Star Wars - Soldier for the Empire

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STAR WARS: DARK FORCES

Soldier for the Empire

William C. Deets

Dean Williams

2 STAR WARS: DARK FORCES

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

Soldier for the Empire 3

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

4 STAR WARS: DARK FORCES

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.

Soldier for the Empire 5

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.

6 STAR WARS: DARK FORCES

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

Soldier for the Empire 7

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

8 STAR WARS: DARK FORCES

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

Soldier for the Empire 9

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 Brazack 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

10 STAR WARS: DARK FORCES

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

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STARWARS:DARKFORCESSoldierfortheEmpireBYWilliamC.DeetsDeanWilliams2STARWARS:DARKFORCESCHAPTERONETherelaythatfailed,andtherebysavedMorganKatarn'slife,wasanintegralpartofthepumpingstationthatservedthesoutheastquadrantofhishomestead.Withouttherelayandthepump,hisvariformbeanswouldwitheranddie.They,liket...

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Star Wars - Soldier for the Empire

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