Resistance

[Michael Garrity]

Greetings, all:

From reading all the chapters thus far, is it logical to assume that George Lucas and all of his ST movies do not exist in this reality?

Mike Garrity

[jegs2]

Greetings, all:

From reading all the chapters thus far, is it logical to assume that George Lucas and all of his ST movies do not exist in this reality?

Mike Garrity

Yes.

[Michael Garrity]

Greetings:

I vote that this thread be moved to the completed/cleaned up fanfic sub forum. There is far too much potential here to be lost.

Mike Garrity

[jegs2]

Have touched up this fanfic a bit and posted a more cleaned-up version on this website. As I started posting the fanfic here first, you will also continue to get updates before they're posted elsewhere.

Chapter 13 is forthcoming ... perhaps before the New Year.

[Singular Quartet]

Have touched up this fanfic a bit and posted a more cleaned-up version on this website. As I started posting the fanfic here first, you will also continue to get updates before they're posted elsewhere.

Chapter 13 is forthcoming ... perhaps before the New Year.

Poking through the FFN one, and there seems to be a problem at the bottom of chapter 8. Hope to see more of this soon.

[jegs2]

Thanks for the catch on Chapter 8 - now fixed.

[[R_H]]

I'm hooked.

[Simon_Jester]

"General Nadine," eh?

Is that a typo for someone more famous, or a not-typo for someone not-famous?

[Michael Garrity]

jegs2:

I wonder how things might turn out if the Earth in your story was either Marvel Earth or DC Earth. I imagine Superman wouldn't have too much trouble punting an AT-AT into orbit...

Mike Garrity

[LadyTevar]

NOw that I've caught up with the story, I have to wait patiently for the next chapter

[jegs2]

As promised, here is the long-awaited Chapter 13. You can thank my deployment for this - a bit too much time on my hands. Either way, enjoy:

Chapter 13

The dark and menacing figure strode purposefully through the corridors of the massive building, his mind bent only on the upcoming meeting. Over many years, he had become hardened in his attitude, clinging to anger as a small child might cling to a favorite toy. The figure took no notice of others quickly stepping aside as he passed, glancing nervously in his direction – but never for long. Fear is what he sensed all about him as he continued his trek; fear and weakness. He despised both, but he also used both to bring all to heel about him, usually unconsciously. His deep breathing was regulated by the machine that now composed much of what was left of his body, a constant reminder of the grievous injuries he had sustained so many years ago. Most of those injuries would never heal. Ironically, that weakness too stirred fear in those around him. Fear is what all felt for him, save one.

Master – that name he reserved for that one who did not fear him, or at least he did not sense fear from him. Lord Vader strode mechanically toward the chambers to which he had been summoned, now ignoring the terror emanating from those around him and focusing instead on his coming encounter. Too recently he had once again experienced fear himself. When his flagship had crossed into the strange galaxy containing the planet Sol, all strength had left Vader unexpectedly. He had felt a complete absence of the Force, and palpable fear had washed over him like a tidal wave. He had been gripped in weakness. He recalled having summoned only sufficient strength to order the ship back to his own galaxy. Anger over that weakness now rose in him, but he held it in check. He was arriving at his destination.

“What is thy bidding, my master?” Lord Vader uttered as he kneeled before the gnarled old man. Without looking through the vision-enhanced photo-receptors built into his black, plasteel face mask, Vader could sense the figure seated before him. His presence in the Force was hideously strong – as strong as others were weak. His iron will had bent an entire galaxy to his solitary rule, and now he stood as the unopposed emperor of the known universe; nearly unopposed. The rebel faction that had sprung up had grown in strength over the past few years, and Vader had brought his concerns about that rebellion to his master, requesting permission to use the vast resources of the Empire to ruthlessly crush it. Lord Sidious had dismissed Vader’s concern, adding that all was proceeding according to plan.

“Arise, Lord Vader,” said the old man seated before him. Vader stood and faced his master, the old man’s physical appearance belying the immense power at his disposal. The scarred face of his master served as a constant reminder of why the Jedi could not be trusted and had become enemies of the Empire. Vader alone knew the true identity of his master and Sith Lord. All others knew him as Emperor Palpatine – all others save one. The man who had caused the disfigurement of Vader also knew of Palaptine’s true identity. His old master had never been accounted for after leaving Vader for dead, and the dark lord felt certain that Kenobi was still somewhere within the vastness of the galaxy, possibly plotting with the rebels, or leading them. Vader allowed the memory of his failure on Mustafar to feed his anger, but he also fleetingly recalled his all too recent fear in that alien galaxy devoid of the Force.

“I sense fear in you, my apprentice,” said Sidious with a hint of stress on the last word. Vader winced internally though carefully covering his thoughts with his unceasing anger. His master did not use the term, “apprentice” in reference to him often, but when he did so it seemed geared to reinforce Vader’s position on the lower end of the Sith, “rule of two.” Other thoughts threatened to rise to the surface, but no – not here, and not now. His current master was powerful, and he could all too easily sense Vader’s feelings. So Vader continued to feed his anger with painful past memories. He gazed into the eyes of Sidious, and through his own eyes hidden behind sensors within his helmet's face plate, Vader could sense the man’s incredible power. Unlike the weathered and frail remains of the Sith Lord’s face, the eyes of Sidious maintained a piercing strength and focus that would not be denied. They alone, among his features, revealed but a hint of the power of which the frail-looking man was capable.

“I have … concerns, my master. The rebel forces…”

“They are of no concern to us,” said Sidious dismissively.

“Yes my master, they are weak and pathetic,” continued Vader carefully, “but our spies report that they are now involved in the affairs of Sol.” Vader knew he did not have to further describe the planet to his master, for Sidious was well aware of the only inhabited planet in that otherwise dead galaxy.

“Yes, I know,” replied the old man, “Do you think, Lord Vader, that I have not taken into account every action of the people on that planet?”

Vader pondered what his master said. Sidious surely had access to intelligence and sources to which Vader himself was not privy, and the vast apparatus of Imperial spies and agents throughout the galaxy was more than capable of tracking actions of every individual on a single planet. However, Vader had his doubts of those spies. He had also received reports of the resourcefulness and craftiness of the Sol natives. They seemed to have a natural knack at deceit and intrigue, unmatched by any but the most accomplished bounty hunters within the known galaxy. In short, Vader felt it might not be beyond at least some of the spies assigned to Sol to be duped into reporting that which was not actually the case. It was with some discomfort that Vader recalled that some of the Sol natives had been accepted into Imperial service, and that some were even here on Imperial Center.

“I did not mean to cast doubt on your judgment, my master,” said Vader.

“And you would do well to remember your place,” added Sidious menacingly, “You do not like that I have allowed members of that planet to join our forces?”

“Your decisions are just and final,” said Vader automatically.

“Yes. They are,” said Vader’s master. He turned his hooded gaze slightly away from Vader and said, “Stop where you are, guard.”

Vader felt a slight disturbance in the Force and spun about, his crimson saber alight and at the ready. A mere two meters before him, one of his master’s Imperial guards stood at the modified position of attention that the Imperial Guard used in the presence of the Emperor, his force pike in hand. Vader felt rage flash over him, and he prepared to strike down the man who had dared come so close to him in the presence of the Emperor.

“Hold, Lord Vader!” shouted Sidious, with iron in his voice.

Vader’s rage did not subside, but his obedience after all these years was all but automatic. He pulled himself out of his fighting stance, though his saber remained aglow and humming. How had he not sensed the approach of this guard? Was he robotic? Vader reached with the Force, and then stopped. This was no droid. He was…

“The member of my Imperial Guard you see before you, is unquestionably my servant, but he is also of additional use,” said Vader’s master from behind him. He cackled softly, filling the great room with mirthless laughter, “You did not sense him,” added Sidious. It was not a question.

“No, my master,” said Vader warily, still locking his vision on a man he could sense in no other way – save by the absence of what should have been there. The guard clad in red armor stared back at Vader, seemingly unafraid of him, or at least unconcerned, though the red helmet concealed the emotions of the ... thing within it, and it stared blankly back at Vader. Vader had read multiple reports of how rebels from that planet had fought against impossible odds, seeming not to care whether or not they perished in the process – and other areas contained people who reportedly valued death over life itself. That Vader could not sense this guard through the Force…

“Only now do you begin to see, my apprentice,” said Sidious from behind Vader. The Sol native, now a member of the Imperial Guard turned and walked back to his position by the entrance to his master’s throne room. Vader assumed his master had given the man a visual cue. Vader slowly turned to once again face his master, his light saber extinguished and reattached.

“It is not natural, my master,” said Vader.

“It is that un-natural characteristic that will serve us, Lord Vader,” said Sidious. The Emperor smiled tightly, showing his teeth, and once again his chuckle was entirely without mirth.

-------

Greg gazed into the mirror. That it was not a mirror in the true sense of the word, at least as Greg had remembered it on Sol … Earth (he had to consciously remind himself of the older term) so long ago no longer registered on him. It showed him as others would see him, and Greg had become so accustomed to the imaging device that a natural mirror would now seem strange to him. Peering back at him was the figure of a young man in a crisp Imperial gray uniform. Soon, he would don the rank of an Imperial lieutenant.

Over the past standard year of training on Raithal, Greg had received the basic officers training designated for cadets seeking commissions. The training had been rigorous, discipline had been tight and regimented, and indoctrination had been constant. Greg had memorized a great many Imperial slogans, regulations, and dogma. Through it all, he had worked to remember from where he had come, but doing so had proved difficult. The Empire was indomitable and unstoppable. Such thoughts now came to his mind unbidden, and Greg found it a struggle to push them away.

Only weeks into his training at the academy, Greg had begun to befriend his roommate, who was a native of Aargau. The young man’s name was Vox Seldon, and he had relatives on the deep core planet with political influence. Greg recalled that Vox had been intelligent and intuitive when speaking to superiors and fellow cadets. About three months into training at the academy, Vox had been removed from the academy.

Vox had been replaced by another man, but Greg’s new roommate seemed without personality, preferring to keep to himself. Greg had never really trusted the new man and so did not learn much about him, other than his name. Greg could not even recall the man’s name now, but then Greg had never been good with names. He knew that much of the training and indoctrination he had experienced here would last a lifetime.

Absently, Greg studied the image in the screen before him. The man staring back at him seemed strange and out-of-place. His visage was one of confidence, but it also took on a slight tone of arrogance. Greg pushed that down, as he had struggled to do throughout his training. Arrogance got people killed, and Greg knew it. That same arrogance is also what he had so despised about the Imperial officers under whom he had worked during his short enlisted stint in the Imperial navy. He detected the tone of his chronometer’s alert. It was time.

-------

Drips of water hollowly sounded in the distance, lightly competing with the low hum of large fans even further away. Those fans moved stale air about the cavernous chambers deep beneath the mountain complex. Many years before, the complex had been constructed at great cost and labor to ensconce high-ranking military and civilian leadership in the event of major combat operations involving strategic nuclear strikes. The overhead lamps were of the older incandescent bulbs that glowed much more dimly than would more modern fluorescent lamps, and certainly less than that of the forms of lighting available from extra-galactic technology, now flooding the planet. The floor of the cavern had been carved or blasted once upon a time and then crafted to a smooth sheen of rock surface, waxed, stripped, and then waxed again by countless enlisted personnel. Like much of the cave itself, the walls were also dimly lit, interrupted only on occasion by the now archaic incandescent lamps hanging from the cavern ceiling.

Deep inside the cavern sat a rectangular table, plain in appearance. Around the table sat a number of men, some older and a few younger. None of the men were from the same place, and in the shadows many more men were armed with an assortment of weapons. Until bidden, those men would remain in the shadows and unseen. The men at the table sat in plain, metal folding chairs, and they eyed each other thoughtfully.

“Are we yet ready for Phase Three?” queried one of the men in Basic. All men at the table spoke Basic, as it was the common language throughout the former nations of Earth now. Only two years prior, translators would have been required at a meeting such as this, but now an extraterrestrial conqueror had forced upon them a commonality of tongue. The man who spoke was wearing a denim jacket with a polo shirt beneath. He had a brown moustache flecked with gray and a receding hairline. He normally wore glasses, but he was wearing contact lenses for this meeting. Belying his attire and appearance, the man was a general in the insurgency of his homeland, the former United States. His call-sign prior to, and then after the invasion was, “Lancer Six.” Indeed, few outside his immediate command knew what his real name was, and so most referred to him by his call-sign.

The man to the right of Lancer Six pushed a small stack of papers toward him, and Lancer Six picked them up, flipping through them slowly. He then looked up at the assembled group of men and added, “What are your thoughts on this?”

“We have studied the problem extensively, and what was proposed is feasible, but the consequences of failure would be fantastic,” said a man across from Lancer Six. He recognized the Brit. The man had once worked at JAC Molesworth, and he had a reputation as a competent spook, so far as reputations in the intelligence community went. If rumors were to be believed, this particular Brit had assisted in engineering some incredibly dangerous, yet successful espionage missions against the former Soviet Union. He now served as one of the high-ranking intelligence officers in the European resistance.

“Why are we slowing attacks in Azerbaijan,” demanded a man toward one of the table ends, “When we were just starting to do serious damage to the Imperials?” The man’s dialect bespoke his Georgian heritage. Many might have assumed him to be Russian, but Georgians did not like being confused with Russians. Datshi had once served in the Soviet army as a colonel, and shortly after the breakup of the Soviet Union he had become a senior military leader in the newly independent nation of Georgia. Datshi found himself on the winning side of his nation’s bloody civil war in 1995, and at the outbreak of the Empire’s invasion he had been working behind the scenes to develop military ties with the West. Datshi was an impatient man who demanded results, but he drove himself as hard as he drove others. Since the Imperial invasion, he had led forces throughout the region, spanning from southern Russia to northern Turkey. His prowess and resolve as a fierce fighter and capable leader among the Caucuses was legendary.

“The plan was always to slow fighting at the end of Phase Two, Datshi. You know that,” gently chided a man to the opposite end of the table from the fiery Georgian. Boqin had served as a senior politician in the People’s Republic of China for over 12 years before the invasion of the Empire. Prior to that, he had served as a mid-level officer in the PRC Army. His skills as both a tactician and a negotiator had made him a perfect fit for a globe-spanning insurgency that was designed to appear sporadic and disorganized. Boqin had a soft spot in his heart for the Georgian on the opposite side of the table. He imagined that had they grown up in the same place and under the same circumstances, they might have become good comrades, though their personalities appeared on the surface to be polar opposites. He smiled lightly as the middle-aged Georgian lowered his steady gaze and slowly shook his head.

“Our key people are in place,” said Lancer Six. He added, “Our shaping operations have been ongoing for some time, and I think conditions for the start of the phase are now set.” He eyed the men at the table. The three others had not spoken. One man was a bulky Colombian who had been both part of the government and heavily involved in the nation’s notorious drug trade. Lancer Six knew that he still was, but his drug-smuggling efforts were now aimed at the other galaxy, and his vast network of smugglers had grown exponentially, garnering ripe business as far as some of the core worlds, and more importantly pouring funds into the resistance. As usual, Javier remained silent. Lancer Six was not familiar with the other two individuals. He knew that one was a German, and the other was an Arab from Syria.

“How soon before we strike?” barked Datshi.

“Patience, my friend,” said Moheb, the man from Syria. Lancer Six smiled in spite of himself. Moheb was a quiet man, to such a degree that when he spoke it was usually welcome. In response, the Georgian again lowered his gaze, though not by much.

“We have infiltrated a number of sector fleets, but conditions are not yet set for the ‘strike’ our Georgian cohort desires,” said the Brit whose name still eluded Lancer Six. He continued, “Were we to act too soon, all our efforts would be for naught.” Most men at the table gravely nodded, the single lamp above the table creating shadows upon it.

“Our spies have uncovered something else,” said the German who had so far remained silent. The other men turned their attention to the man with dark brown hair and a rich, full moustache and beard. The man also sported glasses that seemed too big for his face, though the facial hair diminished that effect.

“What is the something else?” asked the Brit unnecessarily.

“The Empire had developed a powerful new weapon,” replied the German. That statement evoked some laughter from the group. What in the Empire’s arsenal was not powerful enough to wipe out all humanity on the planet. That the Empire had not chosen to do so did not mean they could not do so. Amid the laughter, the German remained stoic.

“We know that the Imperials have countless kilometer-long starships capable of laying waste to the surface of this planet. Even here, we might not survive once their ships’ batteries started firing upon the surface,” said the Brit.

“This weapon is different,” said the German gravely, and he added, “We may be forced to accelerate our plans.”

-----

The small figure walked slowly through the thick vegetation, using a short walking stick as he sauntered toward the nearby lake. The figure slowly lowered himself on a large root of an ancient tree that partially revealed itself from the soggy ground. His large, pointed ears sagged sideways once he cast his line into the lake, in search of the evening’s meal. So thick was the canopy of jungle above him that it was difficult to detect the time of day. But detect it he could.

Master Yoda had spent many years here on Dagobah, after he had lost his struggle with Darth Sidious. He was saddened that he and so many other of the Jedi masters had been blinded to the truth for so long – too long.

“Masters! Bah!” spat Yoda with disgust. For too long had the Jedi order clung to tradition rather than seeking the truth of the Force, and in the end it had cost them dearly. So many Jedi had perished at once, and many more had been hunted down by the Emperor’s pet, Vader. Yoda recalled years before the boy would turn into a monster. Young Skywalker had been angry and afraid.

“I sense much fear in you,” he had told the boy. Yoda had not wanted to accept him into the Jedi order, yet others had been convinced, believing him to be the chosen one. Yoda cast his gaze into the water as he felt something nibbling on his line. Using the Force, he guided the creature in the water toward the bait on the end of his line and pulled the hapless creature from its natural dwelling. Into his stew it would go.

Yoda shifted his gaze to the thick canopy above and dimmed his eyes. Many things, you could see through the Force. Through the Force, he had watched young Luke Skywalker, safely upon the sands of Tatooine. Vader had not yet detected the presence of the younger Skywalker. Yoda frowned as he turned his attention to the sister. She was on course to fall into the hands of a father who knew her not and would surely show her no mercy. Trigger key events, that would, but with pain and suffering … always with suffering. He turned his gaze back to the water.

Through Yoda’s acute sense with the Force, he could feel the Emperor’s power growing, and a great conflict was coming, but there was something else. Another presence made itself known, but this presence was not something to which the ancient Jedi was accustomed. It was amiss, somehow wrong, but impact upon events it would. Of that much the old master felt certain.

The old Jedi returned his attention to his small fishing line and hummed to himself. Another lake creature had gained interest in his bait, and Master Yoda allowed himself a light smile. He would dine well tonight.

“My home, this is," he muttered to himself.

-------

Greg studied the men before him in the pit. They looked like men one would find in the pit of any Imperial Star Destroyer, but these men had been honed and trained by Greg over the past three months. Greg sported the insignia of an Imperial lieutenant now, and he had quickly impressed his senior officers with his prowess. Most of his regiment consisted of stormtroopers aboard the ISD Courageous, but Greg did not sport the black uniform of a stormtrooper officer. He did what he had always done – work as an intelligence officer. The ship’s captain had learned of Greg’s capabilities and had requested he work on the bridge of the Courageous. Greg spent much of his time in the pit going from station to station to analyze data coming in on the various machines. He was pleased to see the programs he had worked on included in the systems on which his enlisted analysts were working. The men seemed to enjoy being challenged to think and recommend courses of action to Greg, though they always distinguished his position as an officer.

Greg had been in space for two months now. Until recently, the Courageous had been patrolling the Sluis Sector with the rest of the sector fleet. Greg’s crew had worked in combination with pits from three other ships to successfully stymie an attempted rebel operation in a key Imperial shipyard. From interrogations of captured Bothan spies, Greg’s sector fleet then conducted a successful attack on a surprisingly large rebel fleet, leaving few survivors. Greg uncovered various pieces of intelligence that pointed to Alderaan of all places. His superiors had been dubious when he brought it up to them. The planet apparently had powerful allies in the Imperial Senate. About three weeks ago, the Courageous broke off from its sector fleet and made way to the Kessel System.

Greg stepped out of the pit and walked over to the enormous view-plates of the star destroyer. Though he could not spot them with his naked eye, he knew that the other star destroyers and a plethora of smaller ships were within sensor range of each other. He also knew that all civilian traffic had been re-routed clear of this portion of space over the last two weeks. Every couple of days, a starship would travel too close to the system, only to be met by stern warnings and sometimes warning shots from Imperial ships. Nothing other than such trivial civilian traffic had occurred however. A bright glow to Greg’s right drew his attention, and he could see the edge of what he knew to be a cluster of black holes, not that he would have known what they were had he seen them, but other officers had told him of it and referred to it as, “The Maw.”

Klaxons throughout the bridge of the Courageous sounded, and Greg scrambled back to the pit.

“Report!” shouted Greg to the pit NCO. The NCO was running from station to station, and he came to attention in front of Greg.

“Sir, we are reading no enemy contacts, but a sizable fleet, and … something else is emerging from the maw.”

“Something else?” asked Greg, “Can you be more specific?”

“It is very large, sir, and it is accompanying the emerging fleet, though I cannot ascertain as to how.” Greg nodded and studied the various terminals. The thing coming out of the maw was definitely huge. That couldn’t be right.
Greg scrambled out of the pit and ran up to the view plates of the Courageous. The great ship had turned to face the maw, and so the giant conglomeration of black holes was visible, but he could also see the fleet coming forth from it. But there was something else – not a ship, but it was huge. He was not the only officer or enlisted man staring with his draw dropped.

“What is that thing?” exclaimed one of the junior bridge officers in wonderment. From behind him, Greg heard the clearing throat of the ship’s commanding officer. The officers turned and snapped to attention.

“That … is now the ultimate power in the universe,” said the captain.

[phongn]

Very well done, jegs!

As a minor nitpick, I believe the DS1 was constructed in orbit around Despayre, not the Maw.

[Stuart Mackey]

You know, the more amount of time you have to hurry up and wait the better for us Good chapter.

[Simon_Jester]

Very well done, jegs!

As a minor nitpick, I believe the DS1 was constructed in orbit around Despayre, not the Maw.

Since much of the R&D work takes place in the Maw, moving the construction site there would be quite reasonable; this can be considered a slightly alternate timeline, I think.

[LadyTevar]

Wow. That was indeed a great chapter.

[jegs2]

Resistance

Chapter 14

“How certain are you of this?” demanded the Imperial officer as he looked up from the paper the other man had provided. Captain Muzzer had been assigned to occupation duty for nearly two years on this planet in a strange galaxy, and he had long ago lost count of the multiple sources he had gained and lost over that time. Many of the early sources he had gained were unreliable at best, or double-agents at worst, sometimes feeding information that lured his forces into traps. Ironically, many of the double agents had been unwilling accomplices to the insurgents. Captain Muzzer was not the intelligence officer for his regiment, or at least he had not started out as such, but the regiment’s original intelligence officer had been inept and had managed to get himself killed shortly after the occupation began. So, the job fell to Muzzer. The man standing before Muzzer was new to him. He sported a red mustache and wore jeans with a polo shirt.

“Yes sir, I am certain,” said the man.

“And why should I take any of this at face value?” asked Muzzer.

“I served with the insurgents earlier.”

“And?”

“I had inside information on the workings of the insurgency, and until recently I had fairly regular contact with a couple of persons still working within it,” replied the man.

“What made you turn traitor to them?” asked Muzzer with distaste. The man’s face darkened at the mention of the term, but he quickly recovered. Muzzer had never liked turncoats, even if they had once fought for the wrong side. The problem with turncoats is that they were generally unreliable, at least in Muzzer’s experience.

“They betrayed me,” replied the man bluntly.

“Oh, how so?”

“I was to take command of a battalion – or what passes for one these days, and my command opportunity was given to a lesser man,” replied the man with bitterness. Muzzer pondered the man’s story. If he were on the level and truly believed he had been scorned, it might be enough to turn him against his former friends. Such tales abounded in his own galaxy.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Mike Zilliox”

-------

William Dudley leaned back in the small chair, and he took a drag from his cigarette. It was a nasty habit, he knew, and he had not always had it. Closing his eyes, he recalled the time when he would not have considered smoking one of the things – could not. Absently, he reached up with his left hand to rub the graying hair of his once-brown beard. That too was new to him, but it was simultaneously familiar. William allowed himself to be carried back in time. Many years he had served in the US Army, first as an enlisted man, and NCO, and then as an officer. But then, his service had not always been to the United States. William recalled a time, long before, when he had gone by a different name altogether. He had gone by his current name for so long, that it was difficult at times to remember that he had once had the other identity. He opened his eyes and allowed himself a glance at the walls. Only three years prior, his office would have been filled with memorabilia from his service in the US Army, including cased colors of the units he had commanded, photographs commemorating moments of achievement, and paintings of battles from long ago given to him as gifts. The room he now used as an office was in the corner of an old, abandoned warehouse. In fact, other than the office he was using, the warehouse had few persons in it, on the surface anyway. Beneath a couple of well-concealed trap-doors were a number of rooms containing a command center served as a key command and control hub for resistance fighters in what was once the United States, portions of Canada, and parts of northern Mexico. His own office was dingy, and a dust shadow in the shape of laptop computer that had recently been in use and then removed was all that attested to the use of the space. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and extinguished it in a dark-brown ashtray made of glass. It joined a dozen or so cigarette butts far older than his own that had undoubtedly been smoked by men or women who sat in that space when the warehouse was serving its original function. Judging by the furniture in the old office, William guessed the office had last been used sometime in the late 70’s. William never smoked around others, and only a handful of men knew that he had the habit at all. He looked at the gray light forcing its way through the lone office window that had not likely seen a cleaning towel in at least a decade, and William let his thoughts drift to a past, a time before even service in the US Army. He allowed himself to be taken back more than 30 local years. He saw a building … a grand building, in the middle of a giant city – one that consumed an entire planet. It was a building of training, of refuge, of something he had once known as the Force…

-------

Almost 30 years prior to the invasion of Earth, a young man who would someday call himself William strolled through a vast room, not that it was much larger than the other larger rooms in the building, but it contained the recorded knowledge of thousands of years. The young man was called a Padawan learner by others in the building, for this was the Jedi Temple on the great planet of Coruscant, and the room in which he found himself contained the Jedi Archives. The young man was an avid fanatic of history and found much enjoyment in reading of past exploits of the Jedi. He had recently read of the battles in the Sith War, soaking in stories and accounts of massive fleets slinging death through the vacuum of space at both other fleets and hapless planets. Men who had ironically originated from earlier Jedi had set forth to become conquerors of the known galaxy, bending all to their iron will, all in service to the Dark Side of the Force. Though he knew the outcome academically, recalling the stories and testimonies of the time allowed him to see mistakes made, lessons available, and lessons ignored by both sides of the conflict. Little did he know that such insights would aid him many years later.

“Young Padawan,” said an older lady. The young man looked up to see the librarian smiling kindly at him. On the side of her robe, he spotted an attached light saber. She was indeed a Jedi as well, though the young man doubted it had seen use in a very long time. This was Jocasta Nu, the Chief Librarian of the Jedi Archives.

“Master, I thank you for the use of the archives. I have learned much about the past, and the more I delve into it, the more I desire to learn more,” said the young man.

“History is like that, Bel Shadar,” said Jocasta Nu, “It is replete with lessons and warnings, and its voices yet call out to us long after their owners have gone silent.”

Bel Shadar was young, but he knew the trials for knighthood were but a few years away. He walked out of the great library and found his way to a giant room that contained what appeared to be natural fountains and many trees. He knew the fountain was not natural but had been carefully constructed a long time ago. Bel Shadar sat upon one of the stones, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. The soft gurgling of the water often served to sooth him, and so he let his thoughts drift. Not all the thoughts were pleasant. Rumors of senatorial corruption had reached his ears, even here in the Jedi Temple. Chancellor Palpatine was in office now, and he had become a powerful and stabilizing force. Even so, a strange uneasiness seemed to blanket itself over the Force. Bel Shadar had discussed it with a couple of Jedi Masters, but they had said they sensed nothing amiss. He pointed out the departure of Count Duku from the Jedi order only a few years prior, but one Jedi Master said that while it was certainly regrettable, it was not unprecedented. Now, as Bel Shadar allowed his reach into the Force to branch out, he again sensed the uneasiness – the sense that something that was taken for one thing was actually the other. He could never place a finger on what that thing was.

-------

Nearly 25 years before the invasion of Earth, Bel Shadar boarded a Jedi star fighter. As a young Jedi Knight, he had been dispatched on a mission to deal with pirates preying on civilian traffic in the Atrivis Sector. The Jedi intended to enter into negotiations with the pirates in order to make them see reason and end their destructive path. He would rendezvous with three other Jedi star fighters in order to conduct reconnaissance of the system and locate the pirate base of operations. His tiny fighter streaked through the atmosphere and into space, where his ship’s hyperspace ring awaited. In concert with the other star fighters that were out of his visual range, Bel Shadar conducted a countdown and then his small ship jumped into hyperspace. As the swirling light of hyperspace played out before him, the young Jedi played through his mind the task and purpose for his mission. They were on a mission strictly of reconnaissance. Their force was certainly too small to survive direct combat with a well-armed enemy. He watched as the chronometer count down, and then the computer sent the command to drop his ship out of hyperspace. The swirling vortex dissolved, and the young Jedi saw that instead of a canopy of stars, a huge distortion in space hung before him. His instruments went dead. Bel Shadar stabbed at the release controls to the hyperspace ring, but they would not engage. The small ship, still attached to the hyperspace ring, was being pulled toward the distortion before him. He used the Force to feel about him, but he detected none of his fellow Jedi. The distortion now filled his vision and looked to consume his ship. He could see the star field on the other side of the distortion, but he had no idea what was causing the distortion or what it would do to the ship. He lost consciousness.

On the outskirts of a solar system, a distortion field emerged in space and vomited forth a small ship, enveloped by a hyperdrive ring. Within it, a man shook his head as though clearing it of cobwebs. He studied his instruments and noted that the strange distortion through which he had passed was now about 100 kilometers behind his ship. His computer reported that all his systems were online and functioning. He attempted to use the Force to feel about him. With shock, he realized that he felt nothing. He closed his eyes in order to better concentrate, and still he sensed nothing. Not only could he not sense any living beings, but he could sense nothing at all – even the ship in which he was encapsulated. He was utterly blind to the Force, as though it existed not at all. Panic washed over the young Jedi. He had never experienced such a sensation before, and he now felt naked.

Calming himself, Bel Shadar engaged his ship’s instruments, reminding himself that they were not dependent on the Force. He scanned the ship’s navigation charts in an effort to determine his location. After a few moments, the ship’s navigation systems came up blank. Force or not, not even his ship’s navigation system could tell him where he was. It seemed clear he was no longer in the known galaxy. Bel Shaddar knew that his Delta-7 Aethersprite-class light interceptor had a state-of-the-art, but limited navigation system and sensor array. The ship had as much jammed into a tiny space as possible, and while it was a capable and advanced craft, its small systems created limitations. Life support was also one such limitation. Bel Shaddar felt alarm growing in him again, but he forced it down. He instructed his R4-P droid that was integrated into the ship to work with the ship’s computer to scan nearby star systems that were likely to contain habitable planets. The computer came up with a number of candidates, but there were millions of them. He was not sure how many jumps he could make, even with the large hyperdrive ring, prior to running out of fuel. He made a few calculations, and found he had approximately 130,000 light years worth hyperspace jumps left. This was going to be a stab in the dark, and he had not even the Force to guide him. After marking his current location in the computer’s star chart, he stabbed in his first destination. The computer and droid worked in conjunction to calculate the jump, and then his ship vanished into the void.

More than 26 hours later, the young Jedi was losing hope. The last dozen star systems had proven devoid of any life at all. While he could not use the Force to detect the absence of life within the dead solar systems, his ship’s sensors confirmed such in short order. Was he really meant to perish here in the void of deep space, in a galaxy far, far away from his own? Bel Shadar peered at the fuel level of his ship. He was down to only 30,000 light years worth of fuel, so not many chances remained. He peered out of his ship’s canopy at the billions of lights before him, packed with unnamed stars and distant galaxies. This was a fool’s errand. He knew that but a few jumps remained, and then he was stranded forever, in what appeared to be a dead galaxy. His own death would but add to it. Of the multitude of candidates that remained on his charts, he picked one of the furthest points. It would consume 10,000 light years of what was left of his fuel. He smiled bitterly and shook his head. Sighing, he pressed the command that would send his ship once again into the vortex of hyperspace. When his ship fell out of hyperspace again, his ship’s scanners went to work. Shortly, the computer emitted a chime that bespoke something new – life!

The planet closest to the tiny ship was a large gas planet, and his ship’s sensors informed him that it was the largest planet in system. The third planet from the star was the one that had indicated life, though his ship was too far from the planet to determine what kind of life was upon the planet’s surface. Bel Shadar knew his ship could reach the third planet without hyperdrive, but it would take a prohibitive amount of time, even with its high rate of acceleration. His system detected no communication beams from the planet, nor could they detect planetary sensors. Moreover, he was not sure if the planet would possess fuel for his ship, so he decided to keep the hyperdrive ring attached and perform a short jump close to the small natural satellite orbiting the planet. He directed his ship’s embedded droid to make the calculations, and the ship then made the jump.

Off to his right, Bel Shadar saw a dead planetoid hovering in space, half lit by the system’s star. He craned his neck to the left, and he caught the glimpse of a planet with blue and white colors intermixed. Bel Shadar studied his scanners and noted the planet had a nearly perfect atmosphere. It was also absolutely teaming with life. Further scans revealed artificial satellites orbiting the planet, but they appeared to be very small. The largest ones were not much larger than his hyperdrive ring, and they appeared to be oriented toward the planet, instead of outward. That confirmed intelligent life on the planet. Sensors also picked up a small, artificial satellite orbiting the dead planetoid. His scanners indicated landing craft and crude vehicles on the surface of the natural satellite, though they were apparently not currently in use. That confirmed that the inhabitants of the planet had achieved at least a minimal form of space travel. His communication suite was still dead, and he received no transmissions from the planet, and nothing indicated that anyone on the planet was aware he was there. Well, if the inhabitants of the planet were not yet aware of him, perhaps they could not detect him. Once again, Bel Shadar reached out with the Force, but all he felt was nothing. He detached his ship from the hyperdrive ring and headed toward the planet.

Upon entering the stratosphere, the ship’s sensors detected communication in the form of radio waves. His droid worked in conjunction with the ship’s computer in an effort to decipher the communication. His ship was now over the largest of the land masses in the northern hemisphere, and his sensors picked up small atmospheric craft moving to intercept his ship. Someone, or something had detected him. His computer also warned of chemical missiles that were launched on a direct intercept course for his ship. His computer detected that they were being guided by pulses of radio waves, which apparently constituted a form of active sensor for the beings below. His small ship was able to easily out-accelerate the craft that were pursuing him, though the chemical missiles were much faster. Even so, he left it up to his droid to elude the missiles as well. It appeared that the population was not friendly. His droid indicated that it was beginning to make some form of sense of the communications below. Other radio communications were in use too, using different languages. Some were encrypted. The artificial satellites in orbit were being used to bounce the radio communications throughout the surface of the planet. Bel Shadar decided to head for the opposite side of the planet, in order to seek a location less populated by the beings that were targeting his ship.

The atmosphere created excessive drag on his ship, so Bel Shadar maneuvered his ship above the stratosphere. Neither the atmospheric craft or chemical missiles that had been chasing him appeared capable of space flight, though his computer indicated that ship was still being tracked. Once he was above the stratosphere, his computer indicated he was no longer being tracked. Bel Shadar decided that he would come in as fast as possible on the opposite side of the planet and then maintain as low an altitude as possible. The trip took mere minutes, absent of the prison of the planet’s atmosphere. Artificial debris and satellites orbiting above the stratosphere proved a minor hazard, but his ship’s sensors and navigation system were more than adequate to keep him out of harm’s way. His ship’s sensors found an area on the landmass opposite of where he had first encountered the hostile atmospheric craft, and so he took his ship into as sharp a dive. The atmosphere created sufficient drag to superheat the air in front of and below his ship, though his ship was designed to tolerate much more. To anyone looking up, his ship would likely appear to be a meteorite. That was his desire. Within a few minutes, Bel Shadar leveled off his ship over a dense forest. His sensors indicated minimal radio traffic, and his computer suggested he had not been detected as a ship by any of the local sensor devices that used radio waves. He was only a few dozen meters above the trees. He landed his ship in a clearing. Upon conducting various scans with his sensors, he was certain he had not been detected. Bel Shadar then realized just how exhausted he was. This side of the planet was shrouded in the darkness of night. Knowing that his droid would alert him to any activity outside, he drifted off into sleep.

-------

William Dudley opened his eyes. The office in which he sat had lost none of its dinginess, and light still struggled to work its way through the filthy glass of the window. He recalled that he had spent quite some time living off of what food was available in that forest, using a blaster to kill his food. He had used his droid and computer to intercept local radio waves that turned out to be sources of news and entertainment. He had been initially surprised to discover that the dominant beings on the planet appeared human. Over several months, he used those transmissions to learn the local language and gain a working knowledge of it, discovering that he was in a nation called the United States, and he was in a state called Kentucky. He had camouflaged his ship as well as he could with local flora. Thankfully, he had arrived in the area during summer months, so immediate survivability was not an issue. Over the next year, he had taken on odd jobs in various smaller cities. He invented a local background for himself and worked diligently to match his dialect with the locals. Forging documents proved not to be difficult, as it was apparently a robust business for those illegally entering the nation from the south. His advantage was that no other nation could possibly have any record of his existence. Approximately a year after landing, he provided instructions to his droid that it was to take the ship back to the hyperdrive ring in orbit around the planet’s moon, were the ship discovered. He then enlisted in the US Army. The local year was 1974.

Colonel William Dudley recalled the day of the invasion by the Empire. He had been a brigade commander when they invaded. Unlike most, he quickly ascertained what had taken place, and he recognized what was attacking them, even if the models of craft were unfamiliar. They were beings from his native galaxy and using weapons and equipment with which he was familiar, but they were not forces of the Republic. So, Chancellor Palpatine had become an emperor. Where were the Jedi in all this, not that they could be in any way effective in this dead galaxy? Either way, COL Dudley had quickly eschewed his US Army uniform and gone to ground, eventually commanding in the insurgency. Initially, he had considered revealing himself to what he believed to be his cohorts, but his customary caution overrode that temptation, and he kept his true identity a secret. Within a few months, he learned of a tale about the Jedi violently turning on a massive clone army and subsequently declared enemies of the Republic. Indeed, his choice not to reveal his nature had been a wise one. His plans then branched beyond simple insurgency. He alone on this planet knew the true scope and nature of the enemy they faced. Even he was shocked to learn of the construction of the planetoid-sized battle station. What could they possibly use such a massive battle station for?

Plans were now in place, and what had started as a small insurgency was now extra-galactic. Spies from this planet were scattered throughout the Imperial fleet and ground forces. From those spies, the resistance learned that the Empire had found an anomaly that led to this galaxy some ten years prior. It was allegedly the same distortion that had sucked him into this galaxy, but engineers within the Empire had discovered a means to stabilize it. Initially, they launched multiple probes, and finding no life or planets that were inhabitable, the Empire left only a couple of ships to conduct survey missions of the newly-discovered galaxy. Almost by accident, a deep-space probe had located Earth. That had been few years prior to the invasion.

COL Dudley had belatedly discovered that natives of Earth not only did not possess the Force, but even in his own native galaxy they appeared to have a bubble about them that exuded an absence of the Force, as though they repelled it. He could use that too, and it was now part of their plans. He chuckled to himself, though none but he heard the laugh. Not only did nobody on this planet know of his true identity. Very few now knew of his current one. COL Dudley now had ears everywhere, including in his native galaxy. He would have to soon return, although with his new identity. He wanted to meet members of the rebel alliance. They had provided significant assistance to the resistance on Earth, despite a suffocating Imperial presence now in orbit. Absently, he checked his chronometer … no, it was called a watch. He would depart the galaxy in only a few days, and though it was native to him, nobody there would know him from Adam.

-------

Harry Bertha walked toward the sunset, though he was in no particular hurry. The central Florida breeze was just a little chilly. It was early December, and a few Christmas decorations had sprung up in various shop windows. For a long time now, he had varied his routes in order to evade detection by Imperial (and local) authorities. His gait bespoke an older man with little on him and very little care, but grizzled and perhaps slightly dangerous. He wore an old, stained boater’s hat, worn and torn in various locations, slouched down low over his eyes. Three days of growth sprouted throughout his face, and a cheap cigar jutted from the corner of his mouth, though unlit, and his dark hair was just above shoulder-length, tipped in places with gray. His slacks were a bit too large for him, and they were frayed and dirty in places. He wore an old button-down shirt that was once white but now splotched in various places. His dark-brown overcoat had only a few buttons left, none of which were in use. To the average passerby, he was nobody, not worth the time or effort to engage.

Harry spotted his destination up ahead. An old storefront promised the town’s most tasty hamburgers and an ice-cold drink. The store offered hamburgers still, but Harry suspected they had not earned their title of “most tasty” in many years. The inside of the old burger stand sported 1960s vintage furniture and a tile floor that had seen many feet over the years, grime and filth worked into the seams between the tiles. Few went there to eat hamburgers these days, though the old man behind the counter could still make them. Most would sit and drink a little coffee and read newspapers. The store also had an older color television set, mounted in the corner, and it was usually tuned to sports. None of those are what drew Harry. He crossed the street at the corner and shuffled toward the front door of the establishment. His contact was scheduled to meet him at the food counter. As he stepped through the door, Harry spotted another man wearing a blue jacket with “FLORIDA” written in orange lettering across the back. Tipped back on his head was an old tan ball cap with stitched embroidery of an alligator on it, and his face sported a dark goatee and small, circular glasses. As the door opened, the man glanced toward Harry with apparent indifference and then returned to whatever magazine he was reading. Harry took a stool to the man’s right and motioned to the old man behind the counter.

“Can I get a Coke?”

“Yes sir,” answered the old man, who turned to find a clean glass. Harry glanced toward the man to his left. He fit the description he had been told to expect.

“Who do you think will take it this year?” asked Harry. The man looked up from his magazine, looked briefly at Harry, and then returned to his reading.“Go Gators,” said the man without enthusiasm.

Harry blinked. That was the signal he had been told to expect. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a nondescript box and set it on the table. Inside the small box was a 3.5 inch floppy disk. Though the advent of Imperial technology rendered such computer storage medium obsolete, many locals still had computers that used disk drives, and Imperials could not be bothered with them. The other man reached out and slid the box in his direction. The old man set the glass of Coke before Harry, and so Harry raised it to his lips to take a drink. He put down the glass and thought to make small talk with the old man, but then something seemed amiss. Harry’s vision began to swim. He quickly stood in order to make an exit that was not too obviously rushed, but now dizziness set in, and he sat down again. Blackness rushed to meet him, and Harry slumped down onto the table, and then he slid to the floor, unconscious.

“That was quicker than I thought it would be,” said the man who had taken the small box from Harry. He glanced at the glass of Coke in small wonder. The old man behind the counter looked at the stool where Harry had been seated, and if possible now looked even older. He did not like his part in this, but he had little choice. The welfare of his children and grandchildren were of more importance to him than his own life – and certainly that of the man now on his floor, and the Imperials had proven they could be ruthless. From the kitchen behind the old men appeared two other men. The first was wearing Imperial gray and sported the rank of major. He walked around the counter and studied the still form of Harry on the floor.

“He isn’t dead,” said the officer, “but when he regains consciousness, he may well wish he was.” Following the Imperial officer was a man of about the same age, wearing faded blue jeans, a dark-red polo shirt, and a dark-blue windbreaker. He stroked his red mustache and stared down at the limp form of the man on the floor next to the old bar stool. Contempt, mixed with another feeling battled for supremacy of his face, but the former emotion proved stronger. He looked up as four stormtroopers clad in camouflage armor entered the front of the diner. Two of the stormtroopers pulled Harry up by his arms and wrapped his arms around their necks, dragging him through the front door. The two other stormtroopers followed and stood outside a small shuttle that had landed in the street.

“So, that is the man of which we spoke?” inquired the Imperial officer.

“Harry Bertha,” replied the other man.

“And you’re certain he can get us closer?”

“He knows Lancer Six,” replied the man, placing a hand in the pocket of his dark-blue windbreaker. Absently, he again stroked his mustache and watched as the shuttle lifted off, trash scattering beneath the repulsorlifts. The man in that shuttle once had his confidence, and he would have died for Harry Bertha. Guilt threatened to surface, but contempt hammered it back down. No. Bertha deserved this, and it wasn’t as if the resistance wasn’t doomed anyway. Perhaps this would bring the whole business to a faster close. Hadn’t enough good men died already? A tight smile formed itself upon the face of Michael Zilliox.

[Stuart Mackey]

Nice. A traitor or a cunning plan?
Tune in next time, same Bat time, same Bat channel?

[LadyTevar]

And the story just keeps getting better... I can't wait to see what happens!

[jegs2]

Resistance

Chapter 15

The house was large, or so it had always seemed to Greg. There were two floors to the split-level home, and a staircase toward the front of the house connected the two floors. Of course, you could also enter the either floor of the house from the lake-side, either through the doors on the bottom floor, or by ascending the wrought-iron, spiral staircase to the upper floor. The lower floor sported three small bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small laundry and storage room. Anchoring the lower floor was a living room, identical to the one just above it. The upper floor contained a master bedroom, another bedroom converted from a small garage, a large bathroom, a small dining room and kitchen, a hallway, all anchored by a living room that had not seen use for many years.

The upstairs living room was often referred to as, “the museum,” and it contained older furniture and a stack of Life magazines dating from 1940. Hanging from the ceiling of the upper living room was a lamp on an ornate chain that contained flickering neon bulbs designed to look like flames on a candle. The room was never occupied, and it was sealed off by a sliding glass door. Even the vents from the home’s central air conditioning system were closed and taped shut. Coincidentally, its old furniture had collected years of dust, and the remains of long-dead wasps and spiders were scattered on the carpet, beneath long and worn curtains that stood sentry between the tall windows and the sunlight outside. The windows of the living room were arrayed in a long and gentle convex curve, designed to remind one of the bridge of a ship, and a long-silent fireplace constructed of ornate stones faced those windows from the opposite side of the room. Upon the walls of the room were mounted a small, decorative convex mirror, coated with years of dust. On the opposite wall was mounted a painting of a stern-faced man, staring blankly over the room as if in condemnation of how poorly it was maintained.

Directly below that living room, another living room nearly identical to it saw regular use, usually as a thoroughfare to the yard outside that sloped gently down to a seawall and then a large lake. Unlike the living room above it, this room had a small television set and an array of small speakers connected to a high-fidelity stereo system. It also sported casual furniture that saw use from time to time by the home’s occupants. A dumb-waiter, built into the wall next to the fireplace, connected to the unused living room above, thought it had not seen use in decades. Mounted above the entrance from the hallway to the lower living room was a large bass fish that had been long ago caught and mounted. On the far wall was mounted a small bookcase along that contained books long unread and collecting dust. Unlike the room above it, this living room had many of its curtains drawn open, providing a stunning view of the beautiful lake outside. Long florescent light fixtures had been added to the lower ceiling of the downstairs living room in order to provide plentiful light during nights or when the curtains were drawn shut.

Into the lower living room, Greg sauntered, glancing at the fireplace that was identical to the one in the room above him. It now looked larger than he remembered. In fact, it looked large enough for him to walk into while standing up, appearing to open up into the room in a foreboding manner. Greg averted his gaze and turned to look at the lake outside. The sky was filled with dark and swirling clouds, and the trees outside swayed back and forth in a powerful wind. He looked at the lake, and it appeared to be higher than he remembered and its level appeared to be rising. As Greg watched, the lake overran the seawall and crept up the grass of the yard, angry wind-whipped white-caps upon its surface eagerly reaching toward higher ground. Alarmed, Greg walked toward the door to the outside and made sure it was locked. As he reached the door, he noticed the water was now lapping against the long windows of the room, and some was seeping from beneath the door he had just secured. The water continued its relentless rise, bringing pressure on the glass of the door and windows. Greg felt water on the carpet of the living room, and he backed away toward the entrance to the hallway. He saw that the exterior door would not long hold as water jets formed around its edges, shooting into the living room Greg turned toward the opposite side of the room. The fireplace had doubled in size, and a red glow and an unearthly moaning bass emanated from deep inside its bowls. Greg turned toward the hallway to run, and then he tripped, sloshing into the water that was now more than a foot deep inside the living room. The outside door burst open, and the lake poured in, along with the whistling sound of the wind.

-------

A quiet alarm reminiscent of a whistle woke up Lieutenant Gregory Yost, commissioned officer of the Imperial Army. The room he woke up in was dimly lit, as it was programmed to be during sleeping hours, and he saw that his roommate was still sleeping. He quickly silenced the small alarm, which was integrated into a small control panel next to the bed. Greg then slowly sat up on his bunk and peered into the dim room. His wall locker was built into the bulkhead of his room, just next to the control panel, so he stood and placed his palm on the surface. The built-in biometrics device recognized his hand and the door released and slid open. He removed his standard gray Imperial uniform and boots and got dressed. As an Imperial officer, Greg had the privilege of a private bathroom, although shared with his still sleeping roommate, who like Greg was also a lieutenant. Only a short time before, he had worked as a targeting officer on a star destroyer, but orders for a new assignment whisked him away, and he now found himself here.

Greg walked toward the bathroom within the small room, and a sensor Greg could not see detected him and sent a signal to the door, which swished open for him. The bathroom was not dissimilar to those he had seen on the ships of earth, though various fixtures had an alien look to him. He spent the next 15 minutes showering and shaving. Long ago, Greg had foregone shaving cream and razor, in favor of a hand-held electric razor that worked much faster than any electric razor native to his home planet, and it left his face smooth. He knew that somehow the device prevented hair from re-sprouting upon his face for up to a week, depending on the settings of the device. He had it set for three standard days. Otherwise he feared he might forget to shave.

Greg made his way down a passageway within the ship; as far as ships went, this was not a particularly large one, but it served its primary function well. The Star Galleon-class frigate was a relatively small ship, but this particular one had been slightly modified to carry maximum numbers of Imperial personnel, and only a small amount of cargo. While enlisted men were jammed into cramped berthing areas like sardines, junior officers like him were assigned smaller rooms that accommodated two men, and sported slightly better facilities. The few senior officers aboard were assigned their own staterooms with everything they could want, including work spaces with terminals. Greg had no such terminal in the room he shared with the other lieutenant, so he headed to one of the wardrooms set aside for officers. After grabbing some quick breakfast, Greg entered the room adjacent to the wardroom that had various terminals built into small work spaces. He used his rank cylinder to activate one of the unused terminals, and it provided a basic greeting, acknowledging his rank and position in the Imperial Army. He knew the terminal confirmed his identity with a retinal scan, though he could not see where the scanner was. Greg noticed early on that Imperial terminals tended for forego flashy graphics that he was certain the computers were more than capable of. They were plain and straight-forward devices that used text, and little else. Greg chuckled to himself, thinking that the terminal could have been mistaken for an old MS-DOS computer, except for the couple of high-resolution graphics toward the top of the screen, and of course his ability to interact directly with the screen itself. Greg scanned the messages waiting for him in his account. Most were meaningless: There were some congratulatory messages, wishing him luck as an Imperial officer, he saw a couple of messages from cohorts he had met over the past couple of years, and there were the usual advertisements that somehow made their way into his message account. He spotted a message containing assignment instructions. Ironically, he was heading back to Imperial Center to work under General Voss again, although this time as an officer. Greg did not recognize the department to which he was being assigned, though its label bespoke its purpose: Counterinsurgency Task Force.

Greg left the room containing workstations and walked down the passageway to one of the few view-ports available on the small ship. From his vantage point on the port side of the ship, he could not see any other ships. That was logical, since the ship was in hyperspace. Only the strange, white vortex of hyperspace appeared outside the window. Though he could not see them, Greg knew that his ship was being escorted by at least one star destroyer and a couple of smaller frigates.

Greg had read multiple reports, suggesting that the rebel fleet was growing stronger by the day, and he had even heard rumors that their spies had managed to get their hands on the plans for the giant space station he had seen little more than a month ago. That wasn’t good. Greg did not know if the mammoth space station possessed any significant weaknesses, but if it did then detailed plans for it would certainly assist enemy analysts in locating them. Were he in charge, Greg knew that his top priority would be to recover such plans as quickly as possible, before enemy analysts could study them in detail. He found himself thankful that such a task did not fall to him.

Greg glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. They had a few hours yet before his ship and its escorts would reach orbit of Imperial Center. He yawned as he gazed into the hypnotic light show that was hyperspace. Turning toward his small stateroom, he decided that he could afford a little more sleep.

-------

The air was filled with fine dust and the sounds of competing calls to prayer in Arabic, over loudspeakers on tops of the many mosques of the city. In all directions, men clad in white and tan dishdashas and various forms of traditional Arabic head-dress crowded the sidewalks of the city. Other of the brown-skinned natives of the area could be seen wearing clothing more common to the so-called Western nations, but those in traditional Arabic dress were more common. There were no shortages of wheeled vehicles on the streets, and luxury speeders that used repulserlifts instead of tires were becoming a more common site. Less common, and nearly always in the company of a man were the black-clad shapes that contained women. Throughout the city, portraits of King Fahd, the monarch of Saudi Arabia, stared benevolently down at all who passed under his gaze. It was late in the afternoon in July, so much of the native population ventured out to conduct business or meet with each other in the relative cool of the day. Nearby thermometers indicated a temperature of around 46 degrees, centigrade. This was the city of Mecca, and it was considered by most of the local inhabitants to be the most holy city in the world.

Fluun had grown to hate the city, along with its inhabitants. He recalled fond memories of policing and occupation duties in his native galaxy. Most of the time, the mere presence of stormtroopers was sufficient to prevent dissent and keep order. On the worlds of his native galaxy, stormtroopers were given a wide berth, and civilians moved quickly out of their way. That was not the case here. Fluun walked down the sidewalk of the city toward the structure know as the Masjid al-Haram, which supposedly contained structures built by religious men thousands of years ago.

During the early stages of the invasion, Fluun knew that Imperial forces had attempted to occupy the Masjid al-Haram, but they had been met with mass suicidal attacks by countless locals. While the attacks had cost untold thousands of local casualties, they had also effectively wiped out nearly half of a legion of Imperial stormtroopers. As a result, the local Imperial authorities had decided to pull forces out of the structure. Even so, stormtroopers often came under attack throughout the city, and their scattered garrisons were not immune either. One garrison had been breached by multiple vehicles laden with high-explosives. Dozens of locals wearing suicide explosive vests had then swarmed the garrison, killing many off-duty and on-duty stormtroopers. As a result of that attack, tall reinforced concrete barriers had been erected around the remaining garrisons in an attempt to prevent such an enemy tactic from meeting with success in the future.

Like his fellow stormtroopers, Fluun’s armor had upon it a localized pattern that blended him in with the city scenery and desert colors. He had seen images of soldiers from the West who had invaded a land mass to the north, about a decade ago. They had worn patterns on their fabric uniforms that reminded him of the pattern his own armor now sported. The stifling heat taxed his armor’s cooling systems and more quickly drained the power cells, so squads could not operate as long without conducting preventative maintenance, checks and services, as they could in other, less harsh environments.

The armor the troopers used here was also strengthened against explosive blasts, or so Fluun had been informed. He was dubious. Too often, he had seen evidence of troopers ripped apart by the powerful explosives used by the local insurgents. In the first year of occupation, Imperial authorities had taken draconian measures to reduce the level of violence, including rounding up and mowing down hundreds of locals. Those actions had done nothing to reduce the level of violence however, and if anything it had increased. According to what Fluun read in reports, the indigenous population was tribal in nature, and they were easily drawn into bloody shame-honor cycles of revenge and retaliation.

Fluun conducted a quick check of his squad through his visor HUD and internal communication suite. None of the locals would hear him speak, but each of his troopers would. Fluun was among the few Jango Fett clones in his regiment, and very little concerned or frightened him. He had earned numerous accommodations and recommendations over his career, and he enjoyed leading men in hostile environments. This place though … death was everywhere, and often without warning. He absently checked the status of his modified weapon. Unlike the standard blaster carbine to which he was accustomed, this one was modified to quickly disperse death and dismemberment with terrific “knock-down” power. It used much more energy than a standard blaster carbine, and it contained more powerful and larger cells. Suicide bombers running at you might be slowed down by a standard blaster carbine, but this weapon would knock them backward and hopefully burn through both them and their explosives.

The weight of both his weapon and the modified body armor, and body glove in which he was ensconced was a mild annoyance in comparison to the dangers that lurked everywhere. Fluun had personally repulsed well over a dozen attacks in the two standard months he had been assigned to his garrison. In all but one of those attacks, he had lost men under his command. Most of his men consisted either of raw recruits or those not favored by their former commands. Fluun’s own assignment had come shortly after his “habit” had been discovered. He chafed inwardly, since he felt his “habit” had in no way degraded his efficiency as a fighting man. Shortly thereafter, Fluun had been assigned to occupation duty on Sol, and he had then drawn the short straw and wound up here of all places.

Dusk was setting in, and the crowds were growing thicker on the streets and sidewalks. Fluun and his squad had grown accustomed to the natives here getting uncomfortably close to them, though they were careful to constantly check each other. Fluun recalled watching one of his troopers fly apart after a passerby attached a “sticky bomb” to the trooper that subsequently detonated with lethal force. The “sticky bomb” was a cleverly-designed, shaped charge, and it had blown out the mid-section of the hapless trooper. The squad had opened fire in all directions, cutting down more than a dozen locals, but they had no way of knowing whether or not they had disposed of the perpetrator.

Fluun could almost sense the palpable anger radiating from the natives around him. Many glances were full of menace, but never for long. A few would look at him blankly, and those were the ones that concerned Fluun the most. Suicide bombers most often had blank stares just prior to lifting their arms in the air, uttering nonsense, and then detonating in a radiating burst of violence.

Fluun knew he had only twenty minutes left on his patrol, and so far all had been quiet. He found himself praying to nameless divine beings that he would get back to his garrison in one piece.

“Alla’hu Ackbar!”

Fluun threw himself to the sidewalk upon hearing the dreaded words from his left-rear. Half a second later, the concussion of an explosion picked him up and hurled him against the wall of a nearby building, and he landed with a grunt. Unconsciousness threatened to claim him, but Fluun shook his head and quickly took a knee, barking out orders and instructions to his squad though his intercom system. His men were scattered at least five meters apart, for Fluun knew that a favorite tactic by suicide bombers in the early days had been to take out as many grouped troopers as possible. He accounted for all but two in his squad. Two more were dead – likely killed by the concussion of the bomb, one was missing, and the remaining seven troopers were forming a loose perimeter. Fluun directed them to fire only at stationary targets, or those who were moving toward the troopers. Most of the street lights were out, whether because the darkness was not yet complete, or by design of the attacking force. The natives running away from the scene of carnage did not concern Fluun. With disgust, he noted at least a dozen dead or dying locals that had been victimized by the suicide bomber – the enemy seemed not to care about killing their own.

Fluun worked a rudimentary plan in his mind to locate the missing trooper and then retrograde to his garrison with his squad. As he briefed his squad members on his plan, two of his troopers worked to recover their fallen comrades. Fluun then heard a loud hissing sound, followed by an explosive and ripping sound.

“RPG!” yelled Fluun into his microphone. He watched as one of the troopers bending down to recover a fallen comrade caught an RPG round in the faceplate. A bright-orange fire-ball replaced the trooper’s helmet as he fell over backwards, instantly dead. Fluun cursed himself silently. Those RPG warheads had been significantly modified to be more deadly than those of the early days of the war. If the squad stayed here any longer, they were all dead. Projectiles from local slug-throwing weapons glanced off his armor, not penetrating it, but nearly throwing him off-balance. He gave the order, and his men began an organized retrograde. He threw a thermal detonator toward the darkness from which he could detect the enemy firing. Through his visor, he could see their heat signatures, and they did not remain stationary, often ducking behind buildings and ground vehicles, and there were so many of them. Hisses filled the air, as more of the deadly RPGs were launched, and explosions filled the air around Fluun and his troopers. He and what was left of his squad bounded back toward the garrison, which seemed impossibly far away. While one section bounded, the other laid down suppressive fire and threw thermal detonators.

Fluun noted with resignation that he was beginning to receive fire from his flanks as well. A terrific explosion shook the ground to his left, and Fluun saw another of his troopers fly through the air. That was no RPG. That was a much more powerful road-side bomb that had been planted earlier and cleverly concealed. Fluun was down to now just six men, including himself. Nearly half of his squad was lost. As he took a knee to aim at one of the advancing heat enemy fighters, bright-red bolts lanced from behind him and spat forth death at the advancing natives. Through his visor, he watched in grim satisfaction as four of the enemy heat signatures were torn apart by the heavy blaster bolts. He turned and saw an up-armored Imperial scout walker lurching in their direction. Fluun ordered his diminished squad to fall behind the walker and continue toward the garrison. He looked at the garrison and saw bright flashes around and in the compound – it was receiving indirect fire, likely from local mortars within the city. Loud explosions attested to multiple RPG rounds impacting against the Imperial walker, as it returned angry fire toward the enemy fighters attacking with rockets and slug-throwers, from the darkness.

From within the garrison to which Fluun and his squad was fleeing leapt return indirect fire toward the platforms from which enemy fire had originated. Though he could not hear them, Fluun knew those warheads were finding targets somewhere within the city. With bitterness, Fluun knew they would destroy only abandoned launchers, likely set to crude timers. Unfortunately, the enemy wasn’t stupid enough to hang around and eat counter-fire.

Fluun and his squad finally made it past the large concrete walls and into the relative safety of the garrison. He could hear the barking of the garrison’s automated and remote-controlled weapon systems as they returned fire to an enemy that seemed impervious to losses. Only once in the garrison, did Fluun notice that his right leg was bleeding heavily. Shrapnel from one of the many explosions had found its way underneath the body armor and ripped apart the skin and underlying tissue, just above his knee. He shrugged off the wound and checked on his men. Outside, the sounds of multiple slug-throwers, explosions and Imperial weapons continued unabated.

“Sith take this accursed place!” spat the squad leader in impotent rage.

-------

The admiral sat at the workspace within his stateroom and intently studied his monitor, seeking the key piece of information that would allow him the freedom to do what he had wanted for so long. Most of the messages were mundane trash, even after his aide had filtered out the minutia. With deep anger, he recalled what he had witnessed two days earlier. An insurgent video had surfaced on the internet that had prompted the admiral to beam his transmission to the Imperial High Command. He felt that his request was reasonable. With irritation, the admiral gave up his search for the elusive message. He stood and then exited his stateroom.

The command bridge of the star destroyer was as busy as ever, men clad in gray scurrying from workstation to workstation in order to monitor business within the ship, within the fleet, and on the third planet of the Sol system, over which much of the sector fleet was currently in orbit. The admiral strode in, and while the activity on the bridge did not slow, voices became softer. The admiral made his way to the huge transparencies of the forward bridge, and he stared out toward space, then diverting his eyes toward the planet over which his flagship orbited. A couple of minutes later, he turned and made his way to one of the stations.

“Play it again,” said the admiral to a lieutenant. The lieutenant needed no explanation. He had seen the clip dozens of times already, and so it was readily accessible. He activated the terminal, and the video began.

Arabic script with crossed swords accompanied Arabic music and singing. The video then revealed a small room with a mounted flag on the wall, also containing Arabic script. Four men stood in front of what was obviously a captured Imperial stormtrooper. His hands were bound behind him, he was still in his armor, and his helmet was missing. His haggard face bore witness to multiple beatings, one of his eyes blackened, and there was evidence of a broken lip. While the trooper had been bald and clean-shaven at the time of his capture, he now sprouted short, dark-brown hair upon his scalp and face. He looked tired and dejected. His marred face also told of uncertainty and fear. The four men standing behind him were dressed in all black pajamas, and their faces were covered with black ski masks. One of the masked men behind the trooper held a sword, and the other held a paper in his hand. As he spoke, his natural language was masked over with broken and accented Basic.

The man reading from the paper spoke of his faith in Allah and of infidel invaders defiling the holy land. He spoke of the eventual throwing off of the infidel yoke from the holy land and their expulsion back into the depths of space. He then yelled something in his own language not translated into Basic, while the other masked man behind the trooper used the sword to cut off the trooper’s head. While he was being murdered, the trooper was bound and could not struggle, though he convulsed wildly during the act. The scene then faded into more Arabic script with music growing loudly in triumph.

As the video ended, the admiral turned to look briefly at the young officer, who was as angry as he. That was the video he had beamed to the High Command two standard days prior. In silent fury, he left the station and then headed back to his stateroom. Once again, he sat at his private workstation. As he watched, a blinking red icon indicated a new message. He activated the message and slowly smiled.

“Finally,” he growled.

-------

As dusk fell over the city, both men in Arabic dress and those in more “Western” clothing mingled in the city as the oppressive heat became more bearable. Their demeanor betrayed both curiosity and nervousness, for earlier in the afternoon the remaining Imperial garrisons had been packed up and moved away with large vehicles, some on the ground and others in the air. Gone were the Imperial stormtroopers and giant mechanized walkers. Most of the men and women of the city had not taken part in the resistance against the alien enemy, though they did not disapprove of the attacks. This was a holy city, and infidels had no place in it. Apparently, the infidels had been driven back. Now, the people of the city could do business in peace.

-------

Fluun stared at the horizon. He was surrounded by desert in all directions, but still he stared in one direction, occasionally moving his gaze to the twinkling stars above. One of those stars was very large, and it was moving. Two of his squad members stood next to him, one of them pulling a swig from a large bottle of water. They had all relocated deep into the Arabian desert, earlier in the day. None of them had been told why, but they had their suspicions. He recalled the video of the trooper being decapitated by the insurgents. That was his man; the one he had lost during his last combat patrol. Another man had made it back, barely, but the bad news got only worse.

One of the squad members said, “Roz did not pull through.”

The statement stood on its own. Roz had been recovered from that final mission earlier in the week after taking the blunt of the explosion of a road-side bomb. Roz had smiled and talked about recovering in time for his leave, but the medics knew better. The internal damage was too severe even for a bacta tank to heal. He died earlier in the evening, after the displacement of forces and equipment had been completed. Fluun shook his head.

“Roz was a good man,” said the other squad member. Fluun nodded. He thought back to how many of his mates had perished in that hellhole, and he recalled the rules of engagement that had subdued initiative. He could really use some of that stuff now – the stuff he had offered to a man on an Imperial dreadnaught so long ago; it would help deaden the pain. He tightly closed his eyes, and then opened them again, still locking his eyes on the horizon.

“Roz will be remembered, long after…”

Bright-green flashes from overhead lit the night sky, and giant, glowing green bolts slammed into the horizon. Even here, hundereds of kilometers from the target area, Fluun and his comrades felt the ground tremble from the terrific force of heavy turbolaser bolts biting deep into the crust of the planet. Fluun knew academically that the power of the heavy turbolasers was significantly reduced, set very low, or they would not survive at even so great a distance from the target area. Even so, the explosive force of the blast and the damage done by them could be seen, felt, and eventually heard with deafening thunder. Between the flashes on the horizon, Fluun saw the faces of his men, though he knew it to be only in his mind. The barrage did not last long, but the glow on the horizon would remain for hours.

“Burn it all away,” said the man to Fluun’s right, and Fluun glanced at him, and then he turned to walk back to his sleeping quarters. His men followed, for they did not know how far the shockwave would travel, so it was best to be inside. Fluun felt exhausted.

-------

Greg jerked his head up in alarm, “They did what?!”

“The whole city was wiped from the planet,” said the NCO, without apparent concern. The Empire had been known to cleanse entire planets of populations numbering in the billions, so to the NCO, destruction of but a single city meant little.

“This is different,” said Greg, “this is bad.”

Greg had studied Arabic and Islamic culture before, since he had conducted operations in the Middle East. The US military had been careful to avoid offending their Kuwaiti hosts, who were nearly all Muslim. The magnitude of what the Imperial fleet over Earth had done was almost unimaginable to Greg. Not only were countless thousands of people wiped out in a very short period of time, but the place itself was central to their religion. Unimaginable! Yet there it was. The reports on the event looked sterile and nonchalant – just another city had been eliminated. Greg knew he had his work cut out for him.

-------

Moheb was inconsolable. His visage was scarred with rage and grief.

“I will murder every one of them, EN SH’ALLA! I will kill them all!”

Lancer Six watched as the Syrian paced back and forth. He would not be able to reason with him in this state. Much of Moheb’s muttering was in Arabic, laced with rage. Two of his cohorts sat at the table, deep beneath the ground. Lancer Six sighed internally, but he did not want to interrupt the anger of Moheb. Mecca was no more. The Imperials had effectively erased it from the surface of the planet. That was approximately seven hours ago. Moheb had learned of it only an hour ago, and his anger showed no signs of abating.

“We will strike back,” said Lancer Six, “and we will do so on our own terms, and at times and places of our choosing.” To the right of Lancer Six sat Datshi. The normally animated Georgian looked subdued. He was used to relying on the patience and reason of Moheb to keep his own considerable fury in check. Datshi and Moheb had become friends over the past year, and Datshi now found himself in an uncomfortable position. He glanced uncertainly toward the pacing Syrian, and then a thought came to mind.

“Moheb!” barked the Georgian. Moheb slowed his pacing and looked at Datshi, anger still burning in his features. He saw hope etched in the Georgian’s face.

“My friend?” said Moheb.

“We can use this,” said the Georgian, “to our advantage. We can strike a severe blow at these devils!” Datshi was becoming angry again – he seemed more comfortable and in control when he was righteously angry. His smile was now savage. Lancer Six looked on with interest. Moheb studied his friend’s face, interest replacing his own anger. He finally took his seat and looked questioningly at his friend.

“What can we do?” asked Moheb.

“The resistance in Mecca waged effective jihad against the invaders, did they not?” inquired Datshi.

“Na’am,” said Moheb, slipping unconsciously into his native Arabic.

“Imagine that jihad, on a much grander scale,” said Datshi with a predatory smile. Moheb considered his words, and then he slowly nodded. Lancer Six leaned back in his chair.

[LadyTevar]

The Imperials have no idea the damage they just did.

[Singular Quartet]

The Imperials have no idea the damage they just did.

Everybody on earth is asking the question "Why did you kick over the nest of africanized killer bees?"

[Kingmaker]

I don't see this ending well. For whom, I'm not sure (probably everyone). I wonder how much the Imps will put up with before they just burn the whole Arabian peninsula.

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

I don't see this ending well. For whom, I'm not sure (probably everyone). I wonder how much the Imps will put up with before they just burn the whole Arabian peninsula.

I wonder how much the Imperials will put up with before they decide that Earth isn't worth the trouble and simply Base Delta Zero the whole thing. If the Imperial outpost in Mecca had to relocate hundreds of kilometers away to be semi-safe from the orbital bombardment, then most of the Arabian peninsula is already fucked.

[phongn]

I wonder how much the Imperials will put up with before they decide that Earth isn't worth the trouble and simply Base Delta Zero the whole thing. If the Imperial outpost in Mecca had to relocate hundreds of kilometers away to be semi-safe from the orbital bombardment, then most of the Arabian peninsula is already fucked.

The Emperor seems to think Earth's Force-null population makes it all worth it: we are quite the rare commodity.

[Darksider]

The difference between The Galactic Empire and other powers that have tried to occupy the middle east is that the empire has no problem whatsoever with exterminating the entire local populace. If they have to kill every last muslim on earth, they will. No matter how valuable Force Nulls may be to Palpatine, I doubt he'd have a problem with exterminating one ethnic/religious group to set an example. I can see the entire arab/muslim population being completely gone by the end of the Imperial occupation.