Star Wars - Dark Forces 1 - Sol

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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 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

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

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 enthusiastically. "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

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STARWARS:DARKFORCESSoldierfortheEmpireBYWilliamC.DeetsDeanWilliamsCHAPTERONETherelaythatfailed,andtherebysavedMorganKatarn'slife,wasanintegralpartofthepumpingstationthatservedthesoutheastquadrantofhishomestead.Withouttherelayandthepump,hisvariformbeanswouldwitheranddie.They,liketherestofthecrops,nee...

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Star Wars - Dark Forces 1 - Sol

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