14 Saints and 14 Sinners
Chapter 1-
The Saint of Myomar
Acknowledgement:
None of the characters mentioned belong to me. I'm not making any money off of this, and would like to thank George Lucas for the Star Wars series. Thanks also goes out to bluemew, my writing buddy and inspiration. Who knows where this story would be without her help!
The bottle hit the floor and rolled down the steps, crashing down each step and shattering along the way. Each little piece, a mirror of the world around it, revealing the dank , dusty, and dismal atmosphere. As the man who kicked it stepped down, he too was revealed in the light.
His wavy white and black streaked hair was pushed back around his temples, and the perspiration on his brow seemed to show both his age and worry. His field uniform was slightly crumpled and stained from days of usage, and covered in small flecks of blood. Ishin Il-Raz, the acting head of COMPNOR, and a Grand Admiral, certainly had cause for both concern and worry.
He winced as the bottle shattered. Making this much noise really wasn't advisable, especially when the natives were already strained to the breaking point. Glancing over his shoulder, he waved the commander ahead of him, and watched the white suited troopers move past him with the kind of efficiency he expected from them. He walked after, his own weapon drawn, ready for the next encounter.
It had been a week since planet fall, and all was going relatively to plan. Relatively. The original plan had been to sweep into the capitol, take it by force, and cut off any space bound refugees. The only problem was, that the natives had decided they'd rather have their own personal Gorman crisis, than leave the planet in the hands of the victors.
"Ignorant, stupid backwater fools", he thought to himself, pushing another still standing corpse aside. They would lose, the same way everyone else who stood up against the Empire. The same way all the lesser species had. He relished that thought, human dominance really had come to the galaxy, and he was its herald. A fitting job for a man with a history such as his.
The commander waved frantically at him, disturbing his thoughts. Moving cautiously to the commander's side, he peered out of the window, and looked down into the street below. A small waifish looking young humanoid was holding a blaster rifle, firing at some of the Myomaran resistance. The commander turned to face him, "Sir, she would back it up? Or cut it down?"
Il-Raz frowned, "Back it up. The last thing we need is to stir up anti-Imperial sentiment on both sides of the conflict. Not to mention, this one certainly is an oddity. I haven't seen one of them on our side yet." The commander nodded and waved his troops around, leaving the Grand Admiral with his personal guard, and the best tactical viewpoint with which to monitor the sortie.
The Storm troopers moved into position, cleanly executing the closest rebels. The tallest troopers swept the young fighter up in his arms, and quickly deposited it inside the derelict building, sans blaster rifle. The rest of the squad moved forward, taking out the few stragglers and support troops that the rebels had brought with them. In a matter of 10 minutes, the small sortie was over.
Il-Raz watched from the window with bemused satisfaction. The aliens never seemed to understand that no matter how many times they fought, they would lose. With that thought in mind, he turned to the small fighter who had been deposited on the ground. A medic was now looking over it carefully, taking notes on a small data pad. Il-Raz nodded casually at the medic, who saluted crisply and handed the data pad over.
Glancing over to her while he read the report, he sighed. The data pad revealed her to be a humanoid female, severely malnourished, about 17 standard years of age, and about two weeks into a nasty viral infection. He handed the data pad back, and grimaced. She was in bad shape. The medic nodded, understanding his desperation, " She is still treatable. The virus hasn't set itself in as of yet." The girl turned to look at him, and he almost wished he had left her behind.
Her ashen gray skin highlighted her hellish looking eyes, whose irises were deep red and yellow, surrounded by black rings, cutting the deep red off from the pure white of the rest of her eyes. Her brown glossy hair was streaked with blonde highlights, and the rest of her seemed to be a mockery of the human perfection he so enjoyed. She was lanky, but well formed, and had seemingly long spidery fingers. She looked at him like a lost felnix, defiant and yet expectant of him.
Keeping his disappointment in check, he turned back to the medic, "Treat her, and then send her ship ward. I have no intention of letting a loyal alien, especially one as young as this, die at the hands of rebels. She still has her uses." The medic nodded, and pulled the girl up, heading towards the transport.
He watched them leave, and made a note to himself to check on the girl when he got back on the ship. Her "condition" and her support made her a valuable asset. She would escape the fate meant for the rest of the planet, even if it were through a sheer fluke on her part. The Krytos virus would ruin the planet in a manner of days, after which the planet would be ready to be resettled.
He went back to watching the troopers swarm around the out buildings, like klik beetles over a fresh carcass, and nodded. There was no longer a need for him here as field presence, the troopers were sufficiently motivated, the last containers of the virus would be arriving tomorrow, and the invasion plan was on track. He watched the transport land to pick up the medic and the few other soldiers and officers who were headed back for the Disciple. He would join them shortly.
Pacing back to where the field commander stood, Grand Admiral Il-Raz motioned the commander toward himself. The commander walked cautiously by his side, " Commander, I want this situation wrapped up by the end of the week. Too many resources are tied up in this operation." The commander nodded, reassuring the Grand Admiral that all would be in order by nightfall tomorrow. Il-Raz smiled grimly, and dismissed the man. There was no greater satisfaction for him than having competent men in the field.
On his way back to the landing pad, he picked up a shard of glass from the shattered bottle, and glanced at it. His face was distorted and twisted, a mockery of his own handsome human features. Dropping it in disgust, he watched as his shuttle landed, and walked towards it. The Disciple was waiting, and he was loath to spend any more time away from it than necessary.