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.
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Fourteen: Changing Fortune
"Sit down, cadet."
Nervously, Kelgyn perched on the edge of the hard metal chair. He wiped the sweat from his palms and twisted his fingers together to keep them from shaking. From across the table, Colonel Westren watched him.
The commander of the Imperial Academy on Carida was a stony-faced man, though still relatively young-looking. His olive-gray uniform was immaculate, clean and pressed crisply. The colonel's hands were folded across the stone tabletop, and on one finger gleamed the signet ring of the Empire. Beside the colonel's chair stood Lieutenant Escrath, looking faintly pleased with himself. Kelgyn could only wonder what the ghoul-faced man had to be pleased about. He waited, feeling sweat running down his temples and under his collar, and not only from trudging from the physics building to the command center in the hot sun.
Finally Westren stirred, rousing himself as if from deep thought. He looked at Kelgyn, those piercing green eyes drilling into him. Kelgyn flinched, but sat straight and forced himself to stare back at the colonel. Westren nodded, and then sat back, looking satisfied.
"Ah. Cadet Dyrrod?"
"Yes, sir."
"I assume you know why you have been called out of your classes this morning?"
Kelgyn swallowed. "Yes, sir." His voice shook slightly.
"Well. A most unfortunate incident, that was. Most unfortunate."
Kelgyn said nothing. Now they're going to tell me I'm expelled. But Westren nodded to himself.
"However, since you were acting in a situation of self-defense, the Imperial Military education council has decided to overlook your actions."
Westren stopped, apparently waiting for Kelgyn to say something. Kelgyn couldn't speak. His throat clutched up and his hands gripped the arms of the chair. This was it, then. "Thank you, sir," he managed dully.
"Oh, don't thank me, Cadet," Westren admonished, but a note of self-satisfaction crept into his voice. "Thank Lieutenant Escrath here. You are going to be transferred off Carida to be trained as a stormtrooper."
Escrath looked even more pleased at himself. Kelgyn simply sat there. He felt numb. He heard Westren's words as if from a far distance, hollow words reverberating through the nothingness of his mind.
"You are most fortunate, Cadet, since stormtroopers are the most elite of all Imperial troops. Since they are not part of the Imperial army, it is necessary that you leave Carida to begin your training. You are one of the few, Cadet, in that you are starting your training young, thereby signaling your extraordinary potential."
"Yes, sir." Kelgyn said again. He felt nothing, only the hollowness inside his mind reverberating against his skull. He felt his jaw hurting, realized that his teeth were clenched tightly. He could not think, could not move. Not stormtrooper training. Better that he had been expelled. Better that he had been expelled than to go through this. Than to be reminded of his actions day after day, week after week, for his whole life as a stormtrooper.
"Be thankful, Cadet," said Westren, a bit sternly. Kelgyn nodded slightly at Escrath. His head felt stiff, ungainly, as if he were moving it for the first time in hours.
"When will I be leaving, sir?" The words came out in a croak.
Westren glanced at Escrath, who said: "Seven hundred hours tomorrow, Cadet. Start packing."
"Don't bother to return to classes either, Dyrrod," Westren said. "I will notify the instructors of your change in agenda."
"Thank you, sir," Kelgyn said again, hollowly. The numbness still gripped him. He could not think. He felt blind, deaf, wanted to crawl into himself and hide what he had done from the world. But instead he rose smoothly from his chair, muscles seeming to function on their own, and walked to the door. It slid open into the larger waiting area for the command center.
"Be thankful, Cadet," Westren called after him. "This is the chance of a lifetime."
Captain Disroit folded his arms together, paced along the catwalk above the bridge of the Akaga. Out of the forward viewport, the Protector and the Harpax hung in space on a backdrop of glittering stars, and behind the Akaga were the Corvettes and the Commander. Repair drones buzzed around all the ships, repairing damaged done by the Ripoblus and Dimok in the last battle.
He watched as one of the drones came close to the forward viewport, hovered close. One long spindly arm reached out from its main body, spouting gouts of sizzling blue flame as it lased together microscopic cracks in the transparisteel.
Clattering bootheels coming up the ramp made him turn. A deck officer. The officer saluted. "Incoming transmission, sir. From Captain Jellard."
Disroit moved off the catwalk after the officer, walked to the communications consoles. The comm lieutenant monitoring the first station nodded as Disroit came up, opened the channel with a flick of one wrist.
"Disroit here."
The words that came back were a little fuzzy. "This is Jellard of Commander. Do you read?"
"I read you, Captain."
Jellard's voice sounded apologetic even through the static. "Sorry, Captain. Our short-range communications array was damaged during the battle. It will be a while before it is repaired."
"No problem, Captain." Disroit half-smiled to himself. "Go on."
"Admiral Harkov reports course change."
That was something unexpected. They had been drifting in space around Troklay, one of the primary Dimok-populated planets, for what seemed forever now. From what Disroit had heard, Zeldiri had been arguing for ground assault every chance he got, and Harkov had been more or less patiently refusing him. Only one scout party had been sent out in orbit around the planet, and it had reported destruction of populated areas on a massive scale. Whole cities laid to waste, burning and smoking. No wonder the cloud cover over the planet was gray. Disroit had never seen any war so violently bloody as this one was turning out to be.
"Are you there, Disroit?"
Disroit started, realizing that he had been leaning over the comm in silence for a while. "I'm here. I suppose I'm just tired. Dozed off."
A crackle of laughter over the static. "It happens to the best of us. The Admiral says-" There was a pause and the sound of faint voices. Disroit could not make out the words over the white noise. Probably some annoying deck officer.
"Sorry, Captain. Deck officer." Disroit smiled. Jerrel continued. "The Admiral orders all ships to set course for Ripoblus. Prepare all troops for ground assault."
Ground assault!
The words startled Disroit more than he cared to admit. Was Harkov giving in to Zeldiri? Caving in to the constant demands? Or did he just want to see more blood?
Do you mean to betray yourself, Admiral?
"Rather ironic that we are headed there now," Jerrel sounded almost cheerful across the comm. "I heard that Harkov had been against ground assault from the beginning. That's what I thought, at least."
Disroit felt cold. His mouth was dry. "Yes, that's what I thought, too."
"Well, I have no right to keep you waiting," Jerrel said. "All ground forces, stormtroopers included, and AT-AT/ST's will be used. Calculate jump to Ripoblus and enter hyperspace on the Admiral's mark. Jerrel out."
"Disroit out," Disroit said, and motioned to the lieutenant to shut off the comm.
He walked to the viewport and looked out. The repair drone was gone now, hurried over somewhere else for other repairs. Up ahead he could see the Protector, hovering like a giant dagger, blocking the starlight. Troklay hung below, a gray shrouded sphere in the distance.
What was Harkov up to? What did he want? Disroit mulled over the thought in his mind, letting his eyes drift out into the stars. He would not-could not-believe that Harkov wanted blood on his hands. He was not that kind of man. Disroit had known him too long to think he would be. But now...had he changed his mind?
I cannot believe that. Not from him. Not from a man who has so much to fight for.
Who has so much to lose.
The thought chilled Disroit further and he stepped away from the windows over to navigation to order a course change to Ripoblus. The ensign in charge over at navigation lifted an eyebrow at Disroit, but with a shrug set about doing as asked. Disroit left him, went over to security. The security controllers sat slouched over in their seats, wearily monitoring scan areas via images transmitted to computer from security cameras around the ship.
"Where is Trooper Commander 7624?" he demanded.
The security officer seated closest to him in the line of consoles shot up in her seat, surprise etched on her face at the harshness of his voice. A woman. Curious. "Is there a problem, captain?"
"No, lieutenant. Just do as ordered."
"Yes, sir." Fingers clicking on the keyboard, she bent her head over to the task. Disroit noticed the golden-brown hair, shaved close to her scalp as required for women in the Imperial Navy.
"Ah...here we are, sir." She looked up. "He's in trooper bay number 2. Shall I call him down to the bridge, sir?"
Disroit chewed his lip for a moment. "No, lieutenant. I will meet him myself. Trooper bay number 2?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you, lieutenant."
He turned, walked off in the direction of the turbolift. Yes, he would do as Harkov asked. He would prepare for ground assault. He would follow orders.
And hope to all the gods above and below that the Admiral knew what he was doing.
"Right face!" bellowed Damon Torvis. "Attention, mark!" The line of stormtroopers obediently turned as ordered, snapping back to attention as their bootheels hit the deck in what sounded like a giant armored fist clanking against the steel floor.
"Too slow!" he said for what seemed the millionth time. His voice sounded tinny in his own ears. He could only imagine what it sounded like coming from the helmet speaker. "Too slow. Quicker. Faster. And hold your rifle up, Trooper 7221!"
Trooper 7221 accordingly shifted his rifle up in his arms, though what the man inside the armor was thinking, Torvis could not say. He himself was sweating inside his white armor, the sweat dripping from his forehead into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He blinked. The air inside his helmet was stuffy and suffocating.
Torvis hated drills, had always hated drills. Drills were a stormtrooper's life; that was the ironic thing. The life of a trooper was always hard, but he simply could not stand the drills. Drills were hot, sweaty, especially those conducted with troopers standing in the sun for hours at a time in full armor. The commanders had always seemed to think those essential. But then, they had not been the ones wearing the armor.
The armor was a blasted pain, too, to think about it. This was one of the times when Torvis envied the regular army, those in their crisp olive-gray uniforms with no white armor clanking as they walked, no clumsy helmet obscuring their vision. The armor was for protection, yet every trooper knew, everyone but High Command seemed to know, that the armor would not stop a direct blaster shot.
He half smiled to himself inside the helmet. He should stop complaining. He was a stormtrooper, had chosen voluntarily to lead this life and enjoyed it rather well. He had not seen much action, that was true. Only two years in the field with no major action, but those two years had earned him promotion to trooper commander. Transfer to the Akaga had sent him into orbit around Endor. No action. Not even at the last battle at the Dimok station. Troopers from the Protector and Commander had been sent in, but not those from the Akaga. Perhaps he should have been a pilot instead.
He frowned, mentally kicked himself for getting off track, and turned back to the drill. "Detail, atten-hut! Detail, about face!" The line of troopers turned, white armor gleaming in the glaring bay lights. "One, two, forward mark!"
The troopers stepped off in perfect formation, every one in step, marching with equal stride down the end of the bay. It was a sight to see. Not beautiful, but deadly. Very, very deadly, those faces obscured by the blank black and white helmets all alike under the armor, all intimidating.
"Mark, halt, one two!"
The troopers halted, still in line. Torvis nodded in hard approval, walked down to where they stood, rifles up, facing the blank wall of the bay.
"That was better-"
He did not quite finish his sentence as the bay doors slid open and Captain Disroit stepped in.
"Captain!" Torvis saluted abruptly.
Disroit waved aside the salute, beckoned Torvis over without a word. "At ease!" Torvis called to the waiting troopers. They immediately relaxed, feet shuffling, shoulders turning as best as they could within the armor to relieve the ache of standing painfully straight for hours on end. Torvis sympathized. He had been there.
"Short break. We will resume...oh, in a while."
Collective grunting from all the troopers as they struggled to remove their helmets revealing tousled hair, dripping foreheads, and fatigue on faces. They stood uncertainly for a while, glancing at Torvis, the captain. Torvis removed his own helmet, saw them still standing there. "Go on! Move! Or does the word 'break' mean nothing to you?"
They straggled off then, to the water fountain by the door. Torvis hurried over to Disroit, wiping sweat off his face, apologetic. "Sorry, sir. I-"
Disroit shook his head, waved his hand. Don't bother, said the gestures. Torvis noticed that the captain looked weary and anxious. About what?
"You are Trooper Commander 7624?"
Torvis's mouth tightened at the words. He hated the numbers. They made him feel nameless, faceless, reduced to less than an insect crawling on the ground. They made him feel like a prisoner. "Yes sir, I am."
Disroit nodded, more to himself than a sign of an acknowledgement. "And what is your real name, trooper?"
Torvis started. Of all the questions he had expected the captain to ask, he had thrown Torvis off balance. It was cruel, this system of numbers. He had known troopers who had essentially forgotten their names, answering only to their number, performing duties mechanically ingrained into them. Thank the Creator of the galaxy that none of his men had degenerated to that effect. Thank the Creator that he still remembered his name.
"Your name, trooper?" Disroit repeated patiently.
"Torvis, sir. Damon Torvis."
"Well, Commander Torvis, I am to inform you that we have set course for Ripoblus."
"Sir." The name itself meant nothing to Torvis. A planet of the two groups they had been fighting. He had never seen a Ripoblus, fought a Ripoblus, had any kind of contact with the Ripoblus or the Dimok. That was the job of the fighter pilots. Torvis felt a faint flash of envy. The TIE pilots, up there seeing real action, while all he was doing was drill, drill, drill some more.
"I am also to inform you," Disroit continued, "to prepare your men for ground assault."
Torvis froze. That was news to him. He glanced at the captain and saw the other watching him, face devoid of any expression. He swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"More information will be forthcoming. I have no more idea than you at this moment of the battle plan."
"Yes, sir," said Torvis again. He blinked, the world seemed to come into sharp focus. Ground assault. No more drill? Real action? He felt his heart beating faster. "Will the regular army be accompanying us, sir?"
"Yes. Regular army as well as all stormtroopers. We will be using trooper transports, as in the last battle."
"We were not in the last battle, sir." Torvis knew his voice sounded stiff, accusing, but he could not help it.
"Were you not, now?" Disroit almost smiled, but there was something hard in his expression that escaped the smile. "Be glad, Commander Torvis. Be glad."
"Sir?" What was the Captain talking about?
"Never mind, Commander. But troopers will be sent out in stormtrooper transports. Planetary drop ships will carry the regular troops and the AT-AT's."
"Ah. I see, sir."
"No, you don't see." Disroit's voice was as hard as his face for a second. Then he relaxed. "But never mind. Yes, we are using AT-AT's. And AT-ST's as well."
"Yes, sir."
"That is all, Commander."
"Thank you, sir." Torvis saluted.
Disroit raised an eyebrow. "Oh, don't thank me, Commander. Whoever else you thank, don't thank me."
Torvis watched his retreating back as the doors shut behind him. He shook his head slightly. What had Disroit meant? He leaned on his blaster rifle, then abruptly straightened. It was time to drill. And this time, the drill would mean something.
He raised his head slightly. "All right, men. Break's over! In formation! We're doing it for real this time."
