Star Wars - [Dark Forces 01] - Soldier For The Empire (by William C Dietz & Dean Williams)

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STAR WARS DARK FORCES

Soldier for the Empire

William C. Deets

Dean Williams

CHAPTER ONE

The relay that failed, and thereby saved Morgan Katarn's life, was an integral part of the pumping station

that served the southeast quadrant of his homestead. Without the relay and the pump, his variform beans

would wither and die. They, like the rest of the crops, needed the

water that Morgan's one-thousand-year-old tap tree brought to the surface via tubular roots, or "taps"

that descended hundreds of feet to siphon water from the underlying aquifer - water that was shared with

Morgan's crops via endless lengths of imported irrigation tubing.

The workshop was a spacious area in which Morgan spent nearly all his time, when he was home, that is

- which was less than he would have liked. His responsibilities as an agro-mech craftsman took more

hours away than was good for the farming he did on the side as did the resistance movement. In the

workshop were cupboards where his spare parts were stored, countertops strewn with tools, and bins

filled with printouts, schematics, and designs. Morgan circled the worktable to peer at one of six

monitors. It provided a rotating 3-D view of the pump's inner workings. The lines that described the

offending relay had changed from green to red and blinked on and off. Annoying - but easy to remedy.

Morgan made a note of the part number, opened a storage cabinet, found the matching box, and

removed it. A puff of air touched the back of his neck and he heard Wee Gee's cooling fans. He turned

and grinned. "Hey, old boy . . . how's that solar panel? All fixed? Good work."

Morgan had designed the droid himself. Since he was a self-taught roboticist, it hadn't been easy. Form

had been allowed to follow function - and Wee Gee looked anything but

human. Though capable of assuming hundreds of configurations, Wee Gee always reverted to an inverted

U shape. His right arm was three times more powerful than his left. It boasted no less than four

articulated joints, and a C-shaped grasper. The left arm was less sturdy but was

mounted with a human-style hand that could use the tools carried on the utility belt cinched around Wee

Gee's processor housing.

What Morgan called the drive assembly linked both sides of the droid together - and served as a

platform for the vertical sensor pod that provided Wee Gee with the electronic equivalent of sight.

Thanks to a repulsorlift engine salvaged from an Imperial speeder bike, and

steering jets adapted from a junked probe droid, the machine floated two meters off the ground. An

oval-shaped lens tilted toward Morgan and the droid made a chirruping sound. The human

nodded in response.

"Sure, we'll tackle that in the morning. First things first, though . . . I've got to replace a part on pump

four. You're in charge till I get back."

Wee Gee squeaked agreeably and plugged himself into one of the many data ports scattered around the

complex. Once connected, the droid could monitor the entire farm from that single position.

The farmer considered a vehicle and decided against it. The walk would be good for both his spirits and

his waistline. Morgan checked to ensure that his comlink was charged, grabbed the walking stick from a

corner, and slipped through the door.

He took a breath of the crisp evening air and paused to watch Sullust rise. Morgan had friends there,

many of whom belonged to the Alliance and were working towards the day when the New Order would

be destroyed. That was no small task on a planet where the Emperor ruled through the vast SoroSuub

Corporation. Still, where there's a will there's a way, and they would succeed, Morgan was certain.

Walking briskly so as to raise his heart rate to aerobic levels, the farmer struck out towards the

southeast. Dry grass crackled beneath his boots, lume bugs danced before his face, and stars appeared

in the sky. They reminded Morgan of his son Kyle - and the fact that he

would graduate soon.

The thought that financial necessity rather than free choice had played a major role in Kyle's decision to

attend the Imperial Military Academy still filled Morgan with guilt. The Katarn's were from the Outer

Rim, with limited financial resources, and the Academy had

represented Kyle's best chance for a good education.

Morgan frowned. Perhaps if he'd been a little more flexible, a little less focused on how money was

made, there would be more of it. What would Kyle be like when he returned? Like the boy he'd said

good-bye to? Or like the stormtroopers who swaggered through the spaceport? The stars were silent,

the lume bugs danced, and there was no way to know.

The vengeance was not one of the Empire's larger Star Destroyers, nor was such a vessel required for

the matter at hand. After all, why use a sword when a dagger would suffice? The thought pleased the

mind that conceived it. The bridge was large and open. The crew stood in

semicircular trenches cut into the highly polished deck. The Dark Jedi known as Jerec stood above the

command pit and stared at the moon that floated beyond.

What he saw was a great deal more complex than what those around him perceived. Jerec was tall arid

thin to the point of emaciation. He kept his head shaved and black facial tattoos glowed on his brown

skin. Empty eye sockets were hidden behind a band of black leather. His tunic, trousers, and boots were

black. Jerec wore no insignia other than the symbols visible on his blood-red collar - and kept his Jedi

abilities secret.

Such was the nature of the man, however, and the power he commanded, that no signs of authority were

necessary. Jerec acted under orders from Emperor Palpatine himself and looked forward to the day

when all would kneel before him, though he was careful to hide such ambitions behind a veneer of loyalty.

Captain Thrawn stood behind Jerec, slightly to his right. He was as tall as Jerec but the similarity ended

there. Thrawn had shimmering blue-black hair, pale blue skin, and glowing red eyes, all of which testified

to his alien origins and were rare in the Empire's xenophobic navy.

However, much as Palpatine might distrust other sentient species, he loved a winner, and Thrawn had

collected more victories, medals, and promotions than most officers with twice his years of service. He

stood with hands clasped behind his back and waited for his superior to speak. When the words came,

Jerec's voice was soft, almost feminine. "The probe returned?"

"Yes, sir. There was no sign of a security breach. Surprise will be complete."

"The drop ship is ready?"

"Yes, sir. Loaded and ready."

"Excellent. You may begin."

"Yes, sir."

Thrawn had turned, and was about to leave, when Jerec spoke again. "One more thing . . ."

The officer turned at the sound. of Jerec's voice. "Sir?"

"I want Morgan Katarn alive."

Thrawn was well aware of what Jerec wanted but nodded dutifully and said, "Yes, sir," with exactly the

same intonation he had used the first time the order had been issued. Besides being a brilliant tactician,

and even better strategist, Thrawn had still another virtue, and that was his absolute lack of ego.

Something of a necessity for an officer with alien origins in a military organization rife with patronage and

politics.

Jerec, who wanted a great deal more than the next pathetic rank in another being's power structure,

nodded and stalked away.

Thus dismissed, Thrawn tackled the business at hand. Orders had been given and he would carry them

out.

Though roughly the same size as an Imperial assault shuttle, the Corellian built stock light freighter had

less armament and still bore the scars accumulated while running supplies to Space Station Kwenn.

Captured with a hold full of black-market technics, she'd been added to the rag-tag collection of ships

the Empire used for clandestine missions. She was typical of vessels pressed into service by the Alliance.

Painted with registration numbers identical to those worn by one of their commerce raiders, she made a

believable stand-in for the real thing. Retro's fired as she matched velocities with Sulon and prepared to

land.

Within her hull, in a cargo compartment that still stank of the hydroponic supplies she had carried, a team

of Special Operations commandos prepared for combat. Their leader, a thirty-something first lieutenant

named Brazack, watched with all-seeing eyes. He had earned his commission the hard way in a battle so

bloody, every single one of his superiors had been killed. His subsequent promotion came in the wake of

a mission that produced no less than four medals of valor - all awarded posthumously.

His peers, almost all of whom had graduated from the Academy, resented Brazack and his almost

mystical linkage with the troops assigned to him. In this case, his troops were the second platoon, B

company, of the legendary Special Ops Group, also known as the Ghost

Battalion.

In spite of their common membership in one of the Empire's most elite military organizations, every single

member of the platoon was dressed in a rag-tag collection of mismatched clothes and armor meant to

resemble what volunteer elements of the Alliance wore.

And the disguises would have been believable if it weren't for the standard-issue weapons they carried -

and the fact that they were exclusively human, a rare circumstance where Reb units were concerned.

Brazack had objected to these discrepancies, and argued for a delay while they were remedied, but was

overruled. He reacted the way he always did, with a shrug and a lopsided grin. And why not? It made no

difference to Brazack if someone saw through the fiction, especially in

light of the fact that he had lodged his protest in writing and retained a computer generated receipt. Such

precautions were second nature to someone who' d risen from the ranks.

The pilot announced, "Three to dirt," and Brazack walked slowly down the center corridor. He made eye

contact with each member of the team as he spoke. "All right, men, you know the drill. We land, secure

the Landing Zone, and collect the prisoner. Questions? No? Good! Nail this sucker and the drinks are on

me."

The men grinned. They knew most officers would hardly acknowledge their status as human beings -

much less buy them drinks. Which had everything to do with the fact that they would rather die than

disappoint their leader.

The freighter came in out of the sun, sank to rooftop level, and opened up on the farm south of Morgan

Katarn' s. It belonged, they had been told, to a family named Danga. Lasers burped, buildings burst into

flames, and variform cattle broke free of their holding pens. The

Imperial pilot, a Caridian named Vester, grinned and circled for another pass. Give the groundies plenty

of time for an ID, that's what the briefing said, and that's what he'd do.

A woman and two children broke from the cover provided by the fiercely burning farmhouse and ran for

a nearby gully. Vester kicked the ship to the left, centered their images in the heads-up sight, and pressed

a button. There was a satisfying flash as the colonists died.

"Missile . . . " his co-pilot said matter-of-factly, well aware of the fact that the freighter was way too low

for the shoulder-launched device to arm itself, and fired a waist turret in reply. Bolts of energy hit the

center of the vehicle park, marched towards the maintenance shed, and

found Don Danga trying to reload. The shoulder-launched missile exploded and he disappeared.

The freighter shuddered, steadied, and headed north. By attacking the Danga farm prior to hitting the

Katarn place, and greasing still another family on the way out, they hoped to create the impression of a

hit-and-run Rebel raid. Vester didn't much care so long as he did alI of the shooting and someone else

did all of the dying. He chinned the intercom button. "Okay, Lieutenant . . . thirty to dirt."

Brazack acknowledged the message, took one last look at his men, and stood on the belly ramp. He

took pride in leading from the front - and planned to be the first one out.

Vester watched the Katarn farm grow larger, swerved to avoid an enormous tree, and lit his repulsors.

The ship staggered, caught and pancaked in. Not very pretty - but ideal when seconds count.

Brazack felt the skids hit, slapped the button next to the hatch and dived through the opening. He

executed a shoulder roll, allowed forward momentum to bring him up, and opened fire. That would keep

down the heads of anyone waiting in the farmhouse. Windows shattered

and curtains started to smolder. No one fired in return. The platoon poured out of the ship, formed a

skirmish line, and waited for orders.

Vester waited till the commandos were clear, lit his repulsors, and departed northward. His job was to

inflict additional damage, provide fire support if called upon to do so, and make the final pickup. A quick

check confirmed that a flight of five TIE fighters had secured his escape route. The mission was on the

rails and Vester was happy.

Morgan Katarn had arrived on the south slope of the hill that stood between his house and the southeast

quad when he heard the rumble of in-system engines and saw the low-flying ship. He viewed the vessel

as little more than a curiosity at first, a pilot so stupid that he or she

had missed the spaceport to the east and was searching for landmarks. Then he noticed that the running

lights had been extinguished and that the vessel was flying below official minimums, and his stomach felt

funny. That kind of feeling had protected him in the past.

Within a fraction of a second from the time the doubts first entered his mind, the ship opened fire.

Morgan stood stunned as lasers stabbed the ground, an SLM went off high above,

and something exploded.

Morgan fumbled the electrobinoculars out of their belt pouch and brought them up to his

eyes. The device captured what light there was, enhanced it, and fed the results to the eyepiece. By

pressing "zoom" followed by "record" Morgan was able to document what was happening.

The Katarn house was a modest structure, only half of which appeared aboveground. The rest, for

reasons of cost and insulation, was surrounded by carefully packed earth.

Brazack waited for Corporal Koyo to kick the door in, waited for defensive fire that never came, and

entered with his weapon at ready. The living room had a dusty, unlived-in feel, as if it was more for show

than use, and contained little of value or interest. Brazack pointed

toward a pair of doors. "Kayo . . . Santo . . . see where those go. And keep your eyes peeled for

Katarn."

The men had memorized Morgan's face during the simulation briefing. They managed to withhold the

"Yes, sirs" that came naturally to their lips and said "Gotcha," instead.

Rank hath privilege and Brazack had assigned the most interesting avenue of investigation to himself. It

led through an archway and into a workshop. He had no more than passed through the entryway when

something struck him in the chest and threw him backward. The armor beneath his shirt prevented

serious injury but it hurt nonetheless. The missile consisted of a partially disassembled servo mechanism,

and in spite of the fact that Wee Gee had thrown the device with unerring accuracy, the threat index was

extremely low. However, the commandos reacted as they would to any threat, and used overwhelming

force.

The antipersonnel grenade hit the floor, launched itself into the air, and exploded. The droid squeaked

pitifully. Santo put a beam through the machine's speaker grill. Wee Gee

considered further resistance, decided against it, and sent an electronic warning to Morgan Katarn.

High on the hill behind the farm Morgan both heard and felt his beeper go off, knew the raiders had

found Wee Gee, and touched the button that would silence it. A lump formed in his throat. Yes, Wee

Gee was a machine, but he'd been a friend as well.

Helpless to do anything more than document what transpired, the farmer saw fires appear among his

outbuildings, and saw the ship return from the north and squat in front of his house. There was something

about the raiders that bothered Morgan. It eluded him at first, but then he had it. The so-called Rebels

carried identical weapons! Not to mention that every single one of them was human. They looked like

Rebels, but they weren't Rebels, so what did that leave? The simple answer, the obvious answer, was

Imperial troops. Sent to kill and/or capture Reb leaders. That would explain the attack.

Morgan dropped to the ground as the ship fired repulsors and rose into the air. Fires, the last ones no

larger than sparks, marked the ship's passage to the west. Morgan shook his head sadly. If the Imperials

thought such raids would suppress the Rebellion, the' were wrong. Many

would suffer this night - and their hatred would grow. The challenge was to focus their emotion, to

transmute negative energy into positive.

Morgan watched the fires in acid around leis house disappear. Activated by the household computer, and

fed by the tap tree, his sprinkler system had cut in. He frowned and bit his lip. Possessions could be

replaced, but what of Wee Gee? And more importantly, the map

which Rahn had entrusted to him. Was it intact? Did the Imperials understand how valuable it was?

Morgan ached to return, to check on his home, but knew a trap could be waiting.

Morgan turned, low-crawled off the skyline, and trudged toward the east. Opportunity dwells within

disaster. That's what his friend Rahn liked to say - and he hoped it was true.

Thrawn received the unenviable task of telling Jerec that while the raid had been successful, the

commandos had been unable to find and capture Morgan Katarn. Never one to delay an unpleasant

task, Thrawn marched down a gleaming corridor, nodded to the stormtroopers who stood guard outside

Jerec's suite, and requested entrance. It came without delay. Having no eyes and no sight, not in the

ordinary sense, anyway, Jerec sat in almost total darkness. Only the soft glow provided by the bridge

repeaters and light switches lit the room. The lack of illumination was intended to be intimidating, and

would have been for anyone but Thrawn, who came from a species that boasted exceedingly good night

vision. He waited for Jerec to speak.

"You bring bad news."

Thrawn took note of the fact that the comment came in the form of a statement rather than a question.

How did Jerec know? There was no way to tell. "Yes, sir."

"You may continue."

The naval officer delivered his report the same way he delivered all reports - without excuse or

elaboration. Once Thrawn was finished, thirty seconds elapsed before Jerec spoke. "Was Katarn

warned?"

"There's no evidence to support that theory, sir. Lieutenant Brazack believes the subject left the farm on

some sort of errand."

"Or felt a need to go elsewhere," Jerec mused out loud. "He feels the Force, and even uses it on

occasion, but is afraid to reach out and seize his inheritance. `What if I make a

mistake?' he wonders. 'What if I abuse the power?' 'Can I be trusted?' Such silliness is beyond all

reckoning! I can feel his presence from orbit. Working, fussing, scheming. All for naught."

Thrawn allowed one eyebrow to rise. In spite of the fact that Jerec went to considerable lengths to hide

certain abilities from those above him, chosen subordinates were allowed the occasional glimpse. "Sir . . .

yes, sir."

"Of course this holds no interest for you," Jerec sneered. "For you're a being of the physical world, a

doer of deeds, a manipulator of objects. Well, O doer of deeds, I will provide

you and Lieutenant Brazac k an opportunity to redeem yourselves and collect yet another of the

commendations you thrive on. Listen carefully, for there is much to do."

The room was circular and packed with people. With the exception of an Alliance news team,

dispatched to record the proceedings as part of the communications effort required to unite hundreds of

sentient species under a single command, the colonists came from all over the

district. They were hard men and women, lean of body, used to adversity. Each had been elected to

represent at least ten others. They paid strict attention to what was said.

Everything about Skorg Jameson was big, starting with his body and extending to his voice, hand

gestures, and movements. He had long shaggy hair that touched the tops of his shoulders, a chest that

bulged under his leather jerkin, and boots planted like tree trunks at the

center of the hard-packed floor. He stood with his back to a massive fireplace and glared at those

around him. "I say the time is now! You saw what happened to Danga, to Katarn, and a dozen more . . .

It's time to make a stand and show others what we can do!"

It was a brave speech, and Morgan admired Jameson for making it. Especially in light of the fact that a

spy could be present, or a listening device so sophisticated it had escaped the pre-meeting sweep. Of

course the words did have a rehearsed quality, and could be part of Jameson's campaign for Sector

Leader. There was applause and Morgan allowed it to fade away

before speaking his mind.

"I too tire of the pressure, the extortion, and the attacks. That's why it's tempting to look for an

opportunity to strike back . . . but at what cost? Yes, some extremely interesting intelligence has come

our way. Assuming that citizen Jameson's source of information is correct,

and Imperials disguised as Rebels or mercenaries are planning to attack the G-Tap. "

"Which would force us to buy a fusion plant from the SoroSuub Corporation, and pay taxes to the

Empire," Jameson added pointedly.

"Exactly," Morgan said agreeably. "Which is why we sold shares and drilled the shaft to begin with. But

what if there's an even deeper purpose? To not only destroy the Tap, but to lure us into a pitched battle

and eliminate the Rebel infrastructure on Sulon? Guerilla raids are one thing, but our forces aren't trained

or equipped to fight Special Operations commandos. If we

lose, we lose more than the G-Tap, we lose Sulon herself."

A good many heads nodded, and voices murmured agreement. Still, only seconds elapsed before one of

Jameson's cronies stepped forward to reiterate the big man's point of view. The meeting lasted a full four

hours, and by the time it was over, a consensus had been established. The time had come. The Sulon

Rebels would defend the G-Tap with everything they had.

The meeting was adjourned and the colonists headed for their vehicles. A highly modified probe droid

watched from the cover of some trees. The robot counted the number of people who left, made infrared

recordings of their movements, and listened to their parting comments. A summary went to the

Vengeance seconds after the last conspirator departed and reached Jerec only minutes after that. The

Dark Jedi listened to the report and returned to his carefully scented meal. He smiled. Seeds had been

sown, crops had flourished, and the harvest was at hand.

The upper end of the Geo Thermal, or G-Tap, was located in a sizable cavern chosen both for its relative

proximity to the heat trapped in crustal rock formations three kilometers below, and the fact that it was

impervious to air attack. A number of prefab structures had been erected around it, including buildings to

house the water injection pumps, giant turbines, and adjunct control rooms. Morgan's assignment lay

elsewhere, but he paused to catch his breath, and admire what the colonists had accomplished.

The principle was relatively simple and had been put to use on various worlds prior to the rise of the

New Order. Crustal rock formations are warmed by volcanic action, an upwelling of magma, and the

natural decay of potassium, thorium, and uranium. By drilling extremely deep

wells, the colonists could force water down through carefully engineered cracks, where it could be

heated and pumped to the surface. There it would bring isobutane to a boil which would be forced

through power-generating turbines. And all this was done without radioactive waste, potentially

dangerous technology, or governmental taxes.

That was the idea anyway, and, judging from the nearly completed complex, would soon be a reality.

Assuming they could defend it. A voice caused Morgan to turn. "Citizen Katarn? I hoped I'd run into

you."

The information officer's name was Candice Ondi. She had brown hair, large intelligent eyes, and an

ever-ready smile. In spite of the fact that she was dressed in the ubiquitous gray coveralls that many Rebs

wore instead of a uniform, Morgan knew she had a nice figure. He'd have been interested under normal

circumstances, but the possibility that many of those around him might be dead soon acted to neutralize

any such thoughts.

Ondi traveled with a specially equipped chrome-plated protocol droid called "A-Cee." The robot spoke

dozens of languages, had a zoom lens where its right eye sensor should have been, and the ability to

record and digitally store more than a thousand hours of audio and video.

A-Cee walked with the slightly jerky motion typical of his kind and was engaged in a never-ending

search for pickup shots.

Morgan found the possibility that the droid might be recording at any given time more than a little

annoying and forced a smile. "Captain Ondi . . how nice to see you again."

The officer laughed. "I see you're thrilled. Listen, I wanted to thank you for the footage. I'm sorry about

what the commandos did to your farm, but a picture's worth a thousand words. Hundreds of thousands

of sentients will see it and know what happened here."

A column of Rebels jogged by, weapons held across their chests, headed for the canyon below. That

was the most direct approach to the cavern and the one they expected the Imperials to take. The river

which was to have fed the G-Tap would provide the stormtroopers with a

straight-ahead approach. Morgan turned to Ondi. She dropped a holocam and allowed it to dangle from

her wrist. Her eyes were greenish-brown and seemed to see his innermost thoughts. "So, Morgan

Katarn, you don't think much of our chances, do you?"

Conscious of his role as a leader, and the importance of good morale, Morgan lied. "On the contrary,

Captain Ondi, I think we'll win."

The information officer clearly didn't believe him. She nodded soberly, smiled crookedly, and removed a

piece of lint from his shoulder. There was something personal about the gesture, which reminded Morgan

of Kyle's mother. He smiled. "Take care of yourself, Captain. No matter what happens today, make sure

they see it."

Ondi nodded, a noncom called Morgan's name, and he turned away. They never saw each other again.

In spite of the fact that Major Noda had nominal command of ground forces, he was well aware of the

fact that Jerec monitored everything he said and did via comlink transmissions, probe droids, and his own

seemingly supernatural powers. The knowledge added to the already considerable amount of stress

Noda was under.

Though naturally cautious, Noda was no coward, and had bumped the ATAT's commanding officer to

see the terrain for himself. The walker was over fifteen meters tall and lurched from side to side as it

waded upstream. Heavily eroded banks, their tops decorated with hardy-looking bushes, rose to either

side.

A great deal of time and energy had been spent painting Rebel insignia on the ATs. Noda considered

such efforts a waste of time. After all, the very notion that the Rebels could capture such powerful

weapons and turn them against their owners was absurd. Still, orders were orders, and the charade

would continue.

The pilot, who had spent most of the last three days in an AT-AT simulator preparing for this precise

moment, handled the current with ease. Water swirled white around the machine's massive legs and

raced downstream. A bend obscured the river ahead and Noda watched as the

second of two AT-STs disappeared behind it. There was an explosion, smoke boiled up from the point

the walkers should be, and the battle began.

Although Morgan didn't actually sec the missile hit the AT-ST, he heard the comlink chatter that

described it, and saw the smoke boil up from the canyon. In spite of his position as a resistance leader

and respected member of the community, Morgan had relatively little military expertise. That's why he'd

been relegated to what the Rebels commonly referred to as the "back door," the flat area above the

cavern, which was accessed via an easily defended passageway that wound down through a series of

caves and vaults and into the main chamber.

Which explained why the twenty-six soldiers under Morgan's command were teenagers or senior

citizens. They cheered as the walker exploded and were still celebrating when a woman named Crowley

touched his arm. She'd been a Master Sergeant in the Republic's Army and was the only member of his

platoon with real combat experience. "Look, Morgan! Coming out of the sun!"

Morgan pulled his visor into place and turned towards the sun. The vessel was too far away for a positive

ID - but the Rebel knew what it was . . . The same Corellian-built freighter that had attacked his farm.

Loaded with commandos and headed his way. He switched to the platoon frequency and warned his

troops. "There's an imperial assault ship headed in. Don't be fooled by the Rebel markings. Everyone but

the missile team into the passageway. Trot . . . Jen . . . kill that ship before it lands."

"Gotcha!" Trot said e nthusiastically. "Don't worry, Morgan - the ship is toast. Come on,

Jen - load my tube."

The teenagers took up a position behind some boulders as the rest of the platoon scurried for the

protection of the passageway. Trot, his eyes on the heads up display projected on the inside surface of

his visor, watched the ship grow larger. The launch tube rested on his right shoulder. The trick was to

wait, thereby increasing the chance of a hit, but not too long since the SLM needed time to arm itself.

That's where old man Danga had gone wrong. Trot was determined to do it right.

Vester fired retros, lit his repulsors, and allowed the bow to rise as the ship sank. That blocked his view

of the ground but put more metal between him and whatever the groundies chose to send his way. It was

a trick that infantry officers frowned on since it exposed the ship's

belly to more enemy fire.

Brazack felt the deck tilt, knew what Vester was doing, and swore under his breath. This wasn't the time

or place to deal with the pilot, but later, after the battle was over, he would find the little creep and teach

him a lesson.

Trot heard a soft beeping sound through his car plug, checked to make sure the crosshairs were properly

centered on the underside of the ship, and pressed the firing stud. The tube lurched as the SLM raced

upwards, hit the freighter dead on, and exploded. The ship lurched, slipped sideways, and steadied under

Vester's hands. The Corellian shields, built to withstand the rigors of space combat, held.

Trot felt a vague uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, waited for Jen to shove a second SLM into the

tube, and fired again. The missile had barely left the launcher when the laser beam found it. Trot, Jen, and

the boulders they had been hiding behind vanished in a flash of light.

Morgan winced, thought about their families, and winced again. Then the freighter was down,

commandos disguised as rebels were pouring out of its belly, and lasers were probing the rocks. Morgan

fired and had the satisfaction of seeing an Imperial fall. Then it was time to pull back, take up a position

behind the first of many preprepared rock barricades, and fight the first of what would turn out to be a

long series of delaying actions.

The Rebels fought well, much better than Jerec, Thrawn, Noda, or Brazack thought they could or would,

but the result was inevitable. Just as Morgan and his steadily diminishing team were driven inexorably

down, the rest of the Rebel force, those who had confronted Noda down in the canyon, were forced up

and back. The Imperials paid a bloody price for each and every foot of ground they gained, but there

were more of them and they were better trained. Finally, after four hours of intense combat, both

contingents of stormtroopers met in the main chamber. The ensuing fight was brief and more than a little

one-sided.

Only thirty-seven colonists were left by that time. Those who could stand were lined up in front of the

nearly completed G-Tap and sorted according to instructions issued by Jerec. Major Noda consulted a

data pad as he inspected each face. Information provided by Jerec's agents combined with data

compiled by probe droids had been used to create detailed profiles. Most of the Rebels would be put to

death. A few, those who held leadership positions, would be held for interrogation.

Morgan Katarn had been wounded two hours before. He swayed slightly as Major Noda made his way

down the line. The Rebel leader harbored no illusions. He knew what awaited him and felt nothing but

sadness, not for himself, but for the young people whose lives had barely begun.

Noda's face was little more than a blur when it appeared in front of him. Morgan had the vague

impression of black hair; almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones. The voice was brusque and

unemotional. "Jerec wants this one - take him to the shuttle." Hands grabbed Morgan's arms; he struggled

to free himself, and fell as vertigo pulled him down.

A noncom slapped Morgan across the face while a medic injected something into his arm. Whatever it

was cleared the cobwebs and left him unnaturally alert. So much so that he

could see nearly microscopic differences between hull rivets, hear air as it passed through the recycling

ducts, and feel drops of sweat as they popped through the surface of his skin. All for what? So he could

feel pain more acutely and tell them what they wanted to know.

Morgan felt the toes of his boots bump over durasteel hull plating as the stormtroopers dragged him into

the interrogation chamber and allowed him to fall. He was admiring the precision with which the

construction droids had mated two of the floor plates when a pair of shiny black boots appeared in front

of his face. They frightened him and he wasn't sure why.

Hands grabbed Morgan under the armpits and lifted him to his feet. Black tattoos covered the lower

portion of the face before him. The drugs in his bloodstream brought them to life. They slithered back and

forth. He searched for his tormentor's eyes, for the pathway to his spirit, and found nothing but

blackness. The man's words were soft and smelled of mint. This was the one known as Jerec. Morgan

had heard of him.

"Citizen Katarn - how nice to see you. Which would you prefer? A long, painful conversation? Or

something brief and to the point? I would choose the second, less difficult path if I were in your position."

Morgan's mouth felt desert dry. He worked his mouth as if preparing to speak, mustered some saliva,

and aimed for Jerec's face. The liquid fell woefully short and splattered on the other man's boots. Jerec

shook his head mockingly. "How disappointing. I expected more from someone of your reputation. A

snappy reply, a Rebel slogan, or heroic silence. Ah, well, it's always better to overestimate one's

opponents than the other way around. Now tell me, who do you take orders from, and where are they?"

Morgan felt his heart pound against his chest. So that was it. Jerec hoped to start at the bottom and work

his way up through the Rebel chain of command. Kill the leaders and you kill the revolution. It was as

simple as that. He thought about Kyle, wished he'd been allowed to see

him one last time, and willed himself to die. It didn't work. His mouth was still dry and words felt

unwieldy. "A Gamorrean princess delivers my orders every morning and lives under my barn."

Jerec fingered the baton-shaped vibroblade. Energy sizzled. The stink of ozone filled the air.

Morgan thought about Kyle and the man he hoped his son would be. There was an explosion of light, his

wife's face, and a feeling of peace.

Jerec heard Morgan's head thump against the deck, found the vibroblade's off switch, and restored the

device to his belt. "Many years ago I had the somewhat dubious pleasure of passing through Sulon's

spaceport. A plain, rather spartan facility, as I recall - has it changed?"

A noncom, the most senior trooper present, snapped to attention. He was terrified and unable to conceal

it. "Sir! No, sir!"

"Excellent. That being the case I would like to add a little color to the place. Install this head where all

may see and take inspiration from it. In the meantime, I want the following message sent to Emperor

Palpatine `Sulon has been pacified. Your obedient servant, Jerec .'"

CHAPTER TWO

Kyle Katarn didn't want to die. Not for the Emperor, not for the Empire, and not for anyone else. The

realization brought color to his cheeks and Kyle was grateful for the glossy while armor that protected his

body and concealed his features. The men around him were real stormtroopers and, if it weren't for his

helmet, would have seen the fear in his eyes.

Of course that's what the Omega Exercise was for - to test cadets in battle and see what they were made

of. Those who completed their missions with a satisfactory score would receive their commissions and

graduate from the Imperial Military Academy at Cliffside on Carida. Failures like Kyle would serve in the

ranks. An honorable occupation for anyone but a cadet. Maybe the Rebels would kill him before he

could embarrass himself. A rather unusual wish for a cadet to make.

A pair of TIE fighters made the third of three consecutive runs, declared the asteroid "clean," and

vectored away. The assault boat, just one of hundreds of support craft carried aboard the Star Destroyer

Imperator, shuddered slightly and dumped speed as the pilot fired his retros. It required skill to match

velocities with an asteroid and AX-456 was no exception. Maybe the pixel pixies back on the ship knew

why the Rebs chose 456 for their relay station and maybe not. Not that it mattered much. A ride is a ride

and the pilot went where they told him to.

The sun broke over the planetoid's horizon and activated the polarizing filter in the pilot's face mask. He

checked course and speed, pushed the nose down, and chinned the intercom. "We are three repeat three

- to dirt. Check life support and prepare for insertion."

Frightened though Kyle was, he'd been trained for this moment, and reacted without thinking. "Systems

check - top down. Katarn green."

The names came in order, starting with his second in command, Sergeant Major Hong, followed by the

members of squads one, two, and three. Everything checked, leaving the entire outfit "green and clean."

Kyle tried to report, heard his voice crack, and tried again. "Cadet Leader Katarn here - all systems

green. Ready for insertion."

"Roger that," the pilot replied matter-of-factly. "Atmospheric decompression commencing now. Thirty to

dirt."

Kyle chinned the command freq and gave the appropriate orders. "Decomp underway. Thirty to dirt.

Lock and load."

The stormtroopers sat on bench-style seats with their backs to the bulkheads. They brought their assault

weapons to the vertical position, aligned power paks with receiver slots, and shoved them into place.

Forgetting to do so was the kind of thing greenies did and got killed for.

Kyle checked to ensure that his power source was "locked," verified the "full load" reading, and released

the safety. The cadet carried a side arm as well. But he knew better than to check it. Not with fifteen

seconds remaining.

Time seemed to slow. Lead filled his stomach and he was unexplainably sleepy. What was the quote?

The one carved into the mantel above the fireplace in Cliffside's ceremonial dining room? Something

about how cowards die a thousand deaths . . . ? Then, before Kyle could count how many times he had

died during the last few hours, the assault boat hit. It bounced once, twice, and stuck. Like the first

landings he had attempted, only better.

The port and starboard hatches opened and the squad leaders led their men into hard vacuum. Hong

stood between the hatches with his back to the cockpit. He had a small body and a big voice. "Move it,

move it, move it! What the heck are you waiting for, Briggs? An engraved invitation? Get out there and

kill some Rebels!"

Kyle felt an ice-cold hand grab hold of his stomach, forced himself to stand, and wondered when the

fighting would start. The Rebs should have reacted by now, should have opened fire with everything they

had, but nothing had happened. Why? Or, better yet, why not? Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe the

optimists were right for a change. Maybe ninety percent of senior missions were walkovers.

The hand released his stomach for a moment and Kyle shuffled towards the bow. Gravity was tenuous at

best, and even though the entire platoon had spent two days in a prestrike acclimation tank, it took time

to adjust. Hong snapped to attention. "Troops deployed, sir - no sign of opposition."

Kyle wondered what was taking place behind the dark gray lenses and white armor. How much did

Hong know? Did he have any idea how frightened his commanding officer was? How close to

crumbling? There was no way to tell. But one thing was for sure, Hong's opinion would weigh heavily

when his final score was tallied. Assuming he got that far . . . Kyle knew the proper response and

delivered it in the calm, matter-of-fact style favored by Cliffside's instructors. "Thank you, Sergeant

Major. Let's get on with it."

"Yes, Sir."

Kyle stepped out of the hatch first, followed by Hong. Dust fountained up around his boots and fell in

slow motion. The ground was rugged and almost universally gray. Impact craters marked the spots

where meteorites had slammed into the surface. They provided excellent cover and the troopers took

advantage of it. The assault boat crouched on a rise where it could lift quickly - or offer fire support if

called upon to do so. The whole thing looked like a text-book scenario, which added to Kyle's

confidence. Maybe, just maybe, he would survive.

Kyle, more from curiosity than bravado, remained standing. The electrobinoculars provided magnification

and range as he scanned the enemy base. The installations included a comm dish, a boxlike structure, and

a landing pad. They had a raw, improvised look. The pre-mission simulation had portrayed the constructs

as only fifty-percent complete, but that data was two weeks old, and the Rebs had been busy since then.

The purpose of the facility, and others like it, was a matter of conjecture. Intel's best guess was that the

Rebs were trying to establish a network of relay stations that could pass intelligence and psyprop

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STARWARSDARKFORCESSoldierfortheEmpireBYWilliamC.DeetsDeanWilliamsCHAPTERONETherelaythatfailed,andtherebysavedMorganKatarn'slife,wasanintegralpartofthepumpingstationthatservedthesoutheastquadrantofhishomestead.Withouttherelayandthepump,hisvariformbeanswouldwitheranddie.They,liketherestofthecrops,need...

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Star Wars - [Dark Forces 01] - Soldier For The Empire (by William C Dietz & Dean Williams)

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