Posted: 2007-10-17 05:20pm
by Publius
BELIEVE! OBEY! FIGHT!
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
A long time ago, and in a galaxy far, far away, a time piece did its work. It was not a great time piece; its place in history would never be recorded. Even those who knew it was there never gave it a second thought. It was not an important time piece; it could be easily replaced at the drop of a hat. And yet – like any good machine – it neither knew nor cared about its insignificance. It did its work, mechanically, flawlessly, without the slightest hint of ego or pride. The time piece did not know a thing about its surroundings; it did not even have artificial intelligence. It had to do – indeed, could do – only one thing: measure time. And that is what it did.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
A computer read that measurement, checked it against the preset measurements, and transmitted a signal to another computer, which checked this measurement against measurements transmitted by another computer monitoring another time piece, and then checked this against the precalculated figures already entered into its program and against the extensive charts and records stored in another computer. This central computer then sent a signal to another computer, which dutifully acknowledged and sprang into action. One imagines that turbines whined and pistons whirred, but they didn't, not really; instead, there was a soft click and then over fifty billion tons of complex mass and attitude adjustment shifted from faster-than-light to slower-than-light.
Hyperspace terminus.
The Empire had entered the system of Balmorra.
* * * * *
Balmorra was one of the foremost of the factory worlds in the galaxy, wholly owned and operated by a single corporation, formally the Governor and Company of the Worshipful Collective of Weaponeers and Armourers of Balmorra – but more commonly called simply Balmorran Arms. Once dominated by a court of directors populated by Techno Union loyalists, Balmorran Arms had deposed its own corporate government in a coup d'enterprise and enthusiastically sided with the Loyalists during the Clone Wars – the very same time of upheaval that had given birth to the Empire itself – and had duly received its reward, lucrative defense contracts from the most powerful regime the galaxy had ever seen, contracts worth trillions upon trillions of credits. Enthusiastically the company had applied its enormous planetwide factories to the task of arming the vast legions of the Imperial Army.
Enthusiastically, that is, until Imperial Intelligence discovered that the Governor had been providing covert aid – in money and in kind – to the Rebellion against the Empire. The scandal had been epic; the ensuing purge had been entrusted to no less a figure than Surface Marshal of the Imperial Army (Retired) Sir Wilhuff Shijken, GRCC, PC, ADC, the very same ruthless tyrant and butcher who, as the first Chief of Imperial General Staff, had purged the officer ranks of the Army in the early days of the Empire, liquidating over 75% of the officer corps – many of whom had been shot. At Sir Wilhuff’s orders, the deputy governors and many of the assistant governors and senior managers were fired – by firing squad. The court of directors was deposed and sent to the disintegration booth, and an entirely new board of impeccably orthodox directors – with Sir Wilhuff himself the director president of the court – was stuffed down the shareholders’ throats.
Balmorran enthusiasm for the Imperial Roundel and all that it stood for evaporated practically overnight as the company grew increasingly tyrannical under Sir Wilhuff’s direction. Agitation for the overthrow of the puppet regime installed at blasterpoint boiled in the streets. Only the charismatic leadership of the young new Governor prevented disaster; seeing that his police state tactics weren’t working, Sir Wilhuff had fired the Governor (and, predictably, had him shot) and appointed his nephew and protégé, the iconoclastic Lieutenant Colonel Tanacharison Beltane, as his replacement, Balmorran Arms’ new chief executive officer.
Even if Beltane’s ideological conformity had been rated only as marginal, he was a competent administrator and had ties to the ruling class; his uncle remained head of the court of directors anyway. The Empire was satisfied with Balmorran loyalty.
For a time.
The chief difference between Tanacharison Beltane and his predecessor – the first one that his uncle had had shot – was that Beltane was better at covering his tracks; he, too, was a passionate Oppositionist, a fifth-columnist safely ensconced within the very heart of the Empire's military-industrial complex. It was at his instigation that rioting had broken out in the streets of Manufactury Prime when word had arrived of the Emperor's death at the Battle of Endor. It was at his instigation that armed insurgents had broken into Government House and took the entire court of directors – including his uncle – hostage against Imperial recognition of Balmorran independence. And it had certainly been at his suggestion that a New Republic battle fleet had just-so-happened to be on maneuvers near Balmorran space and were able to repulse the sole attempt made by Isard's regency to reclaim the planet.
For five years, Balmorra tasted freedom. But not even a wily operator like Governor Beltane could have accounted for the mysteries of the Sith, and when the Emperor returned, the new, democratically-elected court of directors had forced him to accept a return of the hated Imperial Roundel, and the great factories of Balmorra toiled once more for the greater glory of the Emperor. Now the Emperor was dead once more; and Beltane had eagerly forced a dissolution of the court and a new election among the shareholders, campaigning for rebellion and a return to independence. His preferred candidates won by a landslide, and once more Balmorra threw off the Imperial yoke and began selling enormous shipments of weapons and armor to the New Republic.
When word of Balmorra’s unilateral declaration of secession reached the New Imperial Council on Byss, deep within the heart of the dark Empire, no one panicked. The Shadow Hand Strategy was consulted; Balmorra’s secession was not one of the scenarios for which the Emperor had formulated a contingency plan, but it took no more than a few minutes for Shadow Hand to assemble an operational plan using the vast database of information at its disposal. Orders were issued; the rapid reaction force was mobilized. Sailors made ready to get underway. Powerful tractor beam lines were brought in, all hands made ready for the jump to hyperspace. Within hours of receiving Beltane’s declaration of secession, the Empire’s reply was on Balmorra’s very doorstep: ashen white, dagger-shaped, and fully capable of reducing a civilized world to ash and cinder.
* * * * *
Klaxons blared. Civilians rushed hurriedly to the bomb shelters. Emergency response teams scrambled. The corporate security forces were out in force, cordoning areas off and enforcing a hastily declared curfew. The militia was called up, weapons were issued. Horrible memories of Sir Wilhuff’s night raids and forced disappearances came boiling to the surface. All over the planet’s surface, panic was in the air.
The Empire had entered the system of Balmorra!
The planet’s spaceborne defenses were no match for the firepower of the Imperial Starfleet. The fleet was cut to ribbons by hundreds upon hundreds of TIE fighters, the defensive platforms and space stations were hulled by overwhelming fire from the dozens of Star Destroyers and cruisers and destroyers. The vast Imperial warships moved to interdict outbound traffic from Balmorra itself, while Interdictor cruisers and pickets took up position to prevent anyone from entering or exiting the system via hyperspace. Enormous amphibious landing ships and maritime prepositioning ships moved into position to unleash the wrath of the 2nd, 15th, 35th and 42nd Imperial Army Groups – over 30 million Imperial soldiers, combat-ready and battle-hardened. It was a vast and impressive display of Imperial might, one worthy of the old days of Terrinald Screed and Shea Hublin and Manfred von Asch.
On board the Imperial flagship – HIMS Avenger – the bridge was calm and orderly. Ratings moved at their stations like clockwork, performing their tasks with precision and confidence. Switches were turned and levers depressed, orders were relayed and acknowledged and repeated – all of it done with the utmost professionalism. There was no fear here; not here, not where the power to annihilate a civilized world lay at their fingertips.
The Messenger of the Watch hurried over to the very for’rard end of the command walkway, where three black-garbed humans waited. They were neither officers nor men of the Armed Forces of the Imperium; they did not wear the crisp, professional uniforms that set such beings apart as beings worthy of respect – and fear, of course. No, they wore black vestments – different from the vestments of the Inquisitorius, more martial. Two of them wore armorweave cloaks, gleaming armor, cowls – all black. The Messenger didn’t know much about them; scuttlebutt had it that one of them had been a sergeant major in one of the Strategic Insertion battalions, while the other was supposed to have been a fighter pilot in the elite Carrier Space Wing 1, the Immortals – the Emperor’s personal starfighter escort.
But these two stood with hands clasped behind them, the surety of command etched into their faces. Though they were certainly not officers or men among the Armed Forces of the Imperium now, they still stood with the posture and poise of command. And yet they were not in command; no, the leader among them was the third, the ashen-faced rogue leaning against the bulkhead and staring out the viewport, his gloved hands pressed against the sill like a man clutching a rail, debating whether or not he wanted to leap over it. Unlike his colleagues he did not wear a cloak and cowl, but rather dressed much as any smuggler or mercenary might have – all black, of course.
“My lord – ” the Messenger began, only to be cut off by a warning glare from one of the cloaked men.
The leader’s chest rose and fell as he inhaled and exhaled deeply; he looked like a man deep in the throes of a drug-induced high. It was not an altogether inaccurate description.
He could feel them below, the ululating, pulsating masses of frightened Balmorrans. Yes, they were frightened, terrified – and well they should be! He had the power to wipe them from the face of the universe, here, now, at his very fingertips. At a mere word from him, the factories of Balmorra would be obliterated, burned off the face of the planet by angry bolts of retribution. At a mere word from him, the seething masses of Balmorans would be vaporized. Their precious cities would become rivers of blood and metal.
All at a mere word from him.
For he was Sedriss – no more than that; that and that alone was his name – and he was the Military Executor of the Galactic Empire. Every single ship in the Starfleet – every single fighting vehicle in the armies – every single asset in the spynet – every last Sailor, Soldier, Marine, and Agent in the Armed Forces of the Imperium – was his to command. At a word from him, they would unleash hell.
He could feel their fear – no, one does not feel the fear of prey, one smells it, tastes it. He savored the rich potpourri of emotions, the flavor of the mind-numbing, soul-searing fear that was running rampant on the world below. He could hear their wailing, their moaning, their gnashing of teeth – my children, my husband, my wife – don’t let them take them, don’t let them hurt them – oh, stars, don’t let them hurt me, I don’t want to die – my family! I can’t bear to lose them – I don’t want to die....
He smiled, a wolfish smile, and closed his pale eyes. Oh, yes, they were afraid, afraid of the forces at his command – afraid of him. Yes, that was good. Their fear made him powerful.
They feared his wrath.
He had not the least shred of pity for any of them.
“What is it?” he said, his voice a whisper, nearly overwhelmed with the ecstasy he derived from tasting the exquisite fear he could feel from the planet below.
“My lord, we are being signaled by the planetary command center,” said the Messenger respectfully. There was no fear in him; nor should there be. He was a drone, a thrall to be commanded. He meant no more to these men than paint on the bulkhead; why should they expect fear from him?
“Governor Beltane?” asked one of the cloaked men. His name was Vill Goir; he was the Principal Deputy Executor of the Galactic Empire.
“Yes, my lord,” answered the Messenger.
“Very well,” said the leader. “I’ll come.”
They walked across the command walkway to the communications station just abaft of the crew pits. There they stood before an enormous viewscreen, where after only a few seconds of delay appeared the face of Tanacharison Beltane, Governor of the Worshipful Collective of Weaponeers and Armourers of Balmorra.
“Executor Sedriss!” the bald man roared. “What is the meaning of this outrage? Have you gone mad? You very nearly — ”
“Do you think me a fool, Governor?” said the leader softly, cutting the man off more with the force of his presence than with the force of his voice. Sedriss did not need to growl or bluster; the guns of the Empire growled for him. “Do you think that somehow your little secession would be lost in the shuffle? I know you’re arming the rebels. I know you’re behind this whole comedy of errors. Your entire staff is riddled with my spies. I am here to give you the opportunity to die with dignity, Governor.”
He smiled, a pale smile not unlike that of a funeral mask. “You will die, Governor, I assure you of that, but there’s no need to take the rest of Balmorra with you. Lower your shields and surrender your troops.” He did not say ‘or else,’ because he did not need to. Dozens of top-of-the-line warships and hundreds of pickets and escorts surrounded Beltane’s world; millions of soldiers and marines stood ready to invade at Sedriss’s command. ‘Or else’ was rather obvious.
“I don’t understand your problem, Executor,” said Beltane. “Aren’t our factories still supplying your most advanced armor? Are you so stiff-necked that you can’t bear to hear of a world free, even if it continues business as usual? Damn your eyes, Executor, we’re a company of honor! We do not violate our contracts, we do — ”
“Spare me the sanctimonious outrage, Governor,” said the leader, his tone flat, a bit of the inexhaustible rage that lurked beneath his ashen façade leaking into his deadman’s eyes. “A man cannot serve two masters. You sell to the Empire and live, or you sell to the rebels and die. You’ve made your choice already. This is not a negotiation. You’ve made your bed, Governor. It’s time to sleep in it.”
“Balmorran Arms is the Imperial Army’s chief supplier of armor,” said the bald Governor, his voice turning harder and colder. “The Army needs us, and you need us. You can’t run Shadow Hand without us, Executor.”
Beltane spoke truthfully; Balmorran Arms was a major supplier, a major hub in the Empire’s military-industrial complex. It was not vital; no single world could possibly be vital to an Empire that ruled billions of worlds at its height. But the loss of Balmorra’s thousands upon thousands of square kilometers of factories – factories atop factories, manufacturing facilities kilometers tall and millions of cubic meters in volume, stretching from continent to continent – would be a major setback. But the Empire did not need to destroy those factories to destroy Beltane.
Balmorra’s strategic value ruled out the use of the Empire’s extensive collection of infrastructure-targeting weapons of mass destruction. There would be no continent-cracking space-to-ground missiles or interstellar planetary rockets, no infrastructure-destroying antimatter dustings or magnepulse cluster bombs, no geological disasters born of two-way gravshock devices or surface-searing visual electromagnetic intensifiers. But the Empire had other tools at its disposal – trillions of tons of chemical and biological weapons, millions of high-powered neutron bombs and life-destroying electromagnetic torpedoes.
Shadow Hand had ordered amphibious landings to seize control of vital defense systems, most importantly the planetary shield generators. While the Army secured the majority of the targets, the Marines were charged with seizing the capital, Manufactury Prime, and using its centralized control systems to shut down and compartmentalize the rest of the planet. While centralized control benefitted the planet’s industrial output and efficiency, it could be a strategic hazard when it was possible for an enemy to seize control and seal off each manufactury, allowing the elimination of the planet’s defensive forces one at a time.
The other downside to Balmorra’s highly-industrialized ecumenopolitan layout was that it allowed someone like Sedriss to seal off not only entry and exit, but also air and water. With only a little bit of modification, it would allow someone like Sedriss to pump an entire manufactury – say, Manufactury Prime – full of something-not-good. Something like, oh, say C4H10FO2P. Easy to deploy, short shelf-life, easy to clean up afterward. Oh, and, naturally, it was an extremely potent organophosphate compound that induced – in humans, at least – difficulty breathing, nausea, progressive loss of bodily functions, convulsions, and painful suffocation. All in all, a thoroughly unpleasant – and thoroughly undignified – way to die.
It was not without reason that the people of the Colonies Region called him Sedriss ha’Qrinifeks Qysr-li — Sedriss, the Emperor’s Butcher. It was not without reason that the people of the Core Worlds Region called him Nek-dawlat Sedriss — Sedriss, the Empire’s Nek. It was not without reason that the people of the Expansion Region called him Sedriss Caunotaucarius — Sedriss, the Devourer of Cities.
The pale smile tugged at the edges of his lips, as the ashen-faced Butcher, Nek, and City-Devourer looked at the flatscreen image of Tanacharison Beltane. The man had chutzpah, there was no doubt about that. A spine made of durasteel, no doubt; it took at least that much to look into the pale, icy deadman’s eyes of the Military Executor and tell him to back off. It would be a pleasure, Sedriss reflected, to speak to the man in person. To instill fear in those defiant eyes. To make him beg for death.
“I’m looking forward to our meeting, Governor,” Sedriss said. His voice was soft, delicate somehow, and seemed completely inappropriate for a man such as he. “My troops will land at once to accept your surrender.”
“Surrender, my lord?” Beltane snorted. “You want my surrender? Then come and take it!”
The transmission flickered to an abrupt end, indicating that the signal had simply been cut. The edges of Sedriss’s ashen lips tugged into a brief smile as he rested his gloved hand easily on the back of the chair of the operations specialist seated at the communications station. “Get me Surface Ops,” he said simply.
It was a matter of seconds before the screen flickered to life again, displaying the face of Sedriss’s ground forces commander, Surface Marshal Tessala Corvae. “Yes, my lord?” she said, looking up from her place at the massive battlefield holographic control interface in her war room on the gigantic amphibious assault ship HIMS Firebird.
Sedriss spoke only one word.
The word.
“Attack.”
