Chapter 10

For all the dinginess and filth spread throughout the area, this could have been nearly any city on Earth. This place was hot too, and if possible even hotter than Greg remembered being in Kuwait. Sand was absolutely everywhere, and the streets were crowded … though not exactly with people.

Beings of fantastic origin choked the streets of this city, which Greg understood to be far more ancient than any Middle Eastern city back on his home planet. Robots walked about freely, alongside odd-looking creatures wearing clothing of various kinds. Most paid little attention to Greg, for other humans were out and about the city as well. Greg had flirted with the idea of wearing blue jeans and a shirt down to the planet, but his supervisor had advised him against it, so Greg instead sported civilian clothes more likely to be worn by humans native to this area. That did not prevent the occasional strange looks from his fellow humans who colored their glances with suspicion. While it was very unlikely that any of them knew Greg was from Earth, the way in which he carried himself bespoke of a military man – an Imperial military man. Off to his right, Greg saw beings filtering into one of the many squat, sand-colored buildings, and he made his way toward the building.

Odd music floated through the air, and various beings lounged in their own way at filthy booths or tables in the dark room. Computer terminals were scattered throughout the room, and Greg suspected at least one of them was a type of jukebox. Many of the beings were in animated conversation with each other in strange languages that Greg couldn't comprehend, some of them seemingly on the verge of violent action. Greg spotted what appeared to be a bar – some things never changed, regardless of which galaxy wherein you found yourself. As Greg stepped past closely-packed throngs of strange beings and up to the bar, he saw that the bartender had green skin, dark almost insect-like eyes, a mouth that ended in more of a snout, and two antenna sticking up out of his/her/its head.

The bartender was dealing with another customer at the moment, and Greg had an odd feeling, as though he were being watched. He peered to his left to see several beings, including a couple of humans at the bar. Most were in conversation with other beings, a couple appeared interested only in meditating on their drinks, but one was an older human, and he was staring at Greg. Having been to different countries on Earth while in service to the US Army, Greg knew that staring was not necessarily a rude gesture in some cultures. But this man's stare was somehow different. His grey facial hair and brown hood hid much of his face, but his eyes were penetrating and intelligent. All at once, Greg did not feel comfortable, and he turned to leave.

A guttural noise gushed forth from the throat of a strange reptilian creature that Greg had nearly walked into, and it walked on mostly all four limbs. Whatever the creature had uttered, Greg couldn't recognize the language, and he was pretty sure it wasn't Basic. It appeared ready to pick a fight with Greg, but Greg wasn't armed and he was in no position to properly defend himself in a fight on this alien planet. He recalled that on Earth, soldiers had been briefed never to be alone while on pass in a foreign land. Having a buddy at one's side reduced the tendency for others to be eager to pick fights with you. But nobody on the Dominion had wanted to travel to this planet for their downtime. Most had seemed quite content to remain aboard to play Sabaac or waste time in the ship's sparse recreational facilities. Those from the ship who were down here with Greg were mostly the ship's complement of stormtroopers, and they were here for business rather than pleasure.

The crewmen Greg had spoken could not believe anyone wanted to travel to the planet, especially with no high-profile races or gambling events taking place. It apparently wasn't known as an ideal vacation spot. The angry being hissed at Greg as he tried to step around it and shot out a hand (or foot - Greg couldn't tell) to block his path. Greg was prepared to punch or kick the thing, when a man in a brown robe stepped to the being and said, "You do not want to fight this young man."

The being seemed to hesitate unexpectedly, and it uttered some more of its guttural language.

"You have pressing matters elsewhere, and you've no time for this," the old man continued in a soft voice.

The creature appeared to remember something, shook its head and exited the bar. Greg looked up. The old man was the same one who had been gazing at him from across the bar. Greg felt even more uncomfortable than before, but he felt obligated to the man now.

"Thanks, friend."

The old man lifted a gray brow and turned in the direction the angry being had exited. He turned to face Greg again.

"For what? I simply reminded the dug that he had other, more pressing matters to which to attend." The old man's eyes narrowed on Greg, and he continued, "You are not from these parts." It wasn't a question.

"My name is Greg Yost, and I'm from Ear … uh, I mean I'm from the Sol system."

The old man appeared thoughtful, and he continued, "And are you happy in the service to the Empire?" He added a hint of derision to the final word.

"Yes sir. It's strange getting used to traveling through deep space, and … wait, you didn't ask me anything about Sol. Usually, I get a hail of questions about where I'm from."

"Your planet was recently invaded and occupied by the Empire, and it is within another galaxy, is it not?" said the older man in a matter of fact way.

"Well, yes, but … never mind. You seem to be well informed."

Greg studied the old man. Why had he taken an interest in him, and why had he kept him from tangling with that creature with a bad disposition? Greg knew that the Rebels had agents scattered throughout this galaxy, and Tatooine was pretty far from the Imperial seat of power. Was this old man a Rebel agent? Or perhaps the old man was an Imperial agent, sent to keep Greg out of trouble. He blinked. No, that didn't make any sense. If the Empire lost one crewman, it would hardly make a dent in their manpower. So then what was this old man's interest?

"Sir, you know my name, but I've not heard yours."

The old man had already turned to leave the establishment and turned his head, and with a weak smile he replied, "You can call me Ben."

The old man continued toward the door and vanished into the throng of beings in the dark room. Greg felt it was wise for him to adopt the same course of action, and he too exited the establishment.

Brilliant sunlight stabbed into Greg's eyes as he stepped out of the bar, and all at once he remembered that this was a desert planet. The heat slammed into him with equal force, and Greg found himself wishing he had a baseball cap. He smiled at himself. That would definitely look out of place here. Studying his chronometer (what the folks in this galaxy called a watch), Greg determined to make his way back to the star port.

A few stormtroopers were within the city proper, usually in team-sized elements, but as Greg made his way to his destination, more of them were visible. The alleys were just as choked with beings busily moving from place to place as the streets had been, and this area had a larger proportion of humans. Greg spotted the bay in which one of his ship's transports was docked.

"Halt!" barked the tinny voice of a stormtrooper as Greg approached the door.

A stormtrooper on the other side of the door held his weapon at the ready. Greg had his identification ready before the trooper asked for it and handed it to the guard.

"You fellows have to be awfully hot in those things," Greg remarked as he studied the gleaming white armor of the trooper on the right. The trooper didn't respond.

"You may proceed, crewman," said the trooper on the left as he handed Greg's identification back to him.

Greg noticed that the trooper had laced that last word with some disdain. He smiled anyway as he entered the dock, walking between the two guards clad in white armor.

…

In the humble abode of Obi Wan Kenobi, rays of one of the twin suns of Tatooine broke a path through the dust-choked air, illuminating a small section of one of the plain walls. Standing off to one side, a man in a brown robe stood, shimmering and translucent. The man stared back at an old man, sitting on a bench. The ghost and the old man had been in communication with each other for many years, for long ago Kenobi had learned to communicate with those departed from the physical realm.

"Nothing?" said the ghost.

"No, master," returned the old man, "I felt … nothing. It was as though a hole in the Force existed where the young man stood. It was that … hole, that nothingness … that I felt when first I saw him."

"Interesting. Where is the young man from?"

"He is from another galaxy … from a place called Sol."

The shimmering image of a man long dead stood in silent contemplation, stroking his beard. Kenobi looked to the man who had trained him, and then he peered at the wall behind the ghost. Kenobi felt he had good reason to be troubled. He had tried to use the Force in subtle manners when around the young man, but the bubble of nothingness surrounded him and could not be penetrated.

What did this mean? The son of Skywalker was in his adolescence even now, and Kenobi knew that his time was near at hand. But this … this had not been foreseen at all. An invasion into another galaxy entirely, and from it a being that not only did not possess any attributes of the Force that Kenobi could detect. The Force seemed to flee from him – to be utterly unable to touch him. Kenobi had heard rumors of another being, in his own galaxy, that had that effect. What he saw and felt today was no rumor. Kenobi could only imagine what affect millions of these strange humans from another galaxy might have on the Force. And what of the Sith?

…

"Transfer orders?" queried Greg.

"Yes, to Imperial Center," replied the junior officer. It was signed by Lieutenant General Voss no less. The Dominion was not due to dock with an Imperial facility for at least three months, but the young officer had learned that they would divert their course to one of the closer outposts within a few days. He eyed the young man before him. What made him so important that an Imperial dreadnaught was ordered to divert a preplanned patrol in order to drop him off?

"Coruscant," said Greg.

"No! The name of the planet is Imperial Center, and you will refer to it as that, crewman," said the junior officer in a stern voice.

Greg checked himself. It wasn't unusual, even in Earth history, for powers to rename cities upon overthrowing an old regime. Why should it be any different here?

Later that day, Greg found himself on a terminal. He checked his messages, but only the usual announcements and advertisements made their way into his queue. He contemplated the order he had seen. Imperial Center - why there? Who wanted to see him there, and why? Greg had already begun building ideas for a program that would integrate his pattern analysis tools on his personal terminal. He checked those programs now to make sure he didn't leave anything back on the ship once he departed. Other crewman on the dreadnought had cast him some strange glances, since word had passed that he was being transferred. Transfer after so short a time on a ship was nearly unheard of, so such news spread quickly throughout the ship. Greg entered the berthing area to consolidate his gear and belongings.

"So you're going to Coruscant," a voice said from behind Greg.

He turned and saw Griff, noticing that the other crewman had uttered the incorrect term for the world.

"Yes, so it would seem."

"We shall miss you at the Sabaac games."

"I'm sure you will do fine without me," Greg said with a half-smile, adding, "Besides, you've got some of my credits to remember me by."

The other crewman returned Greg's smile, though it never quite reached his eyes. He then turned and left Greg alone with his belongings.

…

Voss walked down the corridor toward his office, passing men in gray and black uniforms along the way. Most of them gave him a wide berth, as his rank insignia proclaimed his more important status within the Empire. Generals weren't so uncommon, especially here on Coruscant (Voss still thought of the planet that way, though he verbally referred to it in the approved manner).

Imperial Command was teeming with senior officers, but most knew that Voss was a senior Intelligence officer, and while it wasn't necessarily true, many of them assumed he had dirt on nearly every Imperial officer in the galaxy. Voss smiled inwardly. He preferred that people think that. As he turned to enter his office, Colonel Meridian met him.

"Sir, Crewman Yost is en route to Imperial Center, and his ETA is three hours."

"Very good. Have him in-process and assign him to Section 74B."

"Yes sir," replied his aide, who then resumed his seat and returned his attention to the terminal at his desk. Voss continued into his own office, and the gray door hissed shut behind him. He settled down into his chair and stared at his own terminal. A crimson-colored icon announced that another message requiring his personal attention waited in the queue. Colonel Meridian did not screen those, for they never reached the aide's terminal, so Voss jabbed his finger toward the icon and the message opened. As Voss read the message, he sighed. Others within this puzzle palace knew he was bringing in young Crewman Yost. Others from Sol were on the planet, but Yost was the only one donning an Imperial uniform. It seemed that Yost was now set to meet someone Voss had hoped to avoid altogether.

"I'm getting too old for this," muttered the old officer as he slowly shook his head.