In a time of unrest and change, governments fall, loyalties change, and strength is born out of trials by fire. A year and a half after the Battle of Yavin, the Rebellion is finally settling into their new home on Hoth. With the destruction of Alderaan and the battle of Yavin still fresh in their minds, the Rebels must carry on, led by their brave, yet troubled, leaders. Mon Mothma carries the weight of the entire Rebellion on her shoulders. Princess Leia Organa acts the part of the confident senator while hiding her own inner turmoil. General Crix Madine continues to be haunted by his past, and General Carlist Rieekan is a man possessed by the demons of his failure at Alderaan.

Meanwhile, the Empire is on the move. Admiral Drask Harkov, the youngest man to ever be promoted to command of an Imperial Fleet, is dispatched by Lord Darth Vader on a mission of great strategic importance. With his loyal fleet at his command, Harkov sets out for the Sepan System to stop an age-old civil war and to bring the warring peoples under Imperial control. Aboard Harkov's flagship, the Protector, a squadron of brave TIE Fighter pilots stands at the ready. Their squadron commander knows two things only are certain: that his squadron is the best aboard the ship, and that things may not always be as they seem.

And at the Imperial Academy on Carida, two Imperial cadets suddenly find their lives turned upside down by events more monumental than they could ever have dreamed...


This fanfiction is based on the Star Wars computer game TIE Fighter and the Admiral Harkov substory within. After playing the game, I was fascinated with the innate possibilites that such a story held, and decided to write my own version out in full. The fanfic was started back in 1996, when I wrote chapters 1-14 and then lost interest in the story. However, going back and cleaning out my hard drive, I found it again and have decided to finish it.

As this was written almost five years ago, the writing quality isn't the greatest. I've gone in and tried to clean up some of the worst parts, but left most of it as it was. I hope you'll forgive me; I believe the story is worth telling anyway. Due to the fact that I didn't have internet access back in 1996 (and there weren't that many sites up then anyway) some of the timeline details might also be off. If you don't catch the time discrepancies regarding past canon events within the story, then pretend that there aren't any. If you do, then just accept my humble apologies, as the storyline has gotten far too complicated in 14 chapters for me to go back and correct them now.

Finishing this might take a while, as I'm just beginning to get back into Star Wars fandom after dropping out for a while due to various circumstances, but I do intend to. I hope you enjoy what's up so far.


This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.
lordofmerentha@yahoo.com


Prologue

The icy wind boomed and groaned through the twists of the frozen canyon, stirring up a fresh snowfall from the drifts and mounds on the canyon floor, repeating an endless cycle millions of years old. Snow swirled, blown into tortured spirals by the howling storm. In its voice were the moanings of lost souls and the cries of the dead, going up to the clouded night sky like a fervent prayer for redemption.

At the mouth of the canyon, the fury of the gale was less, but the biting cold of the air was not. Surely no life could exist in an environment of such temperatures, but the single landing light on the cliff face blinking fitfully on and off defied that assumption. Behind it, huge landing bay doors stood half-open, revealing a yawning maw of metal and stone bathed in a dim yellow glow. Ships lined the walls in neat rows, scratched and dented masses of dully gleaming steel bone and muscle. Snow flurried into the cavern, borne by the wind, piling up in small hills by the opening.

A drone filled the air above the moaning wind; the whine of engines in the black sky. The sound grew louder and higher, emerging as a small craft dropped out of the sky, ghostly through the screen of snow. A Lambda-class Imperial shuttle. It bore no markings, supported no escort. It flew on alone, oblivious to the raging winds around it.

Inside the shuttle it was warm, though the fogging transparisteel and blowing snow forced the copilot have to stand up and rub off the moisture repeatedly. Next to him, the pilot of the shuttle moved his hands nervously over the instrumentation, checking and rechecking settings. He looked over at the copilot, saw the man's hands move towards the transmitter.

"No communications," he warned, for what seemed the billionth time. "Either external or internal. And we fly manually. No sensors."

The copilot shrugged. "Well, it just seems to me that if the Rebels spot a lone Imperial shuttle out here that doesn't respond to transmission, they're not going to give us a second chance."

The other was right, the pilot knew. But he leaned back in his chair, tried to look relaxed. "It's orders. I just carry them out, Commander. I don't give them." He rested his chin on one hand, glancing back into the darkened recesses of the shuttle, then back out at the cliff. "But I am beginning to wonder if the one who gives the orders knows what he's doing. This is high treason. If any word of this gets out..."

"Too late, now." The copilot's hand moved on his control stick to guide the shuttle into the mouth of the landing bay. A tremor shook the shuttle as the repulsorlifts kicked in to lower it to the ground. There was a movement from behind the cockpit. The pilot said into the intercom, "Landing procedure commencing, sir."

"Good." There was a note of satisfaction in the deep voice that answered back from the intercom, along with something else. Hope, perhaps? Or maybe apprehension, buried deep inside and rising slowly to the surface?

The shuttle settled to the floor with a slight bump and the whine of hydraulics. The hiss of escaping gases was loud in the bay as the landing ramp lowered gingerly to the ground, sending a draft of frozen air wafting inside the shuttle. Its single passenger shivered despite the heavy cloak he wore. With steps echoing loudly around the huge room, he descended the metal ramp to meet the two other similarly shrouded figures that emerged from a doorway to the right.

The man stepped onto the cold floor, stopped, waited for them to come closer. The three eyed each other for a split moment, trying, perhaps, to read in one anothers' souls the outcome of this strange meeting. One of the figures reached a hand to the hood, as if to draw it away from the darkened face within, then lowered the hand without touching the thick fabric. The man spoke then, breaking the frozen silence, his voice soft and deep, with a ring of deep suspicion but of hope as well:

"I have come with an offer for the Rebellion."

The two figures opposite absorbed this opening in silence, glancing slightly at each other. The man felt some unspoken words pass between them, darting like invisible glowing sparks in the chill air, and he swallowed. The rough cloth of his gloves chafed against his skin as he rubbed his tingling fingers together against the cold.

Then of the figures stepped slightly forward. The second stood watchful, with feet slightly apart on the rough hangar floor, but the first radiated an air of calm, though tinged with anticipation. "We have little reason to trust you, Admiral, but we are willing to hear your offer." A woman's voice, rich in timbre, with the tone of one used to command.

"The fleet under my command is willing to join the Rebel Alliance..." he paused, trying to decipher their reactions, but there were none. At least not that he could see, though the glowing pattern of that significant glance hung before him. He waited a moment more, then continued, every syllable weighted with an undertone of steel. "... for a price."

The second speaker's head lifted slightly. "Very interesting, Admiral." The tone implied that she found this less interesting than sacrilegious. The man understood, as all commanders did, that to ask for monetary compensation in this furious pattern of life and death would be the same as stealing from a beggar. But there was more than money involved in his interests, and he hoped to make that known.

The woman studied him, keen eyes bright under the darkened hood. The unspoken words in the air sizzled and glowed, between the three of them now, for the man knew that the other cloaked figure behind the woman had been gauging him as he spoke. He felt the heat of them upon his cold skin, under his cloak, but they darted away as he tried to catch them in his grasp. He waited.

Then the woman spoke again, this time with a brisk, businesslike air. "We have great need of officers of your caliber. Here is what I propose..."

She motioned the man closer. The trio moved slowly towards the door that led out of the bay. It hissed closed behind them. The yellow glow faded away into nothing, as did the shuttle's landing lights.

Outside, the blinking light flickered once and then became still as darkness reclaimed her own. The snow rose, fell, rose again, and the wind howled with the voice of anguish, the voice of doom, the voice of despair.

The voice of death.