| abstract
| - An angular malevolent wedge of metal and composites knifed through space riding a trail of hot ion exhaust. The blend of cold efficiency and braggadocio of the rising Empire was exemplified in the design of the Imperial Star Destroyer Engager, sent to the Outer Rim as part of the Empire’s tightening grip on the galaxy. Its holds were packed with military supplies, weapons, and gear, and thousands of ground troops, and there were a dozen smaller ships plugging along in its wake similarly loaded. Any potential threats to the convoy could be easily dealt with: Engager’s arrowhead hull carried enough firepower in its turbolasers and ion cannons to melt a planet’s surface or utterly demolish starships of all sizes. Engager had a crew that was largely new to the class—the ships had not been in service long enough for many to accumulate experience among the new vessels and fresh crews were shipped to the vessels as each mass-produced warship glided out of spacedock. However, its complement of ground troops were largely veterans of the Outer Rim sieges, as Engager’s mission was to relieve and replace garrisons across the Outer Rim with fresh troops and supplies. So far, it had been to Saluecami, Mygeeto, and Tellanroaeg. Now, the mighty Star Destroyer stopped at Boz Pity, a key Imperial hub in the Mid Rim, where the fate of some of its troops was to be decided. In one of the larger hangars, its floor freshly polished and rigid lines undimmed by use or stains, stood a number of hard-bitten fighting men, assembled for a common purpose. Each of them was once identical in genetics and appearance, but the scars and experiences of war had changed them to something slightly different. Old before their time, they had each been on a dozen battlefields, from Kamino to Coruscant. They were the very best of the best, the Advance Reconnaissance Commandos. Standing next to a desk with an aide nearby looking at a datapad, Imperial Captain Bolnir addressed these men. He was not a clone of Jango Fett, as they were, but a native of Ralltiir who volunteered for service in the navy near the war’s end, and still felt slightly out of place commanding units of largely identical soldiers who mostly had numbers instead of names. “Men, first let me offer you the Emperor’s thanks for your dedicated service to the Empire. Your government thanks you for your wartime service. Because of you, there are millions of people who have lived safer, happier lives without ever seeing battle on their worlds. Thousands of your brothers live because you accomplished missions that were thought impossible. For that, you are all to be commended.” The ARCs nodded their agreement, and Bolnir recognized the pride in each one of them at their accomplishments, pride that each one of them had earned through blood and sweat and pain. “As compensation for your loyal service, the Empire offers you two choices. The first is retirement from the Imperial military, to lead a law-abiding civilian life, with retirement pay and some benefits. Don’t spend your pension in one place, either. The second is to continue in the Imperial military, but not as front-line soldiers or even commandos. Your time on the frontlines is over. Now, your skills must be passed on to others who will fill the ranks of the military. As drill instructors on places such as Carida, you will impart the knowledge, the lessons you learned, to new recruits.” Bolnir paused to take in the reactions of the seven men standing before him. He might as well have been looking at granite blocks for all the response he received. After letting his words sink in for a moment, he cleared his throat and continued. “As I call your operating number, please step forward and indicate your choice. The decision is final. Those who wish to serve as drill instructors will return to your quarters and await reassignment. Any who choose retirement will report to Lieutenant Nhor for further instructions.” “Alpha-67.” “Drill instructor, sir.” “Alpha-14.” “Instructor, sir.” “Alpha-50.” “Instructor, sir.” “Alpha-21.” “Retirement, sir. I’m tired of getting blown up.” “Alpha-09.” “Trainer, sir.” “Alpha-81.” “Instructor, sir.” “Alpha-28.” Alpha-28, commonly known as Spectre, stepped up to the desk. As the names of each of his brothers had been called, he had been thinking of his response. It didn’t take him long. Spectre already knew that he no longer wanted to serve in the military. The execution of Order 66, the command to terminate the Jedi Order, had bothered him, and his comments to a clone commander named Trip had earned him a black mark on his record for insubordination. His saving of several lives in a bombing attack and his later capture of the bomber had earned him a medal from the major in charge while Trip had been incapacitated, injured by the blast, but had done nothing to clear his name. As he saw the military become increasingly political as part of Imperialization, Spectre knew he wanted nothing to do with it. The only thing that concerned him was that he had no idea what he would do with his future. However, his mind was made up. He looked Captain Bolnir in the eye. “Retirement, sir.” A few hours later, after sharing one last round of drinks and farewells with his brothers, Spectre reported to the armory along with Alpha-21, who was usually known as Twone, where he turned in his battered suit of armor and the lethal assortment of weaponry that he habitually wore. It felt strange for him to be not in armor while on duty. Out in the field, clone troopers were almost never out of armor. Spectre glanced at Twone’s scarred, chiseled face, and imagined the other ARC felt the same way. Spectre entered his service number into the screen for equipment use, where the transaction would be carried into the massive Imperial military databases, an obscure piece of information that proved that one suit of armor, one WESTAR-5M blaster rifle, two DC-17 sidearms, one ten-centimeter vibroblade, one fragmentation grenade, and ten power packs for the weapons were returned, in reasonably decent condition, by retiring ARC Captain Alpha-28. Spectre turned and left the armory, heading down the maze of corridors to the personnel office, where he and Twone each received a large credit voucher and civilian identichips from the officer there. “Please enter your service number here,” the officer said. The two troopers did so. “You are henceforth discharged from the Imperial Army, effective immediately,” continued the officer. “There is a transport contracted to take you down to Boz Pity’s service.” “How much are the credit vouchers worth?” asked Twone. “5,000 standard credits.” “Not bad,” remarked Spectre. “No, indeed,” said Twone. “See you at the transport, Spectre.” Spectre whistled softly. Five thousand credits were enough to make a decent start. It wasn’t a fortune by any means, but the retirement pay of 300 creds per standard month would help bolster that. He and Twone saluted the officer one last time and returned to their quarters to pack their few belonging. Spectre opened the small chest that belonged to him and checked its contents. Ordinarily, there was very little that wasn’t practical, but one item in the bottom caught his eye. Unfolding a small cloth covering a disk-shaped object, Spectre found himself looking at a piece of a speeder control with the emblem of the Jedi Order etched into it. He remembered when he first received the medallion—during his first tour of duty on Boz Pity, after rescuing the Jedi Padawan Selusda Kraen. They had bonded on the battlefield, only to be separated by the demands of war. Spectre wondered where Selu was now, and then realized he didn’t want to know. The Jedi was probably a corpse, a casualty of Order 66 and the Jedi treachery. That was one of the reasons that Spectre had no desire to be in the army anymore. Killing one’s generals and commanders never stood well with him, especially since he’d never seen any proof of the treason. Spectre, like all ARCs, was more independent-minded than the average clone trooper, and was proud of that fact. Something about the whole Jedi rebellion had never sat well with him, but he knew that any inquiries would be strongly discouraged and pointless. Without any proof either of the Jedi’s culpability or innocence and little chance of uncovering the truth, Spectre had been forced to ignore the lingering feeling of wrongness on the subject as best he could. Spectre replaced the medallion and closed the chest, shoving it inside his carrybag. It was time to be off. The transport would leave soon, and the faster he was out of the army, the faster he could figure out what he going to do in his civilian life. The military had been his life since literally before he was born, and now that he was leaving it, the future suddenly seemed more uncertain. He walked through the polished, orderly corridors of the Star Destroyer to the main hangar, where a smallish civilian freighter was waiting to take a party of khaki-clad Imperial officers down to the planet, probably for leave since official business would mean that they would use an Imperial shuttle, and take him and Twone down to Boz Pity’s surface. A curious sight greeted him as he prepared to board the transport: a clone trooper in full armor waiting for them. Spectre soon recognized the officer: Commander Trip. Spectre had avoided Trip for some time, ever since Tellanroaeg, but apparently Trip had come to seek him out. He walked towards the transport, hoping that Trip wanted to talk to Twone, but Trip stopped him. “Alpha-28.” Spectre stopped automatically and nearly saluted, but remembered at the last instant that he wasn’t in the military anymore. His hand dropped to his side. “I don’t have that designation anymore,” he said to Trip. “Spectre, then. I heard you were leaving the army,” Trip responded evenly. “You heard correctly,” Spectre said, resisting the compulsion to add “sir” to the end of his statement. “I can’t say I’m horribly surprised by that.” “Is that so?” Spectre was not in the mood to be baited by Trip, and this conversation was going nowhere. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my life back on Tellanroaeg, Spectre. I finally found out that it was you who carried me out of the fire. Even if you were insolent and trouble-causing, you were a good trooper. Safe flight.” “Thank you,” Spectre said neutrally, his stolid face not betraying any emotion. A lot of good Trip’s gratitude would do him now. Turning, he nodded and left, joining Twone, walking across the hangar towards the transport. Boarding the freighter, Spectre noticed immediately its somewhat dilapidated condition and groaned, figuring it was going to be an unpleasant ride down to the surface. Unfortunately for him and Twone, he was correct. Duro Selusda Kraen wove the Hawk-bat through the lanes of traffic flowing through Duro’s orbital cities. The light freighter, roughly shaped like its organic namesakes that inhabited Coruscant, was a powerful, graceful craft, and responded well to its handler’s touch. Duro was just the latest destination for Selusda and the rest of the crew on the freelance trading craft. Selusda, or more typically Selu, was alone on the bridge, as the others were in the aft of the ship. Captain R’hask Sei’lar and his first mate Jorgesoll Knrr were in the hidden gun turrets standing watch for hostile ships, since Duro had recently become a frequent target for pirate depredations. Sarth Kraen, the ship’s engineer and Selu’s brother, was in the engineering station while the junior cargomaster Cassi Trealus stayed in the hold, making last-minute checks on the cargo. Ever since half a hold full of nerf meat had spoiled en route to Bestine due to their supplier providing faulty storage containers, costing them thousands of credits, Captain R’hask had insisted that Cassi check the cargo more thoroughly and make sure it was secured. Though they were only carrying scrap metal, R’hask didn’t want anything to go wrong. Selu found that his solitude was indicative of his time with the Hawk-bat in general. He had stayed largely aloof from the others, aside from Sarth, except on a few rare occasions where he came out of his reserved shell. He was sure the other three crewmembers noticed, but he didn’t care. He would do his job and do it well, but he had no desire to grow too friendly with the crew or too trusting. It could be deadly, as Selu had once been a Jedi, the one-time guardians of peace and justice. That had been a lifetime ago, and then the Empire had purged the Jedi, killing as many as possible. Selu had barely escaped the slaughter at the Jedi Temple with his life, but he had lost everything and everyone important to him that evening. Still wracked with grief even several months after his escape, sometimes it was all he could do to outwardly maintain his composure. Out of all the crew, only Sarth knew his background, and even his real name. Instead of his given name, Selu now went by Micor. While the captain didn’t have the extraordinary memory retention rate that Sarth and Selu possessed, he still might recall that Sarth had once had a Jedi brother named Selusda. However, a pilot cousin would never be suspected, so that was Selu’s identity. “Where to this time, Captain?” Selu inquired over the ship’s intercom. R’hask had a somewhat random method of choosing destinations when they didn’t have a specific buyer lined up on another world, and it had taken some getting used on Selu’s part. “Chart a course for Commenor, Micor,” said Captain R’hask. “We should get a good return for our cargo there.” Selu punched in the coordinates and prepared to activate the hyperdrive. Inwardly, he was excited and apprehensive about flying to Commenor. It was his homeworld, where the biological parents he’d never truly met lived. Would they want to meet him? He was unsure, but the prospect was tantalizing, filling with anticipation. The hyperdrive activated, and the starlines engulfed the Hawk-bat as it jumped into hyperspace. The trip would last several days, and there wasn’t much for Selu to do—hyperspace between Duro and Commenor was fairly clear, unlike much of the Outer Rim or the Deep Core. He checked the ship’s chrono and found that he only had a few time parts before Jorge, an affable, brawny man from Corellia, had watch on the ship’s bridge. Soon enough, he spied the first mate coming forward, and Selu left the pilot’s station as Jorge took over. Heading back to the wings of the ship where the crew quarters, engine, and hold were located, Selu entered the crew lounge and found Sarth and Cassi watching a holodrama on a small projector in the lounge. With nothing better to do, he decided to join them. “Where are we off to?” asked Cassi. Apparently, she hadn’t had the intercom panel in the hold on or hadn’t been listening to it. “Captain R’hask has us bound for Commenor,” said Selu. “We’ll be there in a few days.” There was no need to say anything else, so he didn’t. Selu gave his brother a look, and Sarth nodded. Later, they would plan a reunion between Selu and his parents—something they had discussed more than once before in the privacy of their quarters. For now, though, the two sat back and watched the holo. After a week of work on Duro, they finally had a chance to relax a bit while the ship was in hyperspace. Sarth leaned back in his chair, watching as the hero of the holodrama evaded capture by a group of Twi’lek pirates who were trying to get his wealthy girlfriend to pay a large ransom for his release. Next to him, Cassi’s attention was similarly focused on the screen; though Sarth wished she would pay him half of the attention she showed the holodrama. He’d never been a social person when he was growing up, as his studies took all his time, but he kept finding himself strangely attracted to the junior quartermaster. He’d told Selu about it and his brother had sympathized, although in all probability Selu knew even less about women than he did in terms of relationships. Sarth also knew that his older brother was still distracted and grieving from the loss of the Jedi Order, and so hadn’t tried to draw him out much, thinking it better to let the matter be. Although his mind threatened to wander off back to technical schematics of the power conduit he wanted to overhaul, he kept his attention on the holodrama. Even he needed a break from work, and the multitude of short hops between orbital cities and micrometeorite hits they had taken while near Duro had given him plenty to do. And since he couldn’t just pop outside the craft while in hyperspace in an EV suit to check it out, it would have to wait. Meanwhile, Captain R’hask Sei’lar stood up in the bridge of the ship, awaiting his first mate to return from checking on the other crewmembers. Finally, he saw Jorge’s large frame in the corridor connecting the bridge to the rest of the ship. “Are they still back there?” R’hask asked shortly. “Aye, Captain. We’re alone up here.” “Good. Did you get everything stowed away?” “Yessir, I did.” “And Cassi doesn’t know anything about, right?” “Not a bit, Captain. She saw the cargo manifest listed as scrap metal and thought nothing of it. It’s a good thing she’s cargo master, and not Micor.” “Why’s that, Jorge?” asked the Bothan. “Micor’s a good pilot, don’t get me wrong. Better than me, even. There’s just one thing that bothers me about him: he’s too good.” “Too good?” “Aye, Captain. Remember that pirate attack?” “Those scum that tried to hit us over Corellia? Sure, I remember them.” “Micor flew the ship like he knew what he was doing, setting up firing angles, attacking that pirate corvette.” “Mmm, you’re right. There’s no way he picked that up in the one battle drill we did. And he said he’s qualified on starfighters.” “Have you seen his weapon?” “Yes, I have. Now that you mention it—that’s a Republic military-issue sidearm.” “Exactly. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” “Micor is or was Republic military.” “He didn’t mention that.” “We didn’t ask.” “In any case, we better keep this deal quiet.” “Fine then, once we get the information we need on Commenor, we’ll just ditch him, and Sarth too. Make the arrangements, but wait until after we leave Commenor to activate them.” “Sure thing, Captain.” R’hask’s slightly worried expression and barely rippling fur were replaced by a calm smile as Jorge headed aft. All they had to do was make sure there were no loose ends in the deal they were brokering, and it would run just as they had planned. Commenor Central Lower Court “Now, Mr. Silask, you had been told you were going to lose your job by Mr. Kyslor and Mr. Mord’lya, weren’t you?” The well-dressed human glared down his sharp nose at the clerk sitting meekly on a chair. “Yes, I was aware of that,” replied the graying older man nervously. Then again, being confronted by one of the toughest defense attorneys on Commenor could scare any clerk turned witness into losing his carefully-rehearsed testimony against a powerful land-developing firm. “And you told Mr. Kyslor that you’d ‘make him pay’ for this. That’s what you said in your affidavit, isn’t it?” “Yes. I told him I’d make him—,” “So you threatened to get him, didn’t you?” The sharp-nosed lawyer was in his element now, pacing in front of the witness stand like a predator stalking his prey. “I-I-I, uh . . .” “And Mr. Kyslor informed you that the loss of your job had nothing to do with the charges you were bringing against him, didn’t he?” “Objection.” A voice, cool as a frozen asteroid and firm as durasteel, stopped the lawyer before the clerk could respond. “This question calls for hearsay, your Honor.” “Sustained. Next question, counselor,” said a bored-looking judge with a wave of his pudgy hand. The lawyer turned and, for an instant, glared at the source of that voice, then turned back to his questions. “You don’t have any physical evidence of Mr. Kyslor’s supposed wrongdoing, do you?” “Well, no, I don’t. When I went—“ “So your testimony in court, is sort of pointless, isn’t it?” said the lawyer with a cruel smile. “Objection. Your Honor, kindly ask the counselor to stop badgering my witness.” Once again, the implacable voice stopped the lawyer dead in his tracks. “Sustained,” wheezed the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor,” said the sharp-nosed lawyer. “Any re-direct, counselor Kraen?” “Just a short one, Your Honor.” Rising, the other man took his place at the lectern. “Mr. Silask. What were you referring to when you said you’d make Mr. Kyslor pay?” “Objection! Speculation!” thundered the sharp-nosed lawyer, standing up abruptly. “Your Honor, it goes to the witness’s intent and state of mind. We offer it as evidence of the witness’s intent when he wrote that portion of his affidavit.” “Overruled.” “I’ll ask the question again. Mr. Silask, what were you referring to when you said you’d make Mr. Kyslor pay?” “I was referring to all the money he cheated those surveyors out of when he claimed their maps were useless.” “How do you know he cheated the surveyors?” “I saw their maps in the record room after he refused to buy them.” “Are you certain they were the right maps?” “Yes, I am. I asked Mr. Kyslor about those specific maps: 541-A-167 and 541-A-168.” “What did his response indicate to you?” “It was quite clear to me that he was fully aware that we had the maps in our data files.” “What, if anything, happened to you after you confronted Mr. Kyslor?” “I was told I was being fired.” “No further questions, your Honor.” “Any re-cross?” asked the judge. “No, Your Honor,” said the first lawyer irritably. “The witness may step down. This court is adjourned. Trial will reconvene in a week,” the judge intoned. As the witness stepped down, Samtel Kraen went up and offered him a glass of water and a few words of encouragement before he left. Returning to his attorney’s table, he packed up his case, conferred briefly with his aide, straightened his coat, and walked out the door. It had been a long day in court, and he was eager to go home. The land-grabbing case had turned out to be a mess to prosecute, and the defense was using every trick there was to block important testimony—not a surprise in the least. Exiting the tall, imposing courtroom, Samtel headed for his speeder and drove off. Weaving his way through evening traffic, he soon pulled up in front of the University of Commenor’s mathematics building; a difficult feat considered the large number of students walking or flying speeders through the campus. He parked by the building, waiting for his wife to emerge from her class. University of Commenor “As you can see on the holoprojector, the factorial derivation of the S’locca series can be computed using Granith’s Theorem. Be sure to make sure you are operating with the equations for the appropriate sequence of complexity or super-complexity, or your data will be represented in the wrong number of dimensions. Any questions? No? Then class is dismissed. See all of you next week.” Lena Kraen dismissed the class and watched as her several dozen students filed out of the room, relieved to have survived another day of multi-dimensional mathematics. Closing down the holoprojector, she tucked her books into a leather case and headed for the door, dimming the glowpanels before she left. Walking through the decorated halls of the mathematics building, she headed towards the parking area where her husband would be waiting. No longer young, she still walked briskly and with a vibrant energy undimmed by the passing of over four decades. Greeting students and faculty friends on the way, the overhead glowpanels on the street were activated by the time she reached the speeder parking lot. It would be fully dark by the time she and Samtel returned to their home outside of Munto. Walking up to where her husband sat in their speeder waiting for her, she got in and they sped back towards their home. On the way, they shared the experiences of the day with each other, as they had done for many years now, a comfortable daily ritual. Ever since Sarth had left for school, their household had diminished to just her, her husband, and NineSee, their servant droid, a gift from Sarth. The kilometers flew by, though by the time they arrived at their property, the stars were visible in the ebony blackness of the night and Folor and Brelor were both visible, with Folor a sliver of a crescent and Brelor half-full, bathing their decently sized estate in silvery light. Only a single story, it was of a comfortable size for them, and a large round high-ceilinged sitting room dominated the view from the road, with the kitchen, bedrooms, and other rooms adjoining from the main hall towards the rear of the dwelling. As they approached, Samtel slowed the speeder to a stop before they reached their small enclosed garage. “There’s a strange speeder here.” “Maybe it’s Sarth,” said Lena. “Might be. Might not be. Never hurts to be careful,” replied Samtel. Reaching into a compartment under his seat, he pulled out a small blaster pistol, a relic from a previous life many years past. “Stay here, Lena,” ordered Samtel. “I’m going to check it out.” “Samtel,” she started, but he held up a hand to forestall an argument. “I need you out here to call for help if it comes to that,” he said. Unhappy but understanding the wisdom in his direction, Lena nodded. Turning, Samtel advanced towards the house, weapon at the ready. Cautiously, he examined the front door and found it to still be locked. He unlocked it and it slid open. Stepping inside, he found the house lights dimmed instead of off like they normally were in their absence. Furthermore, two men were sitting in the main room’s couches. In the dim light, he recognized one of them as his son Sarth and though he wasn’t sure on the identity of the other one, he figured it was one of his crewmates. Samtel set the blaster down on a small table and flicked on the glowpanels. Upon seeing the visage of the other man in better light, his eyes widened, and he was rendered totally speechless from astonishment.
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