dutifully turned to the invisible man behind him, who had for some reason seemed to have much better night vision that he, and without the aid of NVGs. This was going to be a long night. Steve fumbled in his butt pack for a granola bar. Opening it, he greedily chomped the bar into nonexistence. He reached for his canteen, but it was gone.

“Crap!” whispered Steve, “my canteen’s gone.”

“Here, have a swig from mine,” said the voice of Mike. Steve reached into the darkness and found the canteen. It was already open, so he took a drink. The water was warm, but it tasted refreshing all the same. He handed it back into the darkness and thanked Mike. The adrenaline rush had long since worn off, and Steve was really beginning to feel tired. They had been up since 0400 the previous morning, preparing for this operation. How many good soldiers had died? How did the Imperials know they were coming? Was there a mole in their battalion? Had an informer tipped off the Imperials? Whatever the case…

Bang! A distinctive sound of incoming ordinance shook Steve from his train of thought. The flash of light from the explosion had burned in instant images of the men to his right and left in the forested night. The adrenaline returned in earnest, and Steve was once again on his feet, running into the darkness.

Greg stood in the silent hallway, contemplating the featureless lighting and pondering his latest projects. While he wasn’t yet an Imperial officer, he had been afforded the rights and privileges of an Imperial NCO, and he had indoctrinated his section on the tactics, techniques and procedures of counterinsurgency warfare. The Empire was facing a well-organized counterinsurgency throughout the galaxy, but their patterns were now predictable. Greg smiled and shook his head. For a galaxy that had been fighting for countless centuries, the military seemed to know little about insurgency warfare. The tools and doctrine Greg had introduced to his superiors were now seeing relatively widespread use throughout the Empire. Where previously insurgencies had been given all but free reign to fester on planets not completely loyal to the Empire, now they were being surgically rooted out. Not only was the Imperial military being used, but diplomatic, economic, and informational tools were being leveraged in effective ways. The latter tools Greg could not claim credit for, but other senior military officers and politicians from Earth had also added lessons learned to the Imperial databases. Greg was truly glad to see his knowledge being put to good use. Terrorists and insurgents had long hounded the Empire’s campaign of bringing peace and stability to the galaxy, but the insurgents were now facing competent counterinsurgency forces. It was only a matter of time before the insurgents either ended their resistance or were themselves ended.

Doors hissing open at the end of the hallway jerked Greg from his thoughts. Two stormtroopers flanked either side of the door with their weapons held at the ready. Am imposing man in a long dark-gray tunic strode forth with his hands behind his back. His eyes were covered in such a way that suggested he was blind. The man’s apparent blindness appeared to concern him little. Greg noticed that while the man had no sidearm, a cylinder of some sort dangled from his right hip.

“I can see you, human from Sol,” announced the man without preamble, “Or rather I should say, I can see where you should be but the force shows naught.” The man walked directly to Greg and stood but three inches from his nose. While Greg was tempted to step backward, he did not. The man was quite apparently someone of authority, and Greg had been trained that one remained in the position of attention or parade-rest until told otherwise by superior officers to whom he reported. Greg remained at attention. The man before him had a receding hairline and dark hair flecked with gray. Greg found his own eyes straying toward the inoperable ones of the man before him. The coverings on the man’s eyes reminded Greg of the really thin, one-piece sunglasses that had been in style for a short time on Earth.

“What is your name?” demanded the man.

“Sir, my name is Gregory Yost. I currently work in the …”

“I didn’t ask you where you worked or what you do,” snapped the man. Greg shut his mouth. The man stared blankly at Greg, and his face seemed strained.

“You are unnatural, Gregory Yost, and that isn’t all,” said the man. He walked around Greg as he stood at attention. Greg felt most uncomfortable around the man now, but what could he do?

“I am an Imperial Inquisitor, Gregory Yost. I have been interested in you for some time now.”

Greg swallowed a lump in his throat. He was pretty certain he didn’t care for this man’s interest in him. He wanted to say something – to ask some questions, but he dared not do so. The imposing man continued to circle him and then came back to face Greg again, only now he was about three feet away. The inquisitor held up a hand and made as if to snap his fingers, without doing so. The man appeared to strain his face somewhat and then sneer.

“Most unnatural indeed; tell me, did you feel anything, Gregory Yost of Sol?”

“No sir, I did not,” replied Greg. What was he supposed to feel? The man’s sneer only increased, and he raised both of his arms like an orchestra conductor, pointing his fingers toward Greg. Without warning, arcs of lightning shot forth from his fingers, lashing out toward Greg. Strangely, the lightning flowed around Greg and continued in different directions. Greg cried out, despite himself and held his hands up before his face. Within moments the lightning stopped, and the inquisitor lowered his hands his grim smile widening.

“And how do you feel now, Gregory Yost?”

Overcoming his initial shock, Greg lowered his hands and resumed the position of attention. He replied, “I’m a bit in shock right now sir, but other than that I’m okay.” The man’s smile vanished. His face was now filled with a mixture of confusion and anger. He turned to one of the two stormtroopers and motioned with his hand. The hapless stormtrooper yelped as he was jerked to his feet and sent hurdling through the air toward Greg with surprising speed. Greg jumped out of the way just in time to miss the full impact of the flying stormtrooper who fell ingloriously into a lump just off to his side. Greg rubbed his left shoulder where one of the storm trooper’s gauntlets had swiped him, and he reached down to help the man to his feet. Just as he finished pulling up the stormtrooper, Greg heard a snap-hiss behind him. He spun around just in time to see the inquisitor hold forth the cylinder that had been attached to his right hip, only now a glowing red beam issued forth from the cylinder, ending just before his face. He froze in place.

“I shall look forward to learning more about you, Gregory Yost of Sol,” said the inquisitor menacingly. Greg wasn’t sure what the red beam of light was for, but he felt reasonably certain it would be harmful if it came in contact with him.

“Yes sir,” replied Greg weakly. The inquisitor’s beam hissed again and then pulled itself back into the metal cylinder. He reattached it to his hip and turned to exit without another word. The door hissed closed.

The stormtrooper Greg had helped to his feet motioned a hand toward the opposite door and said, “I think that will be all.” Greg nodded toward the armored man and turned to exit. He had a lot of work still piled up and waiting for him, and it wasn’t going to do itself. Greg really hoped not to run into that inquisitor again.

Harry Bertha had served a lot of years in uniform, and these days he’d become accustomed to serving out of uniform. Never during his service in the US Army had Harry questioned his leadership, at least not on a strategic or operational level. In front of his troops, Harry didn’t have the luxury of questioning his superiors. Their orders were his orders, plain and simple. Harry shook his head slowly as he studied the latest roster. Thirty-eight men had died in the most recent operation. What passed for battalions and companies these days was but a shadow of former years – before the Empire. They couldn’t afford to lose so many, and the impact on the morale of the men remaining was devastating. Harry could see it in their eyes; they were losing hope. What was the point of attacking Imperial outposts and isolated targets? They had countless billions at their disposal, and their ships, if they chose to use them, could obliterate surface targets more effectively than several battalions worth of MLRS.

Harry stood and walked toward the command center. That was a joke too. This little hut in which he and his staff had holed up in was what passed for a CP. That wasn’t so bad, really, since he remembered all to clearly setting up his TAC on the hood of a HMMWV or a next to his command tank. But this was the third CP this week, and the constant tearing down, running, and setting up was wearing on his command staff. They weren’t paid or equipped for this anymore, so what supplies and equipment they obtained were from civilians sympathetic to their cause or was raided from Imperial stocks.

Harry opened the old wooden door that separated his own room from the command center. The room sported older telephone models and some older CB radio equipment. Spread around were various code books, lists of contacts, journal logs, and Styrofoam coffee cups in a mixture of stages of use. As he entered the room, a younger individual jammed a mug into his hand, and Harry lifted it to his mouth. The steaming coffee was hot. That’s about all that could be said in its favor. Harry thanked the young man and headed toward a blond-haired man who was studying a map mounted to one of the shack’s walls. Small round stickies were taped to the map in assorted colors. A key off to one side of the map denoted what each color represented. Far too many of the colors represented Imperial outposts. A tiny smattering of green discs denoted US positions. Harry blinked. That wasn’t right either; there was no US now, and there were no US forces. They were insurgents. The taste of that word in his mouth was bad, so Harry chose not to say it. He referred to his men as patriots.

“Sir, good morning,” said MAJ Eric Spencer. His hair was much longer now, and his moustache still struck Harry as somehow wrong. Nevertheless, he had been an excellent S3 prior to the Imperial attack on Earth, and he was doing a stellar job now of wearing the XO hat.

“Good morning, Eric,” replied Harry, “Anything new overnight?” The question was almost rhetorical, for Harry knew that anything of significance would have resulted in his interrupted sleep – all three and a half hours of it. His CCIR were extensive, and few events, especially by the enemy, did not require his attention.

“The attack on IP Number 28 was repulsed, sir,” said Eric, motioning toward one of the red discs to their north.

“Casualties?”

“Rich told me the strike force was nearly wiped out, sir.” Harry cursed aloud. Rich Holden was the S3 for 3rd Battalion, 78th Infantry. He knew that the battalion S3s kept relatively close contact with each other. Their strike force had consisted of three companies. That was most of the battalion. He knew that LTC Carlos Marcano likely led that operation in person.

“What about Colonel Marcano?”

“No word yet, sir,” replied Eric, “But you should also see this.” Harry’s S3 motioned toward a local newspaper. The headline story bespoke of an insurgency ring broken up and arrested. Harry perused the names listed to see whether or not he recognized any.

“Get me Lancer Six on the horn, Eric,” said Harry gravely. His S3/XO hurried toward a set of phones and spoke to one of the soldiers manning them. In the old days, contacting one’s higher was a simple matter, but these days, there was a lot of work-around involved. The Imperials were all too effective at using communication to ferret out patriots and their supporters.

The sergeant manning the phones turned and said, “Sir, Lancer Six on the line for you.” Harry hurried to the phone and picked it up, “The ball was fumbled Mac, and the refs were to crooked to call it.”

“Slow down, Doug,” came the tinny reply from the headset. They all used fake names and code words now, for to do otherwise was just suicidal. The colonel continued, “What call did the ref make?”

“The team was only sixteen yards from scoring, and the ref called a fumble,” replied Harry. Sixteen of the names in that paper were men or women who knew something about his battalion.

“What about a field goal?” inquired Lancer 6.

“A field goal?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit far out, but he’s got the leg. He needs to make the kick.”

“We could lose if he misses,” replied Harry tentatively.

“We lose if he doesn’t kick. See that he gets the shot.” The phone went dead. Harry turned and faced the rest of the command center.

“We jump in 30 minutes.” He turned to face his communications sergeant, “Send a message to our place kicker. Tell him it’s time to try for a field goal. The team is counting on him. The young NCO nodded and began typing on his terminal.

General Voss stared at his young charge from another galaxy. From his screen, he could watch Yost, but Yost was oblivious. He really had expected that inquisitor to kill Yost today, and that would have been a shame. Yost was proving extremely valuable and competent – something all too rare in Voss’ recent experience. What would an inquisitor want with him anyway?

Yost had provided a valuable set of tools that programmers were able to turn into effective use. Those tools and the procedures to use them had been beamed throughout the fleet and were being used to devastating effect against rebel forces. Voss knew from his reports that various insurgent groups on Sol had been absolute pains in the neck for the sector commander there. They couldn't just wipe the planet out. It was the only habitable planet they'd discovered in that galaxy. The new tactics and tools were producing fruit there too, but Voss chose to keep such information from Yost. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

He left his perch and sauntered down to the pit where Yost and other men were busily plugging away on monitors. Voss noted with wry amusement that Yost was still somewhat reliant on writing down notes and scribbling on parchment. Those hadn’t been easy to come by, but Voss ensured his staff was supplied with what they needed. He saw that Yost was debating the use of one of his HUMINT tools with a lieutenant.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Voss, who was clearly not sorry. Both men stood ramrod straight before him, and Yost said, “Yes sir?”

“Dismissed, lieutenant,” said Voss as he eyed the young officer. The lieutenant nodded and promptly disappeared. Yost remained at attention.

“At ease,” said Voss. Yost relaxed his posture and placed his hands behind his back. Yes, it would have been extremely unfortunate to lose him.

“How did your meeting go earlier today?” asked Voss. He knew full well how it went. His surveillance had caught nearly a picture-perfect debriefing from one of the stormtroopers who had been present. He had seen all of the things that had been done to his young charge, including the stormtrooper being hurled through the air with the greatest of ease. He saw pain involuntarily come to the face of Yost, as Yost absently reached up to rub his left shoulder.

“It was an interesting meeting, sir. If you don’t mind my asking, who was he?”

“It isn’t important for you to know his name, and it’s probably better that you don’t. He’s an Imperial Inquisitor, and that is sufficient to know,” replied Voss. He recalled the horrible lightning flowing around Yost and the inquisitor later threatening his man with that blasted Jedi weapon. The image angered him, but he was powerless to affect anything concerning inquisitors. His power and reach had very real limits.

“From my reports, you handled yourself well, “said Voss. That was the mother of all understatements – Yost should have been dead by now. Yost smiled weakly and nodded.

“I’ll let you get back to work then,” said Voss as he turned to head back to his office.

Greg wondered just how much General Yost knew. It was likely quite a bit. He apparently knew that the man with whom Greg had met earlier that day was an inquisitor, and he likely knew his name. Greg sat and stared at his monitor. He toyed with the idea of conducting a search on Imperial Inquisitors, but he thought better of it. Such a move would likely result in nothing good or pleasant, besides, it wasn’t that important to know the name of the blind man who shot lightning from his fingers … was it? Greg typed a series of keys that would bring up his email. He was prepared to delete the normal spam that filled his account, but then his fingers froze. One of the emails was from a Ms. Linda Elliott. Greg typed the series of keys to open the message.

Code: Select all

Thanks for the kind thoughts and prayers concerning my uncle.  He’s doing better now, and his love for football is as healthy as always, even if he can’t quite yet get out of bed.  I would still love to send you a care package, but sending cookies to Imperial Center is expensive!  Keep us in your thoughts, and Jerry says hi.

Yours truly, 

Ms. Elliott


ps – Uncle Rob says he thinks a field goal will win the next game.

Greg blinked and felt his face flushing. What was he supposed to do now? What could he do? He mentally wished the message into oblivion, but there it remained. His mission orders had changed. In his mind’s eye he could see the sneer of the inquisitor.

Stuart Mackey · Post by **Stuart Mackey** » 2007-08-16 11:37pm

More mysterious by the chapter. I wonder if he will learn anything from an old guy in a desert, farthest from the brighest centre of the universe?

jegs2 · Post by **jegs2** » 2008-07-08 03:36pm

Squeezed in this update on some precious spare time ... hope y'all enjoy it:

Resistance

Chapter 12

A large bipedal mechanism lurched noisily down the road, while the compartment atop two mechanical legs swiveled to the left and right. The troopers inside were unhappy with their assignment, because they knew too well that this stretch of road had become a haven for insurgents bent on causing no end of grief for Imperial troops. They eyed their instruments nervously and strained with their eyes to see through the thick canopy of forest. Their instruments revealed nothing. Their natural vision picked out the various craters that had been blasted into the road. Every so often, they spotted pieces of shattered and scorched remnants of Imperial equipment off the side of the road. The clean-up crews had done a pretty good job of clearing out most of the debris, and engineers conducted road repair. But here, there was little in the way of road repair. Not all of the blasted remnants of vehicles along the side of the road were Imperial in make. The remains of US Army vehicles dotted the landscape as well. Some of those had been used by the very engineers who had come to service the road and found only an untimely death at the hands of the insurgents.

Evening light was slowly transforming into nautical twilight, and the light of a few of the billions of stars and galaxies were beginning to pierce the sky and grace the planetary surface. Imperial detection instruments were good, and during the start of the insurgency they had been very effective at sniffing out ambushes. Additionally, the explosives native to the planet were powerful, but they were often insufficient against the plasteel armor of Imperial combat systems. That was then. Nobody could prove it, but the local Imperial government knew that Rebels had somehow smuggled high-grade shaped explosives and heavy weapons onto the planet, and they were now in use by the insurgency. Similarly, the insurgents were now much better at concealing themselves from Imperial sensors.

“I still don’t understand why they don’t just waste this useless stretch of land,” growled the junior of the two troopers. His gaze alternated nervously between the instruments glowing softly before him and the more three-dimensional view of the dark landscape through his periscope. Not so long ago, the forward ports of his Imperial walker would have been pushed open on the bottom, allowing the cool breeze of the evening air to wash over him and offering a limited view of what was in front of the crew compartment. That also was then. Too many walkers had been disabled and their crew killed in the past, and the Imperial maintenance sections added more armor to the compartments, along with more jamming mechanisms. Reports were that the insurgents possessed some walkers and used them in ambushes and strikes against Imperial checkpoints.

“It’s the only planet within this galaxy that’s inhabited or inhabitable,” returned the senior trooper automatically, “besides, they’re just a bunch of Rebels. They’ll find out they’re on the losing side soon enough.” Like his counterpart, he too was studying his instruments, looking carefully for anything even vaguely out of the ordinary. They had stopped earlier in the evening to investigate something suspicious. Dismounting wasn’t an option – that invited a quick death. Instead, the walkers had been fitted with robotic arms, packed with local sensors and manipulating claws. It was slow and cumbersome work, but it saved manpower. The last stop proved to be the result of a hoax bomb. The sophisticated sensors had uncovered three old beer bottles tied together with 550 cord and some old chemical lights. The Force only knew what the insurgents sure to be concealed within the surrounding forest were doing while the walker had been stopped for more than 30 minutes investigating what turned out to be garbage.

“I don’t care if it’s the only rock in this stupid galaxy or not,” replied the junior trooper with bitterness, “So far as I’m concerned, we need to exfiltrate this place, raze it to the ground and terriform it from scratch.” The senior trooper was about to reply, when he heard an audible beep, followed by a voice in Basic with a heavy dialect. It came through weakly. The trooper’s eyes fell upon a rectangular green box that had been fitted into the already jammed compartment. Glowing green digits on the face of the thing identified a series of numbers in the local language. He knew the item was termed as a “SINCGARS,” and though he knew that to be an acronym for something, he didn’t know what the acronym was, nor did he care to learn. That the thing was in his vehicle in the first place was mildly insulting to him. It was designed by the local military to encode and decode transmissions while rotating through many frequencies per second. It also relied on ancient radio technology, was relatively power hungry for its limited role, and its onboard computer was horribly slow. As a result, the thing beeped and then a voice emanated forth, and the delay due to encryption was noticeable. The trooper knew why the SINGARS radio was in his compartment. It was how Imperial combat vehicles communicated with the vehicles native to Sol that were following his walker at a distance. In the past, such native vehicles were outfitted with Imperial communications suites, but the insurgents had proven to be adept at stripping vehicles of those systems once they had disabled them and eliminated the occupants. The Empire felt it no longer could afford to lose such sensitive equipment to the already dangerous insurgency. The trooper reached for a switch above his head to change over to the archaic radio system. Thankfully, Imperial maintenance crews and communications technicians had wired the radio system into the vehicle’s communications suite.

“Last calling station, you came in broken and unreadable. Say again,” barked the trooper into the air. He knew that the system’s computer-controlled microphone would modulate his voice for maximum audible value, but it was designed for Imperial systems, not the alien radio systems. While still locking his eyes onto his various critical systems, the trooper listened for the expected reply.

“Scout Five Seven, this is Caveman Six,” came in a now readable voice after the usual beep, “We have reached Checkpoint two nine four – negative enemy contact.” The trooper acknowledged the transmission and then toggled a display in front of him. A map glowed, showing the route on which he and the convoy of vehicles behind him were traveling. A few pecks of the screen revealed an angry glow of red dots which represented historical attacks by insurgents along the route. With the slightest tinge of relief, he saw that his convoy was beyond the most popular ambush sites. The vehicles carried bulk supplies that were destined for smaller Imperial combat outposts. Not so long ago, Imperial shuttles delivered supplies to those isolated locations, but Rebels had not neglected the smuggling of deadly weapon systems that were all too effective at acquiring and destroying airborne craft, and after the Empire had lost a few dozen shuttles, they decided the risk of re-supplying the combat outposts by air was too high for the benefit. Thus, ground convoys to such locations were now the norm. Most such convoys were protected by several Imperial combat vehicles, but this was a small one, so only two modified scout walkers were allocated to provide security. The trooper had been told he could expect air support if needed, but it was not allocated to the mission. Unless he saw craft overhead, the trooper knew that a response by such airborne craft would likely come too late to help him.

“This is crap!” said the junior trooper suddenly. His counterpart turned to him to learn just what the trooper thought was crap.

“What?” he replied uninterestedly, both annoyed and relieved at having his attention momentarily removed from the instruments before him.

“We have the best systems and equipment in the galaxy, and they’re all but worthless for finding rebels in places like this,” continued the frustrated trooper, “We should be able to see a tick on a gungar with these scopes, but…”

WHUMP!

The shock against the rear of the walker’s compartment was barely noticeable, but experience instantly told both troopers that the blast had come from their rear, was not aimed at them, and had been considerable. Slight sounds that penetrated the up-armored walker also informed the troopers that heavy weapons fire was ringing out behind them.

“Scout Five Seven, Caveman Two Four, the Six has been hit! Damage appears catastrophic! We’re taking fire from our three and nine o’clock, returning fire. We’ve got no PID!” said a disembodied and frantic voice over the SINCGARS radio system after the characteristic beep. The ranking trooper cursed softly to himself and maneuvered his walker to the rear. He scanned his systems and saw vague readings that were most likely insurgents murdering members of his trust. He fired a quick burst from his side cannon at the forest edge. He could still see the heavy weapons fire through his visual scope, but much of it originated from the mounted weapon systems of the trapped wheeled vehicles.

The senior trooper had been on patrols like this long enough to recognize .50 caliber machine gun tracers, and his instruments confirmed that such fire was also coming from the wood line. The insurgents had waited for his walker to pass by and then sprung their ambush on the wheeled vehicles hauling supplies, equipment and personnel. How many stormtroopers were trapped in those burning vehicles? Not all of them were, for the trooper could also see lancing red blaster fire leaping into the forest. At least some of the stormtroopers had dismounted and joined in the fight. He couldn’t see their armor, for the stormtroopers had long ago ceased wearing the bright white armor and now sported camouflaged armor that blended in with the terrain.

“Contact, bearing two four three, mark two!” barked the second trooper. As the walker continued lurching toward the gunfire, angry red bolts burned forth from its tubes and found marks inside the forest. A small fire now burned lightly within the trees, and the volume of heavy weapons fire was lessening. Small-arms fire from native projectile weapons mixed in with the heavier projectile weapons and red blaster fire, but all of it was now originating from the convoy. The lead trooper called for a cease fire as he and his counterpart busily scanned the forest for signs of further enemy activity. He found none, but scanners picked up about a half dozen dead bodies inside the forest line, and more than 30 were dead within the convoy, along with many more badly injured. He knew from experience that insurgents did not leave behind wounded. They usually killed themselves or were in turn killed if they were too badly injured to escape. Some booby-trapped themselves in hopes of slaughtering more of their foes even in death. Resignedly, the lead trooper conducted a call to his higher headquarters and his counterpart gave the appropriate instructions to the remaining functional vehicles and personnel within the convoy.

Damaged vehicles were completely destroyed in place, and the bodies of the locals found hasty graves along the side of the road. Some bodies were loaded onto wheeled vehicles, but most of those had already been loaded down with supplies and equipment, and were now cross-loading from damaged and destroyed vehicles. Equipment that could not be loaded in the few vehicles remaining was also destroyed in place. Then there were the injured. The lead trooper shook his head in frustration. This isn’t what he had signed up for.

Billions of stars shown brightly through the transparency, reminding anyone who viewed them just how insignificant a being was in relation to their vast expanse. An older man with hair speckled more with grey than a younger brown peered blankly through the transparency, allowing his eyes to drop to the glowing orb about which his ship orbited. His furrowed brow bespoke the recent setbacks that Imperial troops had been dealt throughout various continents on the planet now reflecting blue light from its large oceans to his vision. He had petitioned to the High Command to raze portions of Sol in order to restore order and quash the various insurgencies, but his requests had been denied. While this had initially been a much sought-after post for Imperial officers, it now had become a place to be avoided.

The massive star destroyer in which the admiral was currently ensconced possessed sufficient weaponry in and of itself to reduce the planet at the lower end of his vision to a smoldering ruin, and yet its immensely powerful guns remained mockingly silent. He knew that three other star destroyers and a small host of smaller warships floated in orbit around Sol, and picket ships were scattered throughout the solar system. The multiple-colored squares arranged neatly on his tunic marked him as an admiral, but for now he felt as helpless as a cadet, powerless to exercise his true authority. His hands were tied, and rumor was that the Emperor himself was instrumental in ensuring the knot was tight. That was only rumor though, and for all his disappointment, the admiral was an Imperial officer. Orders would be obeyed without question, even here on the edge of nowhere.

A soft beep within his room informed the admiral that his attention was needed. He absently checked his chronometer, noticing that it was nearly time for his periodic update. Suppressing a sigh, the admiral exited his room and made his way to the bridge of the flagship. During his trek, officers, crewmen, and stormtroopers duly stepped aside for him, some coming to the position of attention, and others pausing momentarily and then moving hurriedly onward. The admiral paid them little attention as he continued on his way. The blast doors to the bridge swished open at his arrival, and two flanking stormtroopers snapped to attention, with their blasters at port arms.

“Admiral on deck!” shouted a senior crewman who happened to have his eyes on the blast doors when they opened. Other crewman and officers quickly rose to their feet.

“As you were!” replied the admiral as he continued toward the front of the bridge. To either side of him, officers and crewmen in pits resumed their seats and attention to various instruments, scopes and monitors. The vessel’s captain, a young man by the name of Rogh from Alderaan, waited at a modified position of attention. He held a small remote in his right hand and stood in front of a large monitor. Several seats were to his front, along with various senior officers including ship captains and senior ground commanders standing in front of the chairs. “Take your seats, gentlemen,” said the admiral as he took his own seat at the front of the group.

Captain Rough gestured to another officer, who began to brief the admiral and gathered senior officers on the events of the day. Included were at least three detections of possible smuggling operations.

“Were we able to intercept any of the smugglers?” inquired the admiral.

“Sir, we intercepted one outbound Corellian freighter, but the occupants checked out and we found no contraband. Sources indicated that the ship likely brought in contraband destined for Rebel sympathizers on the planet – possibly explosives and small-arms weapons.”

The admiral frowned. “Rebel sympathizers” were what insurgents on Sol were being labeled now. He had held his post for almost two years, and he wasn’t sure the label fit. The insurgents seemed to sympathize with nobody, though they were all too willing to take whatever the Rebels could get to them. The Empire had sent in bounty hunters against known insurgent leaders, but most of the bounty hunters did not return, and the few that did catch leaders of the insurgency took their bounty and left, swearing off the practice of their trade upon the surface of Sol. The insurgent leaders provided little of value, even when the interrogation droids got through with them. Part of the problem was that there was no single insurgency down there. There were many different insurgencies and many different goals. The only thing they held in common with each other was a hatred of the Empire. The Empire had rounded up thousands of people and executed them in response to insurgent violence, but such actions seemed only to provoke the populace further against Imperial rule, and insurgents only grew stronger. They had an uncanny ability to wage an effective information operations campaign against the Empire, blowing Imperial mistakes out of proportion and demonizing even the most benign Imperial efforts to assist the planet’s populace.

The Imperial officer providing the brief continued, covering the numerous attacks against Imperial forces across the planetary surface. No one land mass seemed more or less active than another. Had that been the case, the Empire might have been able to make an example out of a more rebellious population. Reprisals against the populace still continued, and insurgents who were captured were publicly put to death. The policy seemed to garner little effect though, much to the chagrin of the senior leadership now present. The briefing officer’s multiple reports of attacks against Imperial forces down below would have drawn much ire and angry retorts from senior commanders several months ago. But now, most appeared unfazed and almost disinterested at the reports of dead and injured Imperial personnel due to enemy action. It was just part of doing business here. As the younger officer concluded his brief, he opened the floor up to questions.

“We haven’t seen much violent activity in certain sections of what are otherwise violent and insurgent-controlled landmasses,” said one of the generals in charge of a land mass near what was called Europe.

“Sir, some population centers are less prone to armed resistance than others,” said the briefing officer obviously, “but those areas less prone to violent resistance are still subject to non-violent resistance.” The admiral silently wondered why the general had bothered to speak. These briefs were depressing and lengthy enough without someone asking stupid questions or pointing out the obvious. Yes, some of the population centers would conduct activities like work stoppages instead of violent activity, though such activity was hardly less damaging to Imperial interests on the planet. After a couple more questions and disinterested answers or promises of forthcoming answers, the brief was concluded.

As the gathered senior officers departed the bridge for their various shuttles, the admiral slowly made his way to the enormous view plates of the star destroyer’s bridge. At the lower edge of the transparencies, a bright glow of Sol seemed to warm the feet within his boots. A brief smile flashed across the admiral’s face as he allowed himself to envision heavy turbolasers biting deeply into the crust and mantle of the accursed planet, withering all life away in righteous fire. Then reality came crushing back down, wiping the smile from his face. No. More of his men would uselessly die there, and for what? Yes, he knew the planet was the only habitable one detected within this galaxy, but why not raze and terriform it, or why not just poison and eliminate the native intelligent population, allow the poison to subside, and then colonize it? He shook his head. That led only to more futile thoughts. The admiral turned his gaze outward, toward the stars. This pathetic population had managed only the very beginnings of space exploration when the Empire had arrived, and now much of that population had access to hyperspace travel that could hurl them to far-flung worlds in a different galaxy altogether. How did they display their gratitude? Again the admiral shook his head and fixed his gaze upon a distant and dim star. He could almost imagine Coruscant in the distance, though he knew the notion to be absurd. Still, one could occasionally afford to daydream, even in a place like this.

“Yes, the report is true. You are slotted for the next class here on Imperial Center,” answered the personnel clerk over the intercom. Greg blinked. He had put in an application for the Imperial Military Academy five months ago, but he had been all but assured that he would not be accepted. Academy administrators and personnel screeners were notorious for weeding out all but those deemed to be most loyal to the Empire. Greg also found out that the academy generally accepted only applicants from core systems or systems closer to the core. Sol definitely did not fit the bill. He had inquired about other commissioning sources, but there appeared to be none. Greg could find no officer candidate school or even a form of reserve officer training corps. From what he understood, that made sense. The Empire wanted its officers firmly vetted and indoctrinated, and a four-year academy wherein the activities of cadets were tightly monitored and controlled would go a long way in ensuring loyalty throughout the officer ranks of the far-flung Empire.

“Thanks, uh, do you have a starting date for the class?” inquired Greg of the speaker on his console. The person on the other end did not respond for a while, and Greg wondered if perhaps he had terminated the connection.

“You will report in twenty-eight standard days,” replied the clerk, just as Greg was about to attempt to reestablish communication. He wondered inwardly why such communication did not include video, but then what had just been said registered.

“Twenty-eight days? My commander…”

“Your commander has been informed.”

“Uh, ok, I guess. Thanks for the information. Uh, out,” said Greg as he pressed a button to terminate the connection. He pondered what he had just learned. Greg had heard the rumor from a fellow intelligence crewman who had offered him congratulations earlier in the day. He had first dismissed the information as a joke, but then another crewman had also congratulated him later in the day. That proved too much of a coincidence.

Greg also pondered the cryptic message he was sure had come from his former boss on Sol. That was almost a year ago. It had informed him to act, or so he thought. Greg expected follow-on instructions, but they had not yet made their way to his terminal. He had briefly considered revealing the message to his superiors, but then he decided against it. He wasn’t yet ready to turn on his own people, though what defined his own people now seemed increasingly vague with each passing day. He could think of nothing in the message that forbade him from attending the Imperial Military Academy on Coruscant. For the life of him, Greg couldn’t figure out what MS. Elliott had meant by a kick winning a football game. He assumed that meant that he was supposed to do something. But what was it he was supposed to do? Find the Imperial inquisitor and kick him in the nuts? A brief smile washed over Greg’s face, and he nearly laughed out loud. He was glad he didn’t. Other terminals were still in use, and he would have drawn odd looks.

Greg stared at his terminal. He had made significant progress in programming in counterinsurgency doctrine and tools, and he had provided training to others. He understood that some of those tools were being used to good effect against the terrorists throughout the galaxy, and the Rebels were starting to feel the pinch. It was even rumored that his identity had been leaked to the Rebels, who now sought his untimely demise. Greg chuckled. The thought of being added to a death list simply for entering what he knew into a terminal struck him as absurd. Greg had made some solid acquaintances with some of the analysts with whom he worked, and he would miss spending some of his free time with them. He had enjoyed cruising some of the bars and clubs throughout the city, and there were no shortages of places to visit. He had even dated a couple of women, though none of them struck him as possibilities for long-term commitments, nor did they seem interested in such a prospect. He didn’t know if his girlfriend on Sol was still alive after all this time, but he imagined that she had moved on by now, likely assuming the worst of Greg, or perhaps just finding someone else. Greg logged off of his terminal and made his way to his commander’s office. As he strode down the hallway outside of the work center, Greg nearly ran headlong into General Voss.

“Uh, pardon me, sir!” said Yost as he snapped to attention. The general stopped and looked at Greg.

“Congratulations on your selection to the academy, Yost,” announced the general without preamble. Greg was taken aback and nearly lost his composure. He also almost asked the senior officer for what he was being congratulated. Then he remembered who the senior officer was and what he tended to know.

“Thank you, sir.” The general gave Yost a weak smile and then continued on his way. Greg relaxed and then made his way to his quarters. Packing took less time than Greg thought it would. He really didn’t have much. Twenty-seven days and a wakeup were all that separated Greg from becoming an Imperial cadet. The mused what life would be like at the academy and thought about asking an officer about it. No, asking officers about the academy would likely garner little other than sharp replies. Most Imperial officers didn’t appear too keen on speaking with enlisted members outside of duty requirements. That struck Greg as a bit sad. As a US officer, he had known a great deal about his own enlisted men, and while he was never friends with them, he was happy to answer any questions they might have had.

Greg changed out of his work clothes and decided to relax in one of the facility’s multiple recreational centers. There were female crewmen about, but not very many. Greg had halfway hoped to strike up a casual relationship with one of them, but now that he was slated for the academy, that seemed less of a good idea. As it was, Greg ordered what passed for a beer and settled in to watch a holovid. This particular piece of entertainment depicted the end of the Clone War. Greg watched as Jedi turned on their clone troopers, slaughtering them in place with lightening from their fingertips and then turning on helpless, screaming civilians. Truly, these must have been people bent on evil. Vaguely, he now wondered if that Imperial inquisitor had once been one of those awful Jedi. Greg involuntarily rubbed his shoulder, where he could feel a small bruise.

Harry Bertha was feeling better. For three nights this week he had got more than six hours of sleep per night. Only two months ago, that would have been unthinkable. He still ordered the movement of his tactical operations center nearly every day, but his team was adept and quick. TOC jumps were so fluid now that their impacts were hardly felt anymore. Not jumping the TOC now seemed unnatural. He had received deliveries of advanced equipment, munitions, weapons, and supplies from higher. He learned that the Rebels had smuggled the stuff to Earth, doling it out to the many insurgencies. They were hurting the Empire’s efforts here on the planet. Not that the Empire was going away, but their stay was becoming more miserable by the day.

Harry had long since stopped thinking about why he was fighting. That question was for higher headquarters and people with larger paychecks to answer. For months now, he had even begun receiving salaries for his soldiers and officers, though it was all in cash. The Empire had attempted to eliminate cash and implement their electronic credit system. Some parts of Earth were using the system, but much of the population still wasn’t. Cold, hard cash was still accepted pretty much wherever you went in what was once called the United States. The Rebels had made it possible for patriots to strike Imperial interests far and wide, and the Imperials were smarting from such attacks. Official news releases played down patriot attacks, but Harry knew better. He had seen the actual reports, and thanks to successful attacks he was in possession of superior equipment from another galaxy.

Briefly, Harry Bertha wondered why the Empire didn’t turn its massive warships loose on his planet. He knew they possessed the ability to unleash hell on the surface, but with the exception of a show of force in the Middle East, Washington D.C., and a select group of cities across the globe, the guns of the giant starships had remained mostly silent. That puzzled Harry. Were he in charge of such ships, he most certainly would have ordered a series of deadly strikes on the planet. He wondered about the competence of the Imperial officers commanding those ships. Oh well, it wasn’t his call, and thankfully the Imperials hadn’t yet unleashed those ships of theirs.

“Sir!” said a junior officer, poking his head into Harry’s small room. Harry studied the kid, for in his mind that’s what he was – a kid. The young officer wore civilian clothes like every other patriot, but Harry knew that he was ranked as a second lieutenant. He knew the lad had not attended any form of commissioning program, and yet he was a commissioned officer – for a nation that officially no longer existed. These were indeed strange times.

“Yes, lieutenant?” replied Harry, who simply could not remember the kid’s name.

“Sir, you’ve got a message from Lancer Six.” Harry started. He hadn’t received a message from Lancer Six in months, though he did send periodic reports. Gone were the clunky radio sets and CBs. The battalion now had extra-galactic communications equipment with unimaginably complex encryption. Harry walked into the communications room. Still present was an HF radio set, but it had not been used in many months, and it served only as a backup if all else failed. Harry walked toward the far end of the room where a small, alien-looking data pad awaited. It wasn’t much larger than a calculator, and it reminded him of an over-sized and flattened cell phone with a built-in computer. He looked at the message displayed on the screen.

Code: Select all

THE HALF BACK IS IN THE LOCKER ROOM.  THE COACH IS SET TO MAKE ONE HELL OF A HALF-TIME SPEECH!

So that was it – Yost was in now. Harry recalled the young lieutenant who had served as his assistant S2. That seemed an eternity ago. He had been a quiet but promising officer, and Harry knew him to be intelligent. He was also loyal. He would need that loyalty now. The right strings had been pulled and the right folks impressed, so now Gregory Yost was set to become an Imperial officer.

Colonel Bertha thought about his own days at the US Military Academy. They had been arduous and full of indoctrination. He had come out with a great sense of honor for his country and a deep sense of duty. Would the Imperial Academy do the same for Yost? Would his loyalty to the US survive? In four years, they would know. Then again, in four years they all could be dead and nothing more than a memory. Harry shrugged and peered over at the watch officer.

“How’s the coffee this morning, Bill?’

“It’s hot, sir.”

“Outstanding! Think I’ll grab a cup,” said Harry with a wry smile.

Gregory Yost stepped off the transport and found himself milling about with a crowd of men, mostly younger than himself. The majority of the young men wore civilian clothes denoting the planets from which they hailed. A small scattering wore grey service uniforms like Greg. He knew that the academy allowed a very small percentage of enlisted men to compete for entrance. The hall at which the men had been deposited was cavernous, and Imperial posters announcing duty, sacrifice, and service to the Empire were scattered throughout the massive hall. Nobody here seemed to be in charge.

Greg was tempted to take charge and get all the civilians into a formation, but then he heard the heavy and synchronized footfalls of Imperial stormtroopers. Greg saw that the element of stormtroopers marched out toward the disorganized crowd, members of which hurried out of the way of the impressive display. Then the stormtroopers split their formation without warning and, continuing to march in unison, turned in sharp angles until they completely surrounded the crowd. At once, all the stormtroopers snapped to attention, their blasters at port arms. The crowd was now almost completely silent.

Loud footfalls of military boots announced the arrival of a few individuals. Greg had to maneuver his way toward the front of the crowd, using his uniform to make it seem he belonged there. He could now see that a high-ranking individual stood in the center of two stormtroopers with distinctive shoulder pauldrins and wicked-looking carbines at the ready. Greg guessed they were the senior officer’s personal security detachment.

“Welcome to the Imperial Military Academy on Imperial Center!” announced the senior officer, “My name is General Nadine, and I am the Commandant of this academy.”

Greg looked around in slight bafflement, because he knew that the voice of the general could not naturally carry in this vast hall. The man apparently had a lapel microphone or something like it. From this distance, Greg couldn’t tell.

“You have all come here to seek to serve as officers in the Empire! Many of you will not make it through the rigorous training the next four standard years will entail. Those of you who do will gain the high privilege and deep responsibility of leading Imperial soldiers and crewmen in battle against the forces of chaos, disruption, and terrorism that threaten daily to upset the peace and order of our mighty Empire. Long live Emperor Palpatine!” With that, the general was finished, and he and his PSD conducted a perfect about face, marching back to wherever they’d come from.

Greg looked about at the hall and the awed mass of civilians within it. This would be interesting.

Stuart Mackey · Post by **Stuart Mackey** » 2008-07-08 04:06pm

Welcome back! that was most excellent.

phongn · Post by **phongn** » 2008-07-08 04:47pm

Indeed, that was most excellent.

The Vortex Empire · Post by **The Vortex Empire** » 2008-07-09 12:22pm

Very good! I had forgotten about this story since the last update.