From the Jaws of Defeat
Feil
A normal man, looking at the infrared display of the battle, might have speculated on the futility of life, or on the ant-like quality of the soldiers that were fighting and dying soundlessly below. Corporal Janos Torren, MV-039, looked at the image with coldness and calculation, determining the nature of the battle in preparation for the drop.
Rebels had assaulted the Imperial-controlled starport at Drannes IV, and had forced the defenders back to their Army garrison base just outside the port complex. Inside, rebel slicer teams would at this moment be cutting through the protective software that denied them control of the port. If they succeeded, they would gain access to the starport’s heavy planetary defense cannons. And if they succeeded in that, any attempt to recapture the base would be a very expensive and difficult task.
Had Janos’ helmet been off, one could have seen his strong-featured face creased with hate. Hate for the rebel scum on the ground that were pushing the loyal Imperial Army garrison back, and back, and back. And knowledge that vengeance would soon be his to deliver. He made final mental notes to himself, and then switched back to his own visor, turning off the view from the Huntress—the Strike-class Cruiser from which he and his company were deploying.
Outside the open (but shielded) door of the gunship, clouds and rain droplets whistled by at several times the speed of sound. Around him, encased in grassland-camouflaged Stormtrooper armor, was the rest of his squad. No exterior marking distinguished the lieutenant (rebel snipers would be far too quick to notice something of that sort) but through the visor view he was clearly marked as the squad’s LT. Janos could sense the feeling of brotherhood among the troopers.
“Sixty Seconds.” The voice came from Lt. Arraks, who had led the squad for the last six months.
“Sixty Seconds,” confirmed the squad. Safeties clicked off, magazines were stripped, checked, and reinserted, tibanna levels were checked. Grenade harnesses were tugged tight. Short carbines slammed into holsters, and troopers un-strapped their heavier personal weapons: two automatic weapons, and open terrain rifles for the other ten members of the squad.
--------------------------
Below, among the Imperial Army detachment
A frag grenade exploded not twenty meters away, showering the Imperial Army defenders with shrapnel. Beside private Grast, the high-pitched scream of the man who had been firing by his shoulder knifed through the young soldier. He turned to see, and dropped to his knees at the sight. Half his friend’s body was flayed to pulp, and his arm hung by a shred of tissue, severed by a piece of shrapnel. Grast dropped his rifle and knelt before his friend. Warm blood mingled with the cold rain that had soaked his uniform trousers, as he held his friend’s hand, looking into his face as he died. “Medic,” he choked. “Medic!” “Medic!”
“Medic ain’t coming, kid,” someone said. “Stand up and stang up some kriffing rebel scum. C’mon. Up.”
Grast felt his rifle pressed into his hands. Mutely, he retook his place at the firing line, and squeezed the trigger again, and again, and again. Soldiers died around him. Distantly, the howl of enemy artillery sounded incessantly. A blaster bolt from a rebel prefab barricade slashed past him, singeing his coat. Suddenly, the whine of unmuffled military repulsorlifts sang through the firefight, vibrating the very teeth in Grast’s mouth. A rebel-marked gunship sat scarcely fifty meters away and above, with blaster bolts from the defenders glancing off its shields. Its forward blasters opened up, hacking through the line of defenders like so much hay to the scythe. Screams mingled with the roar of high-powered blasterfire as soldiers died. Grast turned to run, as the crimson bolts tore closer, all concept of discipline forgotten.
An explosion thundered through the battlefield. Grast tumbled through the air, propelled by the shockwave, and came to a sudden stop on his back. The pain of breathing told him that several ribs were broken. Through his ringing ears, Grast heard the most beautiful sound he could possibly imagine: the keening roar of a Twin-Ion Engine. Above, a trio of TIE/ln starfighters swept by, their repulsorlifts flattening the grasses below, and their guns spraying killing fire on the Rebel forces as they swept towards the distant artillery. As the battle faded to black, camo-armored stormtroopers began to pour from the slate-gray gunships that had dropped from the overcast sky. Grast smiled.
----
Janos felt his insides lurch as the gunship’s repulsorlifts forced a lighting-fast deceleration, even greater than the craft's artificial gravity could cope with. "Drop! Drop! Drop!" came the order from the LT. With a clatter of armor plate, the squad leapt into motion, gripping zip lines with their left hands to slow their descents over the few meters separating the gunship from the ground. Janos landed in a crouch, immediately releasing the line and bringing his DLT-19 blaster rifle to his shoulder.
Noticing movement out of the corner of his eye, Janos spun swiftly to face it. A fraction of a second served to confirm the target's hostile status, and he put a double-tap into the tango's unarmored chest.
"Move it," barked the lieutenant. He sprinted out across the blasted prairie towards the covering wreck of a fallen AT-ST with the squad in tow. The LT pointed to the squad’s first target with his left hand, having been fed his objective by the platoon commander. "Prefab pillbox at 10 o'clock," he announced. That they were to take it out was unnecessary to say.
"Jes, Vand. Covering fire." The squads automatics opened up on the 'box. A scream of pain rewarded the first bursts, then the rebels figured out that they ought to stay down. "Torren, Santis, 'nades."
"Sir." Janos answered. He switched his grip on the '19 to free his right hand and pulled a thermal detonator from a pouch on his vest. He cocked his arm back and hurled the weapon, smiling at the hazy memory of playing ball with childhood friends. Santis' throw went a little high, and bounced off the top of the pillbox. Janos' flew true, and vanished inside the building. For a second, the rebels appeared again in the windows—then the entire strongpoint blew apart in a fireball.
A fraction of a second later, Janos felt LT Arraks' armored arm slam against his chest, knocking him off his feet. A blasterbolt slashed through the space where his head had been, drawing a bubbling scar in the armaplast as it passed. Janos rolled to a crouch, bringing up his '19 and looking frantically for the source. A roar of automatic fire from the LT's carbine towards 4 o'clock high answered that question: a broken rebel body and a rifle came crashing out of a nearby tree.
"Thanks sir," Janos breathed as the LT helped him upright.
"We're taking that cover, leapfrog style," and a point from the officer's left index finger, were the only reply. "Alpha and Charlie have cover, then we cover them."
The tide of the fighting for the garrison base had clearly turned in the Empire's favour, though the battle for the starport was far from won. Precision fire from the Huntress, spotted in by her TIEs, had driven enemy artillery into retreat, though one of the Imperial fighters was blasted by rebel triple-A. The battle for control of the air had resumed, and the presence of even two true starfighters among the Imperial aircraft granted the Empire a definite edge over the rebel gunships and repulsorcraft.
A few plastoid-armored troopers lay dead or wounded on the grass, but the rebel ground forces were faltering and breaking under the fresh attack. Imperial gunships wheeled overhead, blasters, rockets, and beamers blowing away enemy armor and troopers like the rebels had been doing to the Imperial Army only minutes before. One of the platoons (three squads of stormtroopers) was advancing, towards a gate to the starport. Soon the troopers would be in the element for which they were trained nonstop: indoors combat.
[SW] From the Jaws of Defeat
Moderator: LadyTevar
[SW] From the Jaws of Defeat
Last edited by Feil on 2006-06-15 11:31am, edited 1 time in total.
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Ford Prefect
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 8254
- Joined: 2005-05-16 04:08am
- Location: The real number domain
Thanks for the praise! 
[shameless plug]My other story is less than twice as long as this story segment. I wrote it in one sitting, listening to heavy metal on internet radio. (
) Try reading to "FOR THE EMPEROR", then taking a break, if you don't want to read it all at once.
It's considerably better than this one (recieving the official Kuja rating of "YES! FUCKING YES!"). http://bbs.stardestroyer.net/viewtopic.php?t=91973 [/sp]
This story is actually mostly written already. I'll be posting segments as I edit them to final form, so probably once a day.
[shameless plug]My other story is less than twice as long as this story segment. I wrote it in one sitting, listening to heavy metal on internet radio. (
) Try reading to "FOR THE EMPEROR", then taking a break, if you don't want to read it all at once. It's considerably better than this one (recieving the official Kuja rating of "YES! FUCKING YES!"). http://bbs.stardestroyer.net/viewtopic.php?t=91973 [/sp]
This story is actually mostly written already. I'll be posting segments as I edit them to final form, so probably once a day.
-
Ford Prefect
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 8254
- Joined: 2005-05-16 04:08am
- Location: The real number domain
With blasterbolts shrieking past them, Janos and Bravo Squad made the last breathless sprint across the grass towards the gate. Alpha, already there, was prepping breaching charges, while Charlie provided suppressive fire. At last, Bravo reached the objective.
Still panting heavily from the exertion of the dash, Janos willed himself to stay alert and brought his '19 back to his shoulder, crouching low and scanning the battlefield for hostiles. His helmet's infra-red showed the presence of a soldier in a clump of tall grass, aiming some kind of shoulder-launched weapon skyward. He drew a bead on the being and checked the IR display for signs of the man’s affiliation. There were no dark spots on the head and chest like their ought to be for a man in Imperial Army armor. Janos fired three times, blasting the man to the ground. Around him, the other troopers of his squad joined Charlie squad in covering Alpha.
"Packs prepped," came the report from Alpha's squad leader—a captain, and head of the platoon. "Stand clear. Stand clear."
With a clatter of plastoid, the troopers scuttled away to stand with their backs to the wall.
"Alpha goes first, then Bravo, then Charlie,” said the captain. “Standard interior assault. Expect hostiles. Stairs head down once we're inside. I hope you studied your maps."
The assembled squads confirmed their orders. Bravo slung its long weapons and withdrew its carbines, the short length of which made them more appropriate for indoor combat.
Janos suppressed a moment of apprehension. The last time the squad had blown their way indoors had been in two months back, in a ship-ship boarding action. He’d taken a blasterbolt in the leg that put him out of the fight, and Santis still had a durasteel set of vertebrae from where his neck was broken by the detonation of a nearby explosive. Still, the LT had carried them through that time—and this time they had the element of surprise. Rebel scum are going to pay.
Janos rapped the shoulder of his nearest squad-mate, a corporal like himself. “Hyped to go it?”
The trooper nodded. “Time to get those scum.”
"Stand clear!” shouted Alpha’s leader. “Fire in the hole!"
The breaching charges detonated with a deafening boom, blowing the thick exterior gate door to smithereens. Troopers from Alpha, standing ready on either side, lobbed grenades into the entrance. Their explosions would shower the corridor with shrapnel and thermal energy, and should also serve to take out any booby traps prepared.
With a doubled crash, the two fragmentation grenades detonated. Immediately, the stormtroopers began to rush in, bringing weapons up to their shoulders.
Janos was moving as soon as he heard the grenades go off, his heart pumping adrenalin through his arteries. He entered behind Alpha squad, which had formed up on the right-hand side of the staircase. The interior of the entrance was empty of rebels. It was also pitch-black, and filled with smoke from the explosions, but Janos could see well enough with the aid of his helmet's night vision. With Alpha taking point and Charlie taking up the rearguard, the platoon descended warily but quickly into the underground below the starport.
---
Janos breathed a sigh of relief as the final trooper ducked through the blasted-open doorway. Every stormtrooper knew that getting inside was often the hardest part; in this case, it looked like the Rebels had made it easy.
Once inside a building, the stormtroopers’ infra-red vision would be usable to the greatest extent, allowing them to peer through walls and closed doors. The corridors, too, were an advantage: they would channel explosions and generate shrapnel that would carve to bits any soldier not wearing hard-shell full-body armor—like that which was standard issue for the Stormtrooper Corps.
For several nerve-wracking minutes, the only sound was that of the breathing and footsteps of the platoon, and the occasional quiet order of the Captain in command. Deeper and deeper into the facility, the camo-armored soldiers penetrated. It was light now, which was unfortunate—the darkness in the entrance must have been the result of the explosives used in entering, not of a power-failure. The light did, however, make Janos feel more comfortable.
The platoon had nearly reached the control center. So far, opposition had been nonexistent, but nobody expected it to stay that way. In order to maximize the chance of at least one squad reaching the center in time, the captain gave the order for the platoon to separate into its component squads and advance along radial routes towards a common hub.
Bravo squad and Janos Torren had been apart from the main group for about a minute when they came to a dead-end with a locked door to the right.
Kriffing inaccurate maps, Janos thought.
The Lieutenant radioed the situation to the platoon leader, then spoke to his squad.
“We take this door, and continue working our way towards the command center. Torren, you have right side. I’ll take left. Hot entry, but no ‘nades.”
Janos moved to ready position: back to the wall and barrel towards the sky. He grimaced inside his helmet at the dubious honor of taking the right side entry first. A big man, fast and accurate with a blaster, and an experienced trooper, Janos was a good choice for the job—but that didn’t make it any less dangerous. Get to open your whole body to the enemy—can’t hide behind a wall when it’s on the same side as your piece. Hope the scum on the other side aren’t expecting us…
The other stormtroopers had assembled behind Janos and the Lieutenant, and the Sergeant stood ready to blast the lock with his carbine.
“Go!”
A single blaster shot rang out, blowing the locking mechanism off the door. The LT slammed his left hand down on the entry mechanism, and the door whooshed open. Janos and the Lieutenant spun like one being, stepping into firing position and sweeping the new target zone for threats.
It was a medium-sized room, full of people. The sound of chatter hit the troopers' earphones for a fraction of a second, then silence.
Some two-dozen un-uniformed men with blaster rifles and carbines in various positions of un-readiness had been eating their evening meal in the room. They looked at the troopers. The troopers looked back. Just for a second.
"Hands up! Hands up! Freeze!"—several of the troopers began shouting at once as their minds got around the question of what was going on.
One of the rebels glanced at another, then began to reach for his blaster. The other looked at him hard, and the former stopped moving. "We surrender," said the one who hadn’t gone for his weapon. He stood slowly, putting his hands in the air.
The rebels slowly rose, looking around with fear, or surprise, or defiance. A few seconds passed. Sarge half-turned to Lieutenant Arracks. "We can't stay here, sir. Blast 'em now."
For the first time in six months, Janos saw the LT confused. Damned if he could blame him: Janos could see the problem with leaving the Rebels behind too... but you can't just shoot down surrenders! He wished for a second they wore helmets, so he couldn't see their faces. One of them, little more than a boy, looked like a guy he had played ball with as a kid. His heart pounded in his chest.
The Lieutenant looked at the Sergeant. Looked at the Rebels, and the one who had said they surrendered. Looked back at Sarge.
"Blast 'em," he barked.
The rebels stared, wide-eyed, frozen for a single terrible second.
A moment of hesitation from the troopers passed, and ended as Sarge opened fire. A cacophony of blaster shots and screams rent the air.
Jorren depressed his trigger and tried not to think about the rebels in front of him as they dove for their weapons, screaming in anger and pain and terror. One of his bolts clipped the big guy who had gone for his gun first. It hit him on the waist and spun him around to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the kid go down like a rock, his chest a charred mass. Poor fool, he murmured, looking aghast at the boy's remains. The fire subsided as the last of the rebel bodies hit the floor. Poor fool.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Jorren saw a movement. He rotated towards it automatically—a second too late. A crimson blaster bolt streaked from the weapon of the tough-looking reb who had first gone for his gun, Jorren heard Santis scream to his right. A keening alarm klaxon began to sound in the base. The Lieutenant blew the rebel's head off.
Jorren looked to his right, dreading what he was going to see. Santis' armor was marred with a scorched black hole in the center of his breastplate, right over the heart. Another corpse in the charnel-house of a room.
Kriff.
"Sarge was right. We can't stay here," said the Lieutenant coldly. He pointing towards the door on the far side of the rebel dead.
Janos stripped out his magazine, dropped it into a slot on his belt, and inserted a fresh 100-shot charge. He looked from Santis' body to that of the young rebel.
Arracks started forward, and the now 11-man squad followed. “Standard hot entry, no ‘nades," said the lieutenant. "Torren, take right!”
Still panting heavily from the exertion of the dash, Janos willed himself to stay alert and brought his '19 back to his shoulder, crouching low and scanning the battlefield for hostiles. His helmet's infra-red showed the presence of a soldier in a clump of tall grass, aiming some kind of shoulder-launched weapon skyward. He drew a bead on the being and checked the IR display for signs of the man’s affiliation. There were no dark spots on the head and chest like their ought to be for a man in Imperial Army armor. Janos fired three times, blasting the man to the ground. Around him, the other troopers of his squad joined Charlie squad in covering Alpha.
"Packs prepped," came the report from Alpha's squad leader—a captain, and head of the platoon. "Stand clear. Stand clear."
With a clatter of plastoid, the troopers scuttled away to stand with their backs to the wall.
"Alpha goes first, then Bravo, then Charlie,” said the captain. “Standard interior assault. Expect hostiles. Stairs head down once we're inside. I hope you studied your maps."
The assembled squads confirmed their orders. Bravo slung its long weapons and withdrew its carbines, the short length of which made them more appropriate for indoor combat.
Janos suppressed a moment of apprehension. The last time the squad had blown their way indoors had been in two months back, in a ship-ship boarding action. He’d taken a blasterbolt in the leg that put him out of the fight, and Santis still had a durasteel set of vertebrae from where his neck was broken by the detonation of a nearby explosive. Still, the LT had carried them through that time—and this time they had the element of surprise. Rebel scum are going to pay.
Janos rapped the shoulder of his nearest squad-mate, a corporal like himself. “Hyped to go it?”
The trooper nodded. “Time to get those scum.”
"Stand clear!” shouted Alpha’s leader. “Fire in the hole!"
The breaching charges detonated with a deafening boom, blowing the thick exterior gate door to smithereens. Troopers from Alpha, standing ready on either side, lobbed grenades into the entrance. Their explosions would shower the corridor with shrapnel and thermal energy, and should also serve to take out any booby traps prepared.
With a doubled crash, the two fragmentation grenades detonated. Immediately, the stormtroopers began to rush in, bringing weapons up to their shoulders.
Janos was moving as soon as he heard the grenades go off, his heart pumping adrenalin through his arteries. He entered behind Alpha squad, which had formed up on the right-hand side of the staircase. The interior of the entrance was empty of rebels. It was also pitch-black, and filled with smoke from the explosions, but Janos could see well enough with the aid of his helmet's night vision. With Alpha taking point and Charlie taking up the rearguard, the platoon descended warily but quickly into the underground below the starport.
---
Janos breathed a sigh of relief as the final trooper ducked through the blasted-open doorway. Every stormtrooper knew that getting inside was often the hardest part; in this case, it looked like the Rebels had made it easy.
Once inside a building, the stormtroopers’ infra-red vision would be usable to the greatest extent, allowing them to peer through walls and closed doors. The corridors, too, were an advantage: they would channel explosions and generate shrapnel that would carve to bits any soldier not wearing hard-shell full-body armor—like that which was standard issue for the Stormtrooper Corps.
For several nerve-wracking minutes, the only sound was that of the breathing and footsteps of the platoon, and the occasional quiet order of the Captain in command. Deeper and deeper into the facility, the camo-armored soldiers penetrated. It was light now, which was unfortunate—the darkness in the entrance must have been the result of the explosives used in entering, not of a power-failure. The light did, however, make Janos feel more comfortable.
The platoon had nearly reached the control center. So far, opposition had been nonexistent, but nobody expected it to stay that way. In order to maximize the chance of at least one squad reaching the center in time, the captain gave the order for the platoon to separate into its component squads and advance along radial routes towards a common hub.
Bravo squad and Janos Torren had been apart from the main group for about a minute when they came to a dead-end with a locked door to the right.
Kriffing inaccurate maps, Janos thought.
The Lieutenant radioed the situation to the platoon leader, then spoke to his squad.
“We take this door, and continue working our way towards the command center. Torren, you have right side. I’ll take left. Hot entry, but no ‘nades.”
Janos moved to ready position: back to the wall and barrel towards the sky. He grimaced inside his helmet at the dubious honor of taking the right side entry first. A big man, fast and accurate with a blaster, and an experienced trooper, Janos was a good choice for the job—but that didn’t make it any less dangerous. Get to open your whole body to the enemy—can’t hide behind a wall when it’s on the same side as your piece. Hope the scum on the other side aren’t expecting us…
The other stormtroopers had assembled behind Janos and the Lieutenant, and the Sergeant stood ready to blast the lock with his carbine.
“Go!”
A single blaster shot rang out, blowing the locking mechanism off the door. The LT slammed his left hand down on the entry mechanism, and the door whooshed open. Janos and the Lieutenant spun like one being, stepping into firing position and sweeping the new target zone for threats.
It was a medium-sized room, full of people. The sound of chatter hit the troopers' earphones for a fraction of a second, then silence.
Some two-dozen un-uniformed men with blaster rifles and carbines in various positions of un-readiness had been eating their evening meal in the room. They looked at the troopers. The troopers looked back. Just for a second.
"Hands up! Hands up! Freeze!"—several of the troopers began shouting at once as their minds got around the question of what was going on.
One of the rebels glanced at another, then began to reach for his blaster. The other looked at him hard, and the former stopped moving. "We surrender," said the one who hadn’t gone for his weapon. He stood slowly, putting his hands in the air.
The rebels slowly rose, looking around with fear, or surprise, or defiance. A few seconds passed. Sarge half-turned to Lieutenant Arracks. "We can't stay here, sir. Blast 'em now."
For the first time in six months, Janos saw the LT confused. Damned if he could blame him: Janos could see the problem with leaving the Rebels behind too... but you can't just shoot down surrenders! He wished for a second they wore helmets, so he couldn't see their faces. One of them, little more than a boy, looked like a guy he had played ball with as a kid. His heart pounded in his chest.
The Lieutenant looked at the Sergeant. Looked at the Rebels, and the one who had said they surrendered. Looked back at Sarge.
"Blast 'em," he barked.
The rebels stared, wide-eyed, frozen for a single terrible second.
A moment of hesitation from the troopers passed, and ended as Sarge opened fire. A cacophony of blaster shots and screams rent the air.
Jorren depressed his trigger and tried not to think about the rebels in front of him as they dove for their weapons, screaming in anger and pain and terror. One of his bolts clipped the big guy who had gone for his gun first. It hit him on the waist and spun him around to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the kid go down like a rock, his chest a charred mass. Poor fool, he murmured, looking aghast at the boy's remains. The fire subsided as the last of the rebel bodies hit the floor. Poor fool.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Jorren saw a movement. He rotated towards it automatically—a second too late. A crimson blaster bolt streaked from the weapon of the tough-looking reb who had first gone for his gun, Jorren heard Santis scream to his right. A keening alarm klaxon began to sound in the base. The Lieutenant blew the rebel's head off.
Jorren looked to his right, dreading what he was going to see. Santis' armor was marred with a scorched black hole in the center of his breastplate, right over the heart. Another corpse in the charnel-house of a room.
Kriff.
"Sarge was right. We can't stay here," said the Lieutenant coldly. He pointing towards the door on the far side of the rebel dead.
Janos stripped out his magazine, dropped it into a slot on his belt, and inserted a fresh 100-shot charge. He looked from Santis' body to that of the young rebel.
Arracks started forward, and the now 11-man squad followed. “Standard hot entry, no ‘nades," said the lieutenant. "Torren, take right!”
Last edited by Feil on 2006-06-10 10:39pm, edited 2 times in total.
And with such an innovative and expansive collection of *ahem* colorful vocabulary, it's really such a waste!Kuja wrote:*nods* One of the SW EU's biggest failings (for me) was that it was so focused on telling the grand, epic storylines that it often completely forgot the 'view from the trenches' style of story.
This is very good.
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Ford Prefect
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 8254
- Joined: 2005-05-16 04:08am
- Location: The real number domain
Sorry for the delay. Next update is ready now, finally. I'll see about getting the next out tonight or tomorrow morning.
----------
The room was empty save for the clatter of the troopers’ boots as, once again, they rushed from one room to the next. Janos’ breath sounded too fast in his helmet, and he knew that fatigue had nothing to do with it. Behind him, the door hissed shut, sealing off the bodies of friend and foes. Janos squeezed his eyes hard shut for a second.
It was all wrong. You can’t shoot surrenders. It’s against the rules. You just can’t shoot surrenders! That look of disgusted loathing on the big rebel’s face mocked him. The kid’s eyes, wide with terror, bit into his soul. Santis’ scream rang in his ears.
You can’t shoot surrenders!
He clenched the grip of his carbine fiercely and ground his teeth together, resisting the urge to scream, to smash something. Inside, the bitingly cold voice of reason answered his protestation.
But you did shoot them, didn’t you.
“This door,” said the LT, gesturing. His voice dragged Janos to the present. “We go through here, then follow the corridor down fifty meters. And then, the door on the left is the center itself.” He paused for a moment, listening closely to his earpiece. Janos was glad for the helmet he wore, for in the silence, his still-shaky breathing would have been clearly audible. Suddenly, a klaxon sounded, shattering the quiet. The Lieutenant began again.
“Alpha and Charlie are heavily engaged, here, and here.” The troopers’ maps appeared again on their HUDs Two glowing red dots came into existence over the positions of the other two squads. “They will hold on their own, and work their way to one another, or to the target. We go up the middle, break through, and secure the objective.”
There could only be two reasons for not going to help Alpha and Charlie break out. Either they were doomed anyway, or the platoon was running out of time. Neither one boded well.
The LT inclined his head to the door. “Right-angle entry, turning right,” he said. “Janos, take left-guard. I have lead on the right.”
The troopers assembled, lining up in position to race around the corner and into the corridor into an echelon formation. Janos thumbed his carbine to full automatic and opened out the shoulder stock as he took position at the left side of the door. When it opened, he would wheel left so as to cover the squad’s rear as they rushed into the corridor. He tried to take comfort in the regularity of the much-practiced maneuver, but his heart hammered in his chest. For the first time in his career, he was unsure of his purpose, and he was scared as hell.
Lieutenant Arracks hit the door release, and it whooshed open. Time seemed to stretch slightly. Janos’ heart beat twice. The LT lunged forward, shouting: “Go! Go! Go!” Janos half-turned into the hall, leaning so as to expose only his head and weapon around the corner. Movement—shapes—life—tangos.
A half-dozen years of the harshest military training known to man snapped into play, giving Janos the reflexes and reaction time he needed. Maybe a hundredth of a second faster than the enemy. It was enough.
Acrid smoke and killing fire poured from the carbine’s barrel as Janos swept left to right, then right to left. Blaster bolts filled the corridor as the Rebel defenders returned fire—too late. Shrapnel exploded from the floor as one of Janos’ shots struck it. A rebel dropped, his torso perforated by the debris. Two more fell, slain by blaster hits. A tripod-mounted blaster roared into action, sending high-powered shots screaming down the hall. Janos focused his fire on the heavy automatic weapon, and its operators died.
The counter in his helmet ticked down to 10 shots left, and Janos released the trigger. Thumbing over to single fire, Janos risked a glance over his shoulder.
Two more of the stormtroopers lay dead or incapacitated on the floor. The Sergeant had taken a shot to the knee, and was crouched against a wall, adding shots from his blaster to Janos’ efforts. The others, halfway to the far end already, continued to fire down the corridor as they advanced at a brisk crouching walk toward the objective.
“I got this end, Corporal,” the Sergeant shouted gruffly over the din. “Get to the others.”
“Got it, Sarge,” said Janos. Stripping out the depleted magazine as he went, Janos sprinted down the corridor to rejoin the rest of the squad, taking care not to trip over the bodies of fallen comrades. He drew up hate for the rebel scum who had done this to his friends. That damned rebellion! Kriffing rebel scum. Kriffing rebel…
The young rebel’s fall to the ground blinked again through his mind. Janos bit down on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood. An emptiness in his chest that no amount of air could fill seemed to sap his energy and slow his run.
The squad, now eight members, reached the final doorway. Still maintaining suppressive fire on the Rebels down the corridor, the troopers drew up, steeling themselves for the final entry. Janos felt the Lieutenant’s hesitation. There would be noncombatants on the other side. Tech crews, computer geeks, slicers. But soldiers and defenses too.
“Standard hot entry. Torren, Vand—” the Lieutenant paused. PFC Vand was dead. “Torren, Jes: therm’s. Miklos, a frag.” Arracks looked at Janos for a long moment, then nodded slightly to himself.
“Torren, take left. I have right.” A long pause. “Hit it!”
A blaster bolt struck out, smashing the locking mechanism. Janos hit the door release and cocked his arm back, then threw. Three grenades—two high-explosive thermal detonators and one fragmentation grenade—sailed into the room. The shockwave of the therms rocked the building. Dust descended from the ceiling, and cracks and warpage appeared in the walls. The oxygen in the room having been consumed by the blast, the overpressure reversed itself. Air from the corridor began to rush into the control center. The stormtroopers came with it.
----------
The room was empty save for the clatter of the troopers’ boots as, once again, they rushed from one room to the next. Janos’ breath sounded too fast in his helmet, and he knew that fatigue had nothing to do with it. Behind him, the door hissed shut, sealing off the bodies of friend and foes. Janos squeezed his eyes hard shut for a second.
It was all wrong. You can’t shoot surrenders. It’s against the rules. You just can’t shoot surrenders! That look of disgusted loathing on the big rebel’s face mocked him. The kid’s eyes, wide with terror, bit into his soul. Santis’ scream rang in his ears.
You can’t shoot surrenders!
He clenched the grip of his carbine fiercely and ground his teeth together, resisting the urge to scream, to smash something. Inside, the bitingly cold voice of reason answered his protestation.
But you did shoot them, didn’t you.
“This door,” said the LT, gesturing. His voice dragged Janos to the present. “We go through here, then follow the corridor down fifty meters. And then, the door on the left is the center itself.” He paused for a moment, listening closely to his earpiece. Janos was glad for the helmet he wore, for in the silence, his still-shaky breathing would have been clearly audible. Suddenly, a klaxon sounded, shattering the quiet. The Lieutenant began again.
“Alpha and Charlie are heavily engaged, here, and here.” The troopers’ maps appeared again on their HUDs Two glowing red dots came into existence over the positions of the other two squads. “They will hold on their own, and work their way to one another, or to the target. We go up the middle, break through, and secure the objective.”
There could only be two reasons for not going to help Alpha and Charlie break out. Either they were doomed anyway, or the platoon was running out of time. Neither one boded well.
The LT inclined his head to the door. “Right-angle entry, turning right,” he said. “Janos, take left-guard. I have lead on the right.”
The troopers assembled, lining up in position to race around the corner and into the corridor into an echelon formation. Janos thumbed his carbine to full automatic and opened out the shoulder stock as he took position at the left side of the door. When it opened, he would wheel left so as to cover the squad’s rear as they rushed into the corridor. He tried to take comfort in the regularity of the much-practiced maneuver, but his heart hammered in his chest. For the first time in his career, he was unsure of his purpose, and he was scared as hell.
Lieutenant Arracks hit the door release, and it whooshed open. Time seemed to stretch slightly. Janos’ heart beat twice. The LT lunged forward, shouting: “Go! Go! Go!” Janos half-turned into the hall, leaning so as to expose only his head and weapon around the corner. Movement—shapes—life—tangos.
A half-dozen years of the harshest military training known to man snapped into play, giving Janos the reflexes and reaction time he needed. Maybe a hundredth of a second faster than the enemy. It was enough.
Acrid smoke and killing fire poured from the carbine’s barrel as Janos swept left to right, then right to left. Blaster bolts filled the corridor as the Rebel defenders returned fire—too late. Shrapnel exploded from the floor as one of Janos’ shots struck it. A rebel dropped, his torso perforated by the debris. Two more fell, slain by blaster hits. A tripod-mounted blaster roared into action, sending high-powered shots screaming down the hall. Janos focused his fire on the heavy automatic weapon, and its operators died.
The counter in his helmet ticked down to 10 shots left, and Janos released the trigger. Thumbing over to single fire, Janos risked a glance over his shoulder.
Two more of the stormtroopers lay dead or incapacitated on the floor. The Sergeant had taken a shot to the knee, and was crouched against a wall, adding shots from his blaster to Janos’ efforts. The others, halfway to the far end already, continued to fire down the corridor as they advanced at a brisk crouching walk toward the objective.
“I got this end, Corporal,” the Sergeant shouted gruffly over the din. “Get to the others.”
“Got it, Sarge,” said Janos. Stripping out the depleted magazine as he went, Janos sprinted down the corridor to rejoin the rest of the squad, taking care not to trip over the bodies of fallen comrades. He drew up hate for the rebel scum who had done this to his friends. That damned rebellion! Kriffing rebel scum. Kriffing rebel…
The young rebel’s fall to the ground blinked again through his mind. Janos bit down on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood. An emptiness in his chest that no amount of air could fill seemed to sap his energy and slow his run.
The squad, now eight members, reached the final doorway. Still maintaining suppressive fire on the Rebels down the corridor, the troopers drew up, steeling themselves for the final entry. Janos felt the Lieutenant’s hesitation. There would be noncombatants on the other side. Tech crews, computer geeks, slicers. But soldiers and defenses too.
“Standard hot entry. Torren, Vand—” the Lieutenant paused. PFC Vand was dead. “Torren, Jes: therm’s. Miklos, a frag.” Arracks looked at Janos for a long moment, then nodded slightly to himself.
“Torren, take left. I have right.” A long pause. “Hit it!”
A blaster bolt struck out, smashing the locking mechanism. Janos hit the door release and cocked his arm back, then threw. Three grenades—two high-explosive thermal detonators and one fragmentation grenade—sailed into the room. The shockwave of the therms rocked the building. Dust descended from the ceiling, and cracks and warpage appeared in the walls. The oxygen in the room having been consumed by the blast, the overpressure reversed itself. Air from the corridor began to rush into the control center. The stormtroopers came with it.
Nice story.
Just two small questions: Is the Carrack the only capital ship of the imperials? Because they have no hangars for trooptransports or TIEs.
Can't the stormtrooper-rifles be set on stun?
Just two small questions: Is the Carrack the only capital ship of the imperials? Because they have no hangars for trooptransports or TIEs.
Can't the stormtrooper-rifles be set on stun?
The optimist thinks, that we live in the best of all possible worlds and the pessimist is afraid, that this is true.
"Don't ask, what your country can do for you. Ask, what you can do for your country." Mao Tse-Tung.
"Don't ask, what your country can do for you. Ask, what you can do for your country." Mao Tse-Tung.
I had thought a Carrack would. However, upon a bit more searching, it is evident that you are correct. I shall upgrade to a Strike.
It appears that a stun setting is an optional extra for a stormtrooper blaster (and probably an expensive one). I can think of no other concievable reason why stormtroopers would have used stun only once through the entirety of the movies, particularly in ROTJ (which is also my support for stormtroopers tending to follow the rules about noncombattants).
It appears that a stun setting is an optional extra for a stormtrooper blaster (and probably an expensive one). I can think of no other concievable reason why stormtroopers would have used stun only once through the entirety of the movies, particularly in ROTJ (which is also my support for stormtroopers tending to follow the rules about noncombattants).
Shock, speed, surprise. Janos and Arracks swept into the room at the head of the stormtrooper squad, blaster carbines at the ready. The room was in shambles, and dark as night and filled with smoke and sparks. The stormtroopers’ infra-red saw through it all. Janos perceived movement to his right; a blaster shot rang out from behind as one of the other troopers saw it, too.
Pushed onward by the wind blowing in from behind, the squad surged ahead. As they passed through the doorway, they spread into echelon formation, turning independently to engage targets, but operating as a single unit. Flashes of violet light illuminated the dark room as carbines fired sporadically, blasting down anyone who moved or stirred. What had been a lethal (if hastily-constructed) defense had become, for a few brutal seconds, a killing ground. Illuminated by flashes of blasterfire and electric sparks, and by the dower glow of the flames that had kindled up with the return of oxygen, the remnants of Bravo Squad performed their task with speed and deadly precision.
And then, from the side of a burnt and blackened barricade, another flash of light brightened the room. PFC Miklos toppled, a blaster-burned hole in the side of his helmet. Janos whipped around, bringing his blaster to bear on the source of the flash and firing a quick burst. Other shots from the squad splashed around the target area.
From the opposite side of the barrier came a second shot, scarcely a second after the first: this time, Janos perceived the dim silhouette of the shooter. The blasterbolt went wide, exploding into the ceiling. The squad, now crouched low to the floor and seeking cover of their own, responded as one. There was only one thought among them: revenge.
Miklos had been the darling of the squad. He had joined straight out of the Cadian Academy, still inexperienced and green. Each of the squad members had had a part in teaching him. Each wondered whether if they’d done a better job, Miklos would still be alive.
Blasterbolts set on high power ripped into the barricade, blasting off pieces, creating craters—and many of them punching through or sending splinters exploding out of the back. Ten thunderous seconds passed.
“Cease fire,” ordered the Lieutenant. Silence reigned again, broken only by the drumming of Janos’ heart. “Careful now. Advance.”
Miklos had been a teller of jokes and stories. His was not the grim face of most stormtroopers, but one fast to smile and quick to laugh. Each squad member treasured memories of time spent with the kid. Each felt the emptiness of knowing there would be no new memories of their friend.
Crouching low, Janos stepped forward. He kept his eyes deliberately unfocused, so as to be able to react to any movement along the barricade and avoid tunnel vision. His heart beat double-time in his chest; his muscles quivered with adrenalin. The ten meters only took a few seconds to cross, but they felt like an eternity.
Janos arrived on the left side just as the Lieutenant arrived on the right. They glanced at each other, and nodded.
Each stepped swiftly out, swinging around the edge of the barricade and bringing his blaster to bear, ready to fire at any threat. Behind him, Janos could hear the dull clatter of his comrades’ booted feet as they filed in behind him.
Two people lay on the floor behind the barricade.
One, a painfully thin man of around 25 years, wearing civilian dress, lay under the remnants of a computer console. Blood seeped from his nose and ears: his lack of protective gear must have allowed his eardrums to be blown by the overpressure from the therms. He was unconscious, but probably alive.
The other was slumped with her back against the barricade. She was a woman in combat fatigues wearing an open-faced helmet. It was hard to tell through the blood and the uniform, but she had to be younger than thirty. One of her hands was pressed against her side, where blood was seeping through over her fingers. The other hung limply next to a rifle.
It was on her that the stormtroopers directed their weapons as they stepped forward.
She was guarding the civvie, Janos realized.
Her eyelids opened slightly. She lifted her head, just an inch. It was an act of defiance.
“So,” she breathed, “did I get… get one of you?” (She coughed weakly, and set her teeth.) “Fracking murderers?”
Miklos’ face flashed in Janos’ inner eye, and he felt his throat go tight. He heard the Lieutenant’s sharp intake of breath, and saw him bring up his blaster.
“You worthless Rebel scum,” Arracks growled through clenched teeth. “Yeah, you got one of my boys.”
The Rebel’s eyes grew wider, but she said nothing.
“Lieutenant…” said Janos, softly. The other troopers seemed to back away, disappearing into the darkness. They were only a few meters distant, but Arracks and Janos were alone.
The Lieutenant continued, paying Janos no heed. “You and your kriffing friends. Half my squad is dead because of you kriffing murderers!” Janos saw Arracks’ finger twitch slightly, curling over the trigger.
“Lieutenant, she’s a prisoner!”
Arracks turned, very slowly, to Janos. His voice was low and icy. The words were distinct as he spoke. “We don’t have enough men for prisoners.”
“Lieutenant! You can’t shoot surrenders!” Janos said frantically.
A single blaster shot crashed through the smoky room. The rebel slumped back down, her eyes still open. Her hand fell from the wound at her side, and blood began to flow onto the floor, nearly black in the dim light. A smoldering ruin of blasted flesh existed now where her heart should have been.
Slowly, slowly, with quivering hands, Janos raised his carbine. He pointed it at the squad leader.
“Lieutenant,” he said, very quietly.
The lieutenant turned, and froze.
Janos’ finger closed over the trigger.
“You can’t shoot surrenders,” he said. Time stretched, slowed, ground to a stop as thoughts whirled in Janos’ head.
The Rebel kid’s face, frozen in a mask of terror, seemed to have burned into his mind. The big Rebel, hateful, yet grim with righteous wrath—righteous. A strange word to use. His face mocked Janos too. And then there was this rebel girl, defiant to the end.
Miklos was dead, along with half the squad. They had been comrades. Closer than brothers.
But you can’t just kill surrenders!
But you did.
Then I won’t let it happen any more.
Janos glanced to the other rebel, still unconscious on the floor.
No more.
Janos began to squeeze the trigger. Time started moving again. Janos froze.
I will never assault a superior unless he betrays the Empire.
It was a truism. A mantra. Repeated a million times over the course of a Stormtrooper’s training.
Janos tried to pull the trigger, his hands shaking.
“Put the weapon down, Corporal Torren,” the Lieutenant spoke with the force of command, but his voice was low. To Janos’ ears, it sounded kind.
I will never assault a superior…
“It’s OK. Just put down the weapon, Janos.”
Janos heard the carbine clatter to the floor, dropped from nerveless fingers.
I will never assault…
“Don’t worry, Janos.” The Lieutenant spoke as he would to a frightened child. “It’s been a hell of a day. When we get back to the ship, we’ll make sure you get taken care of. So that things like this never happen again.”
If there was menace in the officer’s words, Janos didn’t hear it. The big man allowed himself to be led by the shoulder and handed over to another trooper. Suddenly, a thought twisted through his mind.
Not enough men for prisoners. Liar. Liar!
Janos took a breath and let it out. A shuddering sigh.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “A hell of a day.”
“Jes, keep an eye on the prisoner,” the Lieutenant said at last, nodding to the man who held Janos. Speaking more loudly, he continued giving orders. “Baerl, sweep the room for any survivors or functional equipment. The rest, keep watch on the exit.”
As the squad moved to their tasks, stepping over fallen equipment and bodies of the dead, Janos saw Lieutenant Arracks look at the corpse of the rebel girl for a long moment. He stiffened, and adopted the pose he always did when listening to his comm. He nodded slightly and stood up taller. After a moment, he addressed the squad.
“Alpha and Charlie are freed up and are working their way here,” he announced. “Looks like the Rebels are pulling out. When they arrive, we’ll work on getting the hell home.”
---
Private Grast of the Imperial Army looked through a battered window at the rain-soaked field outside. A plastoid brace surrounded his torso where his ribs had broken, but the medic had assured him he would be ready to return to duty in a few weeks. Inside the garrison base, it was warm and dry, but the Private’s attention was fixed on the events unfolding under the damp early-morning light.
Some twenty hours after their arrival, the company of stormtroopers that had reinforced the base was pulling out. Loose columns of camo-armored soldiers were re-boarding gunships and transports. Some were carrying stretchers. Others carried body bags.
One of the troopers was without a helmet. His hands were clasped—tied?—behind his back, and his head was bowed. A member of a severely depleted squad of stormtroopers led him onto a gunship. There were only seven of them, counting the one without the helmet.
What had happened out there, Grast wondered, while he was out? Stormtroopers were the best. They were fearless, resilient, strong, precise. What had happened to those artists of combat?
Grast felt a sudden impulse to rush outside and ask. But he did not. They bought us victory, he thought. But even the best of us fall.
A roar rumbled over the field, growing in pitch and volume as repulsorlifts spooled up for liftoff.
One by one, the gunships rose up off their landing struts and accelerated into the slate-colored sky.
Pushed onward by the wind blowing in from behind, the squad surged ahead. As they passed through the doorway, they spread into echelon formation, turning independently to engage targets, but operating as a single unit. Flashes of violet light illuminated the dark room as carbines fired sporadically, blasting down anyone who moved or stirred. What had been a lethal (if hastily-constructed) defense had become, for a few brutal seconds, a killing ground. Illuminated by flashes of blasterfire and electric sparks, and by the dower glow of the flames that had kindled up with the return of oxygen, the remnants of Bravo Squad performed their task with speed and deadly precision.
And then, from the side of a burnt and blackened barricade, another flash of light brightened the room. PFC Miklos toppled, a blaster-burned hole in the side of his helmet. Janos whipped around, bringing his blaster to bear on the source of the flash and firing a quick burst. Other shots from the squad splashed around the target area.
From the opposite side of the barrier came a second shot, scarcely a second after the first: this time, Janos perceived the dim silhouette of the shooter. The blasterbolt went wide, exploding into the ceiling. The squad, now crouched low to the floor and seeking cover of their own, responded as one. There was only one thought among them: revenge.
Miklos had been the darling of the squad. He had joined straight out of the Cadian Academy, still inexperienced and green. Each of the squad members had had a part in teaching him. Each wondered whether if they’d done a better job, Miklos would still be alive.
Blasterbolts set on high power ripped into the barricade, blasting off pieces, creating craters—and many of them punching through or sending splinters exploding out of the back. Ten thunderous seconds passed.
“Cease fire,” ordered the Lieutenant. Silence reigned again, broken only by the drumming of Janos’ heart. “Careful now. Advance.”
Miklos had been a teller of jokes and stories. His was not the grim face of most stormtroopers, but one fast to smile and quick to laugh. Each squad member treasured memories of time spent with the kid. Each felt the emptiness of knowing there would be no new memories of their friend.
Crouching low, Janos stepped forward. He kept his eyes deliberately unfocused, so as to be able to react to any movement along the barricade and avoid tunnel vision. His heart beat double-time in his chest; his muscles quivered with adrenalin. The ten meters only took a few seconds to cross, but they felt like an eternity.
Janos arrived on the left side just as the Lieutenant arrived on the right. They glanced at each other, and nodded.
Each stepped swiftly out, swinging around the edge of the barricade and bringing his blaster to bear, ready to fire at any threat. Behind him, Janos could hear the dull clatter of his comrades’ booted feet as they filed in behind him.
Two people lay on the floor behind the barricade.
One, a painfully thin man of around 25 years, wearing civilian dress, lay under the remnants of a computer console. Blood seeped from his nose and ears: his lack of protective gear must have allowed his eardrums to be blown by the overpressure from the therms. He was unconscious, but probably alive.
The other was slumped with her back against the barricade. She was a woman in combat fatigues wearing an open-faced helmet. It was hard to tell through the blood and the uniform, but she had to be younger than thirty. One of her hands was pressed against her side, where blood was seeping through over her fingers. The other hung limply next to a rifle.
It was on her that the stormtroopers directed their weapons as they stepped forward.
She was guarding the civvie, Janos realized.
Her eyelids opened slightly. She lifted her head, just an inch. It was an act of defiance.
“So,” she breathed, “did I get… get one of you?” (She coughed weakly, and set her teeth.) “Fracking murderers?”
Miklos’ face flashed in Janos’ inner eye, and he felt his throat go tight. He heard the Lieutenant’s sharp intake of breath, and saw him bring up his blaster.
“You worthless Rebel scum,” Arracks growled through clenched teeth. “Yeah, you got one of my boys.”
The Rebel’s eyes grew wider, but she said nothing.
“Lieutenant…” said Janos, softly. The other troopers seemed to back away, disappearing into the darkness. They were only a few meters distant, but Arracks and Janos were alone.
The Lieutenant continued, paying Janos no heed. “You and your kriffing friends. Half my squad is dead because of you kriffing murderers!” Janos saw Arracks’ finger twitch slightly, curling over the trigger.
“Lieutenant, she’s a prisoner!”
Arracks turned, very slowly, to Janos. His voice was low and icy. The words were distinct as he spoke. “We don’t have enough men for prisoners.”
“Lieutenant! You can’t shoot surrenders!” Janos said frantically.
A single blaster shot crashed through the smoky room. The rebel slumped back down, her eyes still open. Her hand fell from the wound at her side, and blood began to flow onto the floor, nearly black in the dim light. A smoldering ruin of blasted flesh existed now where her heart should have been.
Slowly, slowly, with quivering hands, Janos raised his carbine. He pointed it at the squad leader.
“Lieutenant,” he said, very quietly.
The lieutenant turned, and froze.
Janos’ finger closed over the trigger.
“You can’t shoot surrenders,” he said. Time stretched, slowed, ground to a stop as thoughts whirled in Janos’ head.
The Rebel kid’s face, frozen in a mask of terror, seemed to have burned into his mind. The big Rebel, hateful, yet grim with righteous wrath—righteous. A strange word to use. His face mocked Janos too. And then there was this rebel girl, defiant to the end.
Miklos was dead, along with half the squad. They had been comrades. Closer than brothers.
But you can’t just kill surrenders!
But you did.
Then I won’t let it happen any more.
Janos glanced to the other rebel, still unconscious on the floor.
No more.
Janos began to squeeze the trigger. Time started moving again. Janos froze.
I will never assault a superior unless he betrays the Empire.
It was a truism. A mantra. Repeated a million times over the course of a Stormtrooper’s training.
Janos tried to pull the trigger, his hands shaking.
“Put the weapon down, Corporal Torren,” the Lieutenant spoke with the force of command, but his voice was low. To Janos’ ears, it sounded kind.
I will never assault a superior…
“It’s OK. Just put down the weapon, Janos.”
Janos heard the carbine clatter to the floor, dropped from nerveless fingers.
I will never assault…
“Don’t worry, Janos.” The Lieutenant spoke as he would to a frightened child. “It’s been a hell of a day. When we get back to the ship, we’ll make sure you get taken care of. So that things like this never happen again.”
If there was menace in the officer’s words, Janos didn’t hear it. The big man allowed himself to be led by the shoulder and handed over to another trooper. Suddenly, a thought twisted through his mind.
Not enough men for prisoners. Liar. Liar!
Janos took a breath and let it out. A shuddering sigh.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “A hell of a day.”
“Jes, keep an eye on the prisoner,” the Lieutenant said at last, nodding to the man who held Janos. Speaking more loudly, he continued giving orders. “Baerl, sweep the room for any survivors or functional equipment. The rest, keep watch on the exit.”
As the squad moved to their tasks, stepping over fallen equipment and bodies of the dead, Janos saw Lieutenant Arracks look at the corpse of the rebel girl for a long moment. He stiffened, and adopted the pose he always did when listening to his comm. He nodded slightly and stood up taller. After a moment, he addressed the squad.
“Alpha and Charlie are freed up and are working their way here,” he announced. “Looks like the Rebels are pulling out. When they arrive, we’ll work on getting the hell home.”
---
Private Grast of the Imperial Army looked through a battered window at the rain-soaked field outside. A plastoid brace surrounded his torso where his ribs had broken, but the medic had assured him he would be ready to return to duty in a few weeks. Inside the garrison base, it was warm and dry, but the Private’s attention was fixed on the events unfolding under the damp early-morning light.
Some twenty hours after their arrival, the company of stormtroopers that had reinforced the base was pulling out. Loose columns of camo-armored soldiers were re-boarding gunships and transports. Some were carrying stretchers. Others carried body bags.
One of the troopers was without a helmet. His hands were clasped—tied?—behind his back, and his head was bowed. A member of a severely depleted squad of stormtroopers led him onto a gunship. There were only seven of them, counting the one without the helmet.
What had happened out there, Grast wondered, while he was out? Stormtroopers were the best. They were fearless, resilient, strong, precise. What had happened to those artists of combat?
Grast felt a sudden impulse to rush outside and ask. But he did not. They bought us victory, he thought. But even the best of us fall.
A roar rumbled over the field, growing in pitch and volume as repulsorlifts spooled up for liftoff.
One by one, the gunships rose up off their landing struts and accelerated into the slate-colored sky.