Star Wars: Shadow over Charis
Ten years have passed since the fall of the REPUBLIC. With brutal efficiency, the newly created GALACTIC EMPIRE has suppressed all opposition and united much of old Republic space under its rule. But despite the best efforts of the ruthless and talented GRAND MOFF TARKIN, many star systems still harbor rebel groups. Facing a manpower crisis, the Empire is forced to garrison many systems in the treacherous OUTER RIM with new and untested troops.
Meanwhile, a rebel movement is beginning to grow on the remote planet of CHARIS, a former member of the SEPARATIST ALLIANCE. As punishment for an unknown crime, MATHAZAR TARKIN, distant cousin to the Grand Moff, has been assigned to command the understaffed garrison on Charis, and suppress the flame of rebellion before it can spread across the galaxy…
The Lambda Class Imperial shuttle came out of hyperspace just outside of the atmosphere of Charis, which gleamed like an azure jewel in the light of its yellow star. Mathazar Tarkin took in the sight with relish. There was nothing he found more beautiful than gazing down at a distant planet, marveling as its atmosphere transformed simple starlight into a cavalcade of vivid colors, and he knew full well that this would be his last chance to do so for a long time. The shuttle dove gently into the atmosphere, breaking through the upper cloud layer to reveal a sprawling continent below. A vast ocean gleamed to the east, while uncountable miles of green plains stretched off to the west.
"What is the population of this planet again, pilot?" he asked politely. The pilot threw a nervous glance over his shoulder at his superior before answering.
"About 3 million, sir. Not many people want to stick around this backwater." He hesitated, realizing the implied insult in his words. "I mean, that is…"
"Most of the population is centered around the main settlement, correct?" Mathazar inquired smoothly, sparing the young man from any further blunders.
"Y-yes, sir. Starved Homestead, the locals call it. Back when the Empire was still trying to put the pieces back together, we were forced to blockade the planet. The settlers don't do much farming, they rely on imports to stay alive. After a few months, the resistance here just crumbled. More than half the population starved to death."
"I see." It was a tragedy, he thought, that such means were required to enforce cooperation from a populace that should have welcomed the promised peace and stability of the new order. It would be his job to persuade the people of Charis not to repeat their decade-old mistake.
"We're coming up on Stalwart Base, sir," the pilot informed him, breaking Mathazar from his musings. Indeed, the settlement of Starved Homestead had appeared on the horizon, and perhaps a kilometer west of the city, the sleek, dark form of a prefabricated Imperial Base. This would be his home for the foreseeable future.
"Take us in slowly, pilot," he commanded. "Transmit our clearance codes and inform them that their new commanding officer has arrived." The pilot complied, and in a matter of minutes the shuttle was drifting over the base's landing pad. With a slight jerk, the craft made its landing and the boarding ramp lowered with a hiss.
Ten Imperial Stormtroopers were awaiting in military formation as Mathazar disembarked. Standing before them was a young man in the uniform of an Imperial Officer. Judging by the lack of bars on his lapel, he was a new recruit. The young officer met Mathazar with a smart salute. "Welcome to Charis, commander Tarkin. We have been awaiting your arrival."
"I'm sure you have. At ease, cadet." Mathazar took a quick visual survey of the troops before him. Armor; polished to a mirror shine. Weapons; well maintained and obviously newly issued. Stances; rigidly formal, those of green servicemen afraid of incurring the wrath of their superiors. Not altogether unexpected, but not encouraging either. "You are all dismissed. Return to your barracks. Cadet, walk with me." With those words, he strode off into the base. The Stormtroopers stood frozen for a moment, taken aback by his abrupt departure. Slowly, they turned and marched in good order back into the base. The cadet hurried after Mathazar, slowing only when he reached the older man's side. "What is your name, son?" Mathazar asked.
"Dorian Qosh, sir," the cadet replied. "Our old commander was transferred out months ago, and until you arrived, I was the ranking officer at this installation." His words did not carry the tone of reproach they might have. In fact, he sounded vaguely relieved. This was not a man comfortable with the burden of complete control.
"What school did you graduate from, mister Qosh?" Mathazar inquired as the made their way down the corridor, passing a pair of technicians who hurried to step out of their way.
"Corulag Academy, sir," Qosh replied. "I graduated top of my class. Sir, if you will proceed down the hallway to the left-"
"I am quite familiar with the layout of a standard Imperial prefabricated base, thank you. Now, repeat for me the personnel manifest of this installation, if you please."
To his credit, Qosh did not break his stride. "This base currently houses thirty Stormtroopers, six pilots with two backups, and thirty engineers, technicians, and support personnel. We have four standard issue TIE fighters in the hangar and one Lambda-class shuttle on the landing platform. The one you just arrived on. We have one T4 troop transport and 4 74-Z speeder bikes."
"No AT-ST? These prefab bases come standard with one each."
"Apparently, Imperial high command deemed a walker an, erm, unnecessary allocation of resources to this quadrant given its low threat level."
"I see." That was an unpleasant surprise, but it was nothing Mathazar couldn't handle. If everything went as he planned, a walker would not be needed. "Any troublemakers among the personnel?" The pair emerged from the hallway into the command center, a large room with banks of control panels dispersed evenly throughout. The far wall was made up of a massive window, through which Starved Homestead was plainly visible. Several technicians were milling about the chamber, monitoring frequencies and receiving communications.
"A few, sir. One of the TIE pilots, a female, designation TI-94655—"
"Her name, if you please, mister Qosh."
"Err, yes sir. Name, Fera Xan. She has been known to take unauthorized and risky maneuvers during flight exercises. She claims it is to impress the locals."
Mathazar nodded distractedly, his gaze fixed on the settlement in the distance. "And the others?"
"A pair of Stormtroopers, designations TK-49876 and TK-95222…I mean, names Gerrin Hoyle and Marik Krester, use their off-time to frequent a bar in the settlement and, it is believed, to affiliate with the locals in a…less-than-official manner." Mathazar smiled inwardly; he could practically feel the boy blushing.
"A rather harmless batch of troublemakers, wouldn't you say? I don't see any reason to reprimand them."
Qosh stiffened. "Sir, I strongly disagree. Imperial protocol—"
"I appreciate that you received your training at the distinguished Corulag Academy, mister Qosh," Mathazar interrupted, "and I am certain your skills will prove invaluable to me. However, the first lesson you must learn about fieldwork is to forget everything you have been taught about fieldwork. Starting with Imperial protocol."
"You would have us abandon protocol, sir? Then how shall we maintain order?"
Mathazar turned to face Qosh. The command staff had stopped what they were doing to regard the two officers nervously. Mathazar ignored them, focusing on the indignant cadet before him. "Protocol has its uses," he said gently. "But I find that it is often more productive to handle each situation with discretion and ingenuity. We are a vast empire, mister Qosh, and no one set of protocols will be able to satisfactorily handle so many disparate populations. Trust me, and you will see that there are better ways. Now, prep a ground team. I wish to visit the settlement." Qosh saluted stiffly, then turned and left the bridge at a brisk walk. Mathazar sighed, the sound releasing the tension in the air. As the command staff got back to their duties, he turned to look out on Starved Homestead once more. He had a lot of work to do.
Twenty years ago, Charis had been a small but prosperous planet, boasting a population of more than fifty million, with endless potential for growth. Analysts had looked into its future and seen a thriving center of art and culture. The ravages of the Clone Wars and subsequent rise of the Empire had instead doomed it to a slow extinction. The majority of denizens had fled the contested planet as refugees during the conflict between the Republic and the Separatists. The famous incident that had given Starved Homestead its name had further reduced the population. Evidence to this fact was visible from the moment the T4 transport bearing Mathazar and six Stormtroopers entered the outskirts of the settlement. Stone buildings, once proudly decorated with garish paint and beautiful banners, stood abandoned and in severe disrepair, and piles of refuse littered the roads and alleyways. Occasionally, Mathazar would glimpse a sullen face glaring down at them from a window. The people of Charis had been through too much to experience true fear anymore.
The closer they got to the city center, the more populated it became. The civilians were mostly humans, but Mathazar took note of plenty of nonhuman specimens among them: twi'leks, bith, rodians, a small group of toydarians, a lone ithorian. All remnants of Charis' days as a cosmopolitan commercial center. The transport was one of the only vehicles on the road, and there were few droids in sight. Few on Charis could afford such luxuries anymore.
"Your designation is TK-49876, correct?" he asked the trooper next to him as the transport made its way slowly through the milling crowd, which parted reluctantly for it.
"Yes, sir," the trooper replied, his filtered voice as emotionless as the expression on his helmet.
"I've been told of your little adventures, Gerrin Hoyle," Mathazar said evenly. "I'm sure you're aware that fraternizing with the locals goes against Imperial protocol?"
"Sir, I can—"now Mathazar detected a hint of apprehension in his subordinate's voice.
"Because I was made very much aware of that fact by mister Qosh. He's still quite upset that I've decided not to punish you."
"I…don't understand, sir."
Mathazar placed a hand on Hoyle's armored shoulder. "We are here to provide these people with Imperial protection, mister Hoyle, not to lord over them. In some cases, a firm hand is needed. In others, a velvet touch. I'm very interested in seeing this bar in which you and your friend Marik Krester while away your free time."
"Yes, sir," Hoyle replied, sounding relieved and vaguely unnerved by his commander's unorthodox behavior.
The transport came to a stop outside of a tidy two story, from which music could be faintly heard. The building's blue-and-yellow painted exterior was faded but not chipped, giving the place a homely feel. Mathazar disembarked first, followed by his soldiers. Several pedestrians watched with unfriendly eyes as the group made their way inside.
The interior of the building was more cheery than the outside. Fresh paint adorned the walls, and neat wooden chairs were set around large tables throughout the main dining area. A bar was nestled comfortably in the back corner, holovids overhead displaying news feeds or sports games taking place thousands of light years away. The left side of the room housed a platform upon which a band was playing, and several smaller platforms containing scantily clad human and twi'lek dancers. Overall, the place had a friendly, inviting atmosphere which seemed to promise a relaxing evening for anyone who walked in.
Mathazar could not have felt more out of place dressed in his dark imperial uniform, flanked by six Stormtroopers whose white armor stood out painfully against the warm hues of the room. It was past working hours, and the bar was almost packed. Every being turned to the door as the Imperials entered, their apprehension so palpable Mathazar could taste it. Forcing a smile onto his face, he said, "There's no need to stare. You may go back to what you were doing." Several of the looks he received were openly hostile, but in the end there was no denying an Imperial officer. Gradually the denizens turned back to their drinks or their meals or their dances.
Mathazar slipped through the crowded dining area, attempting discretion but knowing that everyone was still watching him from the corners of their eyes. He approached the bar, smile still plastered on his face. The bartender, a young woman with shockingly bright red facial tattoos, turned and called to someone in the back room in a language he did not understand. Moments later, a middle aged woman emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a rag. She noticed Mathazar and the Stormtroopers and her expression darkened.
Mathazar spoke quickly to assuage her fears. "There's no need to worry, ma'am. We haven't come here on official business. This establishment was recommended by one of my men, a regular of yours, I believe. Gerrin Hoyle?"
The woman seemed to relax slightly at the name, and Mathazar had a chance to take in her appearance. She was short, but stocky, with strong features and icy blue eyes that took in his own features with an appraising glance. Her hair was thick and dark, tied back into a braid that fell to her mid-back. Her posture radiated the confidence of one who commanded respect from those around her, and knew it.
"I know Gerrin," she said in a lightly accented voice. "Knew him when he was a child, too, before you Imperial beasts dragged him off to become a killer."
Mathazar was impressed that she could speak so confrontationally to an Imperial officer. "Mister Hoyle was trained to protect the citizens of the empire, and to establish peace and security throughout the galaxy."
The woman looked around and raised an eyebrow. "Yes, we have seen evidence of this peace and security many times over the past few years."
She definitely had courage, this bar owner. Mathazar was beginning to understand why his subordinates had taken a liking to this place. "I am more than happy to debate politics with you any time, miss…"
"Santhea," the woman replied.
"Miss Santhea. However, at the moment my men and I would like to be seated. If there is no room available, we would be happy to wait until a table becomes open."
Again Santhea gave him an appraising once-over. Apparently she liked what she saw, because she said, "I'll have Greia clear a table for you. Sit down and enjoy yourselves. Friends of Gerrin are friends of mine, whatever uniform they wear."