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.
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Three: Into the Unknown
"No, I don't think it's a good idea," said Leia.
They were in the conference room, which was little more than another ice cave with a fancy name tacked onto it. Wires poked through the walls, reminders of an electrician's unfinished business, and boxes of tools, cables, and spare parts were stacked up to the rocky ice ceiling of the cave. This was a large cave, the second largest one in size next to the landing bay, and it looked bare and ancient and forbidding in the light of the two glow rods lying in the middle of the fold-out camp table. Besides the motley assortment of stools around the table, the huge cavern was devoid of any other furnishings. The far end of the room, where the light of the glow rods did not quite reach, was bathed in shadow, making anybody's imagination run wild, especially Leia's. Ghost and spook stories that she had heard as a child back on Alderaan came back to her.
The doorway was not much help; it was a jagged hole in the ice wall linking the cavern to the hall outside, which was just as dark as the room. The chill air seemed as dead and frozen as Hoth itself, and the absence of any form of power or heat made matters worse. Muffled thumps and bangs could be heard faintly from far away as workers struggled to install power in caverns adjoining the hangar, which was the only room so far with full power and working computers.
Shivering, Leia drew her thick cloak tighter around herself. The climate on Yavin had been far more hospitable. Granted, the hot steamy jungle had been a bit on the sweaty side, but the memory of it seemed much more inviting than living on this barren, white wasteland with tauntauns for company. As if to complete her train of thought, an icicle from the ceiling cracked, broke, splintered on the glow rods, little slivers of ice tinkling across the table. The noise brought her back to the matter at hand. "It's preposterous."
"And why would that be?" asked a gravely voice from the other side of the table. Admiral Ackbar was swathed in a heavy cloak, as all of them were, but his head was left bare, for unlike the humans, his eyes did not face front. He shifted on his low stool, webbed fingers clasping tightly together. "I agree the Empire is not to be trusted, but this man seems trustworthy. He is different from the others, I think. In fact, if we believe General Madine's report, he seemed willing to throw large amounts of money and ships into the Rebellion-things we desperately need." He looked across the table at General Crix Madine, sitting to Leia's right. Madine grunted and said nothing. Ackbar faced Leia again. "If he was working for the Empire, he would already have known our location for several weeks now, and this argument would have no value."
"Highly unlikely, but probable," insisted Leia. The room suddenly felt warm and her hands began to sweat. "The Emperor and Darth Vader are masters of deceit. We've witnessed it ourselves firsthand, time and time again."
"But it has been almost a month since this man met with us," General Jan Dodonna spoke from Ackbar's left. "Admiral Ackbar has a point. If the man was from the Empire, he has the location of our base, and there would be nothing to stop the Empire from obliterating the Rebellion now. We would have all been dead by the next day. But it has been a month, and they haven't attacked."
"They might be tricking us into thinking that by not attacking," countered Leia. "You know what the Empire can do. I know what the Empire can do. I was there, when...on the Death Star." She could still not quite bring herself to say Alderaan. "The Empire can't be trusted."
"I have no love for the Empire, either," said Ackbar quietly. Leia looked at him, her heart filling with sadness for his sake. Yes, he had witnessed the destructive power of the Empire as well, when it had devastated Mon Calamari, killing thousands of innocent civilians and destroying cities. But Mon Calamari was not Alderaan. The Mon Calamari had had a chance to rebuild. Alderaan was not given even that.
A great bitterness welled up in her. The Empire had a lot of things to answer for, and Alderaan was not the least of them. Even if the other wrongs were accounted for, even if the Empire could somehow atone for all its crimes, there was nothing that would ever atone for Alderaan. Nothing.
Ackbar's voice cut into her thoughts. "It is possible that the Empire is deceiving us with this. But even its blackest masterminds are not ones to waste time when planning an invasion. And many of our best pilots and officers once served with the Empire."
"Once, yes." Leia swallowed. The ice cold air felt heavy. She saw Alderaan again, the Death Star's superlaser lancing out, enfolding the planet in its shimmering embrace. "But they all broke away early in the war. This man was a part of all of it-the Death Star, Yavin. He stayed with the Empire when all those others you were speaking of joined the Rebellion. So why does he offer to link up with us now? It doesn't make sense."
"Leia is right, but so is Admiral Ackbar," Mon Mothma's voice, gentle but firm, came from the head of the table, turning all eyes upon her. Her hood was thrown back slightly, the glow rod casting a shimmering reflection on her short, coppery hair, and her proud blue eyes studied each of them in turn. The shadows of her face heightened the effect of the light on high cheekbones. "What Leia just pointed out is true, but think. Not all Imperial officers were aboard the Death Star. Many were out, perhaps patrolling other parts of the galaxy, perhaps conquering other systems." Ackbar winced visibly. "Yes, those who were subjugating other worlds were just as guilty as those on the Death Star. But the fact remains: only a small percentage of high Imperial officers served aboard the Death Star. Most of the men were pilots, troopers, or regular soldiers."
"That still doesn't explain-" began Madine. Well, at least someone was on her side. Across from her, Dodonna opened his mouth to argue.
Mon Mothma held up a hand. "The Old Republic, before the Empire took tangible shape, was already into the process of extending its rule to other worlds. Most of the officers in the Alliance now, and most of us-" She gestured around the table "-were involved somehow in that, no matter how much we might regret it now."
There was grudging acknowledgment from Dodonna, and Madine flinched, suddenly developing a great interest in his fingernails .
"So," continued Mon Mothma in her gentle voice, "what I am trying to explain is that the Empire's conquests actually began when the Old Republic was starting to crumble. When the Emperor officially began his rule, the conquests became much more ruthless and inhumane, that is true, but the policy was already set. The Imperials who refused to slaughter innocents under the Empire joined the Rebel Alliance. However, there are always some, in every war, that try to distort truths, try to make circumstances appear better than they really are. That might have been the case with this man. He might have been one of the ones who refused to give up hope, thinking that the Old Republic could still be saved. Or perhaps he believed that if he did not take part in so much of the killing, it would still be right for him to serve the Empire."
"There are still many people in the Imperial Fleet who believe what they're doing is right," said Madine heatedly. "The issue isn't about what is right or wrong, but about what this man believes is right and wrong. I still think we're not looking at this from the right perspective. From our discussion, I inferred that his planet was one of the first conquests of the Empire, even before the Emperor had gained nominal control. If the Empire conquered his world, it remains a mystery to me why he would ever want to serve with the Empire. To do so he would have to be as heartless and soulless as Vader himself. Such a man, it seems to me, must be utterly amoral." Ackbar tilted his head slightly in surprise, and, Leia would have thought, amusement, if the situation had not been so serious.
"You're taking the situation out of hand," said Leia patiently. Sometimes Madine could get carried away. He looked intently at her. She avoided his eyes, looked across at Ackbar. "I'm sure he's not that bad. But yes, why would a man want to serve with those who killed his family?"
"Perhaps he had no choice in the matter," put in Dodonna, not without a hint of sarcasm towards Madine. "The Empire does not usually give conquered peoples choices, you know." Leia looked at him, surprised. Dodonna usually spoke as few words as possible at meetings. In a flash of insight, she remembered Dodonna's Imperial past. Dodonna, who had given up hope when his son had been killed in an Imperial attack, who had been captured by the Imperials after he stayed behind to destroy the Yavin base. Dodonna, who was forced to walk with a cane because of his injuries, yet was now defending this man because he felt that they shared a mutual past.
Madine's voice rose, rock hard, on her left. Madine had been an Imperial officer, too, though. What was he trying to accomplish? "But to keep serving in the Navy with everything that has happened with the Death Star-"
"That was what I was coming to," said Mon Mothma. Madine fell silent. "He met with us right after we had moved to Hoth. The point I am trying to make is that after all that happened with the Death Star, he must have realized that he could not keep serving the Empire." She looked at Madine, her gaze gentle but stern. "Just as you could not keep serving the Empire."
Madine directed his glare around the table but said nothing, though Leia could feel his protest barely held in check.
"What I want to know," said Leia slowly, thoughtfully, "is how he found out we were on Hoth."
There was a thoughtful silence. No one spoke.
"He contacted me," said Mon Mothma quietly, tensely. "Privately." Silence, this time, shocked silence.. Aghast stares directed themselves at the woman standing at the head of the table. Except for Madine, who sat with an expression of sudden revelation on his face.
"Just after the destruction of the Death Star, when we were thinking about moving here."
Leia felt rooted to her chair, muscles stiff from shock and anger. Her throat tightened. "You-told him our location? You divulged it to the Empire?"
"Not the Empire, Leia." A muscle twitched in Mon Mothma's jaw but she held her gaze steady. "So you see, I have already trusted him once."
"It was not your decision to make," muttered Madine. He twisted his fingers together. Leia could see that they were shaking, and not from cold.
"What would you have had me do, then?" retorted Mon Mothma hotly. Everyone started at her outburst. Leia had never even known Mon Mothma had a temper, much less seen her lose it. "Tell everyone that an Imperial had contacted us? Right after the Battle of Yavin?"
"And you told him our coordinates? Right after the Battle of Yavin?"
The tense atmosphere of the room got tenser, with Mon Mothma staring at Madine defiantly and everyone else staring at Mon Mothma, horrified. Leia's heart pounded against her ribs. She took deep breaths, swallowed, hoping that the cold air would clam her. It didn't. Sure, Mon Mothma never lost her temper, but she was as stubborn as Madine was, maybe more.
"It doesn't matter now," Mon Mothma finally said, swallowing. "It is done."
Leia felt cold again, and it was not just because of the lack of power in the cave. A life or death decision for the Rebellion, and Mon Mothma had made it without consulting anyone but herself. All her arguments evaporated like moisture under the Tatooine sun. The choice had already been made, then. And if this man betrayed them to the Empire, there would be no one for Mon Mothma to blame but herself.
"Well, that's that," she heard herself say. "I guess we'll just have to play along." Ackbar looked at her, his eyes swiveling in their sockets, his Mon Calamari expression unreadable.
She felt Madine shift beside her, stand, look down at Mon Mothma. "I hope you know what you are doing," he said quietly.
"So do I, Crix," she said, looking at him, features shadowed in the light of the glow rods. "So do I."
Cam Drelnin stretched and dragged another chair closer with one leg. With a sigh, he propped both his feet up onto the seat, wincing as the metal sagged noticeably in the middle. He held his empty mug out to the side and a server droid scuttled over, a tray full of pitchers balanced on top of its flat "head." Cam couldn't recognize the model and squinted closely at it as one long spindly arm reached up to grasp a pitcher of liquid and pour it into Cam's outstretched mug. Brown liquid sloshed in, bubbling and overflowing the rim and drizzling down the sides. Grimacing, Cam replaced the mug on the four-cornered metal table in front of him, watched as the droid scurried away. He licked his fingers to rid them of the sticky ale. If the Empire was as wealthy as it was supposed to be, it could at least equip its capital ships with those new automatic server droids that made the drinking experience less of a hazard.
"Anyone know where we're going and how long it'll take us to get there?" Cam looked around the table. Harve wore a bored expression. Eln, an empty mug in front of him was staring at his fingernails. Across from Cam, Tdjel Djijrol, Delta Four, yawned and blinked. No one spoke.
Around them, the soft buzz of conversation continued. There were not that many pilots in the room, but the voices bouncing off the walls created quite a din. The mess hall, or dining room, as it was officially called, was in actuality no different in construction from most any other room on the ship, except that it was circular in shape. Located in the bowels of the Star Destroyer, its bare metal walls enclosed approximately four or five hundred tables, arranged in concentric circles around a large serving area. Vibrations and hums of machinery could be felt through the walls and the floor. Cam remembered faintly how someone had tried to count the tables in the mess hall on a particularly non active meal break two years ago. The man-a TIE Fighter pilot-had gotten dizzy after number 200 and tripped over a table, knocking himself out cold on the hard metal floor. Cam chuckled quietly. Harve glanced at him, then returned to studying the wall.
There were holocard dispensers built into all of the tables, but they were usually out of order, and the selection of cards they offered would only appeal to an incredibly bored smuggler who had half the brain of a Gamorrean. Besides, most everyone aboard the Protector, Cam included, suspected the games of being rigged. No other entertainment form presented itself in the dining hall except for the holoviewscreen built into a section of the wall opposite the door, and that had been nonoperational for several years now. Well, Cam mused, considering, that the crew of the Protector spent the least time in the mess hall out of all the other rooms in the ship, it was logical to install only the barest necessities inside. The problem was, during hyperspace travel, there wasn't exactly anything going on elsewhere, so the importance of the dining area changed dramatically. Except that there was nothing to do there. One of the ironies of life.
"Eln? Harve?" Cam prompted, leaning forward. "You alive?" Eln grunted. Giving up on any sign of wakefulness from the others at his table, Cam let his gaze wander around the room again. Several of the antique serving droids puttered around the room, waiting on the impatient pilots. A few tables down he spotted the rest of Gamma flight group. Gamma Nine, Craer Hadin, sat drinking and laughing with Gamma Three, Edar S'rati.
Gamma Leader, Ben Calys, sat brooding by himself, as always. Cam leaned back, took a sip of his drink, watching him. Calys' piloting skills were amazing and had earned him more medals than Cam could count, but the man didn't have a lighthearted bone in his body. Always so serious, with that strong, brown, handsome face below hair so light it was almost white. He never drank, never laughed, or even smiled. He was the perfect gentleman to the few women aboard the Star Destroyer; never joined in the lewd jokes the others made about them, but never made a sign that he cared one way or the other. Even about Axi Quarran, Gamma Eight, the only female TIE pilot aboard the Protector. Downright cold, was how Cam would put it. To think of it, Axi wasn't exactly friendly either, though she had seemed to become friendly with Harve as of late. But Cam could understand why she kept to herself. On a ship that was ninety-eight percent male crewed, a female had to watch her own back, even with her own squadron mates. It was just Ben he didn't understand.
Cam sighed, looked the other way, saw a couple of TIE fighter pilots fast asleep and snoring with mouths open. The short, skinny one looked especially familiar, but Cam couldn't quite place him.
"Anyone want to hear a joke?" Cam looked around. Tdjel had a goofy smile on his face. Cam groaned, heard other pilots doing the same.
"NO," he said.
"C'mon, guys. I promise this joke is a good one."
"Right." Harve wore a long-suffering expression. "That's what you said when you told the Bothan joke."
"And the Corellian gunship joke," Eln put in.
"And the-"
Tdjel held up his hands. "Fine, fine. I surrender."
Outside in the corridor, a cleaning droid whirred past, followed by three techs dressed in drab gray. They stopped in the doorway, casting accusing glances at the assembled company of pilots. Finally one of them cleared his throat and spoke, shouting hoarsely to be heard above the din. "All of you who are in here, I hope your ships are in top shape, because I'm not about to go around minutely inspecting all of them." The four TIE fighter pilots at the other stable stirred and sat up. "Admiral's orders: all craft to be inspected, refitted and repaired by tomorrow."
There were standard days aboard the Protector, regulated by the main computer in matters of light intensity and temperature. There days were in accordance to the time on Coruscant, so a new recruit from Carida or elsewhere would have to take several days to adjust to a new sleeping and waking cycle based on Coruscant's rotation. Obviously, the high command on Imperial Center did not want its high-ranking commanders asleep when they called in to check on progress. Or perhaps, vice versa.
Finding that his words elicited little or no response, the tech raised his voice further. "The Admiral wants you to be ready to get to your fighters the very second we jump out of hyperspace. Your craft's got to be in shape if you don't want to be space dust-you never know what's out there."
The room grew quieter. "Where exactly are we going?" someone wanted to know. Cam couldn't quite identify the voice: it came somewhere close by.
The tech looked sour, shrugged. Cam felt sorry for him; he had obviously been working harder than usual with less-than-pleasing results. That actually was not surprising. The Protector had originally been built with a hangar bay that held only two squadrons of TIE fighters, or twenty-four fighters. For a man like Harkov, though, who insisted on competing with the Imperial Star Destroyers, two squadrons was less than satisfactory. So the Admiral had had the Protector modified, increasing hangar bay space and decreasing the size of everything else-the engine rooms, pilot ready rooms, and removing hundreds of meters of cable, wires and power conduits.
Though the Protector could now hold an additional squadron of TIE Interceptors and a half-squadron of TIE Bombers, the very newest fighter, if necessary, sacrifices had to be made. No one knew exactly who Harkov had hired to do the modifications, but the popular theory was that whoever it was had to have been blind and paralyzed to put the ship in the condition it was in now. Power outlets around the hangar bay and other rooms on the bottom level gave power weakly and sporadically. If more than three outlets were being plugged into at the same time, the generators would stop working completely, plunging the whole bottom level into darkness. The tractor beam generators, in what had already become the target of several running jokes around the ship, functioned in jerks and spats, sometimes losing power halfway through pulling a ship up to the landing bay, sometimes giving a loud shriek when activated, and then dying altogether. The hyperdrive was less efficient than it should be, and atmospheric flight for the Protector was nonexistent. The engines simply did not have the power to function in a gravitational field. Cam had heard that Harkov had been pestering high command for more money and parts so the ship could at least be operational again, but it seemed like his requests were the last thing on the minds of the Imperial government.
The best thing anyone could do was give them all a new flagship. The Protector was good in her own way, but Victory class models were outdated and outclassed by the newer, more advanced Imperial class Star Destroyers. The more heavily armed, more intimidating ISD's had much more landing bay space than the most modified Victory Star Destroyer could ever have. If the expression on the tech's face was any sign, though, he would gladly trade an Imperial Star Destroyer for a working power outlet any day.
Across from Cam, Tdjel grunted and got to his feet. "I'll go," he mumbled. "I have a solar panel that needs some fixing up anyway." Pushing past, he disappeared into the hall.
"No jokes?" someone called out after him.
"I guess I'll go, too" sighed Harve. He looked over. "Eln? Cam? Come on."
Cam pushed back his chair. "I suppose. There's nothing better to do." He noticed Commander Calys watching him, pretended not to notice. Calys frightened him sometimes, brilliant pilot or no. He left the mess hall and headed towards the hangar bay, Harve, and Eln trailing along behind him.
The heavy airlock doors of the bay were closed in hyperspace travel, but otherwise the hangar bay of the Protector looked the same as usual: rows and rows of fighters lining the walls on their racks like strange, staring, one-eyed animals, shuttles and stormtrooper transports on the far end, along with planetary drop ships for assault teams and AT-AT or AT-ST walkers. The air smelled of burnt metal and the sound of hammering was loud in the huge metal room.
Cam walked over to his fighter, looking over her. She was a beauty, with boxy, yet streamlined, solar panel wings, and the two chin-mounted lasers. Officially, TIE pilots didn't have their own ships; they took whatever was available and functioning. For Gamma squadron it was an exception. Ben Calys believed in sticking with the same fighter in every engagement, and sometimes gave the techs a hard time by insisting that he be allowed to fly his fighter and his fighter only. But this arrangement worked out. Cam and all the others in Gamma Squadron had gotten to know their ships, unlike other TIE pilots. He knew every inch of her and the moves she was going to make. She was his ship, and his ship alone.
Cam ran a hand over one solar panel. It was twisted and bent from a dogfight with a Rebel X-wing last year and he had just never gotten around to mentioning it to the techs. Besides, he liked to be there when people fixed his ship. He felt every laser scar and scorch burn on her personally, and he didn't take it lightly when some tech did a slapdash job repairing any damage done.
Aside from the twisted panel though, everything seemed fine with his ship. He heard footsteps, thought it was a tech coming over. Turning around, he opened his mouth to tell him the problem, and found himself almost face to face with Tor Sunflier.
Tor glared at him with dark gray eyes. Shaggy blond hair cut short in the front was plastered to his neck with sweat, and his shirt was wet. "What are you looking at, flyboy?" he asked scornfully.
Cam swallowed, tried to look cocky and self-assured. Of all the things that bothered him about this ship, Tor Sunflier bothered him the most. It was bad enough that Tor was in his squadron, but every Cam went, Tor seemed to be there, looking hotly at him from under thick eyebrows. He didn't understand was what Tor had against him. He'd only talked to him about twice and had done nothing to Tor, indeed, he tried to stay out of his way as much as possible. Tor reminded him too much of home, his childhood, and unpleasant memories that he would rather not have. "I'd ask what you were looking at, Sunflier," he said jokingly, trying to smooth things out, "but I'd hate to condescend myself to your level."
"Think you're so great, aren't you?" Tor snarled. Cam jerked back, startled. "Quit staring at me. You think you've got it all. Well, I don't care for your attitude. And let me tell you something-you're not the best pilot in the squadron. Hate to break it to you. So quit acting so superior!"
Cam stared at him, watching Tor's face suddenly change into his stepfather's furious countenance, felt the sharp pain of blows on his head, tasted the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. "You're nothing, so quit acting like you're going to be something someday! You think you're so great, don't you? Get out! If I ever see you back here I'll kill you!"
And he saw himself again, just standing there, taking the blows from his stepfather's hands, because to do anything less would have been a sign of weakness, and weakness was the one thing that he could not afford to show in front of his family. He had to be strong, fend for himself, show nothing. It was an issue of survival.
"Well?" Tor growled. "You just going to stand there? Move!"
Cam felt the tears at the backs of his eyes, ignored them. "No," he said calmly, arrogantly. Never let them see you weaken. "What's it to you?"
Before he could turn and stride away, he heard boots on the deck behind him. A calm, hard voice. Too hard and too calm. Uh-oh. They were in trouble.
"Is there a problem here?"
He heard Tor salute, clear his throat. "Uh-Gamma Leader…"
Cam looked around and saw the expressionless face of Ben Calys staring at him, light eyes taking in first Tor, then Cam. He said nothing, but the silence was enough. Cam shifted his feet, looked down at the deck. "I was just joking, sir," he said softly.
"Drelnin, dismissed!" Calys' voice was sharp. Cam needed no second notice. He threw a hurried salute and began walking from the hangar as fast as dignity permitted. Behind him he heard Tor starting to try to explain to Gamma Leader but his voice suddenly cut off, followed by Calys' voice, low and angry.
"And you, Sunflier, I need to see you in my office. Now."
