A long time ago, in a galaxy far,
far away...
Star Wars: White Snow
Liberation
Three months have passed since the capture and kidnapping of Mandalorian bounty hunter Cin Vhetin. Since falling in battle, he has been held captive by Imperial researchers attempting to transfer his superior Kiffar traits to normal human beings. Darth Vader himself is rumored to be overseeing the project.
The repercussions of such a discovery would be severe. With such knowledge, the Imperials would be able to create an army of brainwashed soldiers with superhuman abilities.
Vhetin is trapped within a hidden Imperial medical facility with no way out. Little does he know, his allies have not abandoned him just yet...
Chapter 1: Three Months...
Imperial Medical Facility 38-B
He knew he was dreaming.
It wasn't new. He always knew when he was dreaming. There was always an air of mysteriousness or ridiculousness around a dreamed occurrence that gave it away. Something was always just a bit off and the mind was always just a little too willing to overlook it.
It was the bounty hunter side of him that made it so easy to recognize: in his business, it was necessary to have an eye for detail. But this time it wasn't some single detail that gave the dream away. It was because he was dreaming about someone who shouldn't – couldn't – really be here.
He decided to say as much.
"You can't be here. It's not possible."
His comment was met with a laugh. A smile. It broke his heart to see, because he knew it couldn't be real.
"You should learn not to over-analyze situations like this. You should just sit back and relax. Enjoy it while you can."
"Brianna..." he murmured.
She took a step toward him, reached out, brushed a soft hand across his cheek. "Don't talk. Not now."
He closed his eyes, losing himself in her warm touch. She smiled and took a step closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. He responded, putting his arms around her waist and holding her close. He knew it couldn't last. So after a few moments, he pulled back and turned away from her. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a long breath. He heard her take a concerned step toward him and he held out a hand to keep her away.
"Don't do this," he whispered to her. "You left me. You didn't want anything more to do with me."
"I know," she said. He heard her step up behind him, felt her wrap her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug. "But that doesn't matter right now. Relax, remember?"
"I can't relax. I'm being tortured. Experimented on. I can't go more than an hour without vomiting my guts out."
He turned to her and she wrapped her arms around his neck again. He sighed and rested his forehead against hers, savoring the smooth feeling of her skin. "I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can barely walk... every day these Imperial bastards stick their pins and needles into me and suck that stuff from my lungs. And in the middle of all that, you want me to relax?"
He shook his head. "Every day I find myself wishing that I would die in my sleep, just to spare me the pain. I can't relax. I'm wasting away a day at a time."
"There is always hope."
He let out a dry chuckle. "Hope? Bri, no one knows where I am. Even if they did, they would be an idiot to try and break in."
"Your friends haven't forgotten you," she whispered in his ear. "Jay will come for you."
He sighed. He'd had this conversation before, both with himself and other incarnations of dream-Brianna. "We've talked about this. Jay doesn't even know where I am. If she's smart, she'll stay the hell away from me even if she does. And you will too."
"I live for you," she said, clasping his hand tightly in her own. "Loving you is the focus of my entire life. I would never abandon you."
"Not anymore," he said. "You left. You said you couldn't take any more."
He shook his head. "Bri... I don't know that I can do this. Even if I somehow miraculously escape, I... I can't live without you. You're the one thing keeping me alive in here, and I don't even know if you want anything to do with me anymore."
"Maybe things have changed," she said. "Maybe you'll get back and I'll be the first one there to greet you."
He shook his head. "Even if you were, there's no way to escape. I've tried."
"Then just endure," she whispered with a smile. "Stay alive in here. Stay strong for me."
She began to fade away before his eyes, wasting away like sand in the wind. Within moments, he was left holding nothing but air. But her voice still remained, whispering to him in the dark.
"Stay strong for me..."
With a gasp, Cin Vhetin sat bolt-upright in his cot, drenched in cold sweat. His breath came in short gasps and his muscles screamed with every waking moment. He stared around himself, adrenaline coursing through his system, then he slowly fell back on his cot and stared up at the dark ceiling. He eventually rolled over onto his side, the plugs set into his neck, back, and shoulders rubbing painfully against the flimsy mattress. He stared at the rough surface of the cell wall, hoping he had at least a few more hours before morning roll call.
Stay strong for me... the words still hung at the forefront of his mind, haunting him.
This wasn't the first dream of Brianna he'd had. He was sure it wouldn't be the last, either. But every time he dreamed of her, it got harder and harder to pull himself out of his cell every morning. And that was important, because if he wasn't on time his guards forcibly made sure he was ready for the daily experiments.
The chill of the holding cell seemed to seep into his very bones, making him shiver violently. He eventually sighed and sat up, rubbing his eyes wearily. He knew that the scientists in charge of the facility lowered the temperature at night, attempting to force increased blood flow among the test subjects. More blood flow meant more blood to the collection backpack strapped over his shoulders. He closed his eyes and listened to the pack hum quietly as it pumped blood in and out of his body through the plugs that were set into his neck, back, shoulders, biceps, forearms, and chest.
After three months of irritation, his skin was actually beginning to grow around the accursed plugs. His skin had turned an unhealthy purple around the tiny instruments, blood caking up in stiff, messy clumps around their bases. He could feel the needles shifting around inside his body every time he moved, and the one hooked into his spine occasionally brushed a nerve and left parts of his body paralyzed for several hours. Rather than understanding that he couldn't physically move, his guards just thought he was lazy and used the time to beat him senseless.
Vhetin slowly stood from the cot and reached under the flimsy mattress. Careful not to cut himself on its jagged edge, he pulled out a tiny object from beneath his bed. He turned it over in his hands, then stared into the makeshift mirror he'd stolen after a month of incarceration – a shard of polished plastoid that he had swiped from a splintered refresher mirror during cleaning hours. He rubbed a slight film of condensation from its surface and stared into his own reflection.
His face was a mess of bruises and lacerations, courtesy of his guards, and his brown hair was matted and falling out in clumps, courtesy of the osik these scientists were pumping into him. He had kept himself in shape over the past months, more out of pure survival instinct than out of any sense of self-pride. The guards were less likely to seriously injure him if he was fit and able to fight back. His skin was pale and a slightly greenish hue, and he had several open wounds on his arms and back. For a medical facility, the doctors here weren't too concerned about the health and well-being of the test subjects. All they were concerned with was their magic serum that would turn ordinary soldiers into unstoppable superhuman commandos.
His face slowly turned down into a scowl as he stared at his own reflection. The first thing his handlers had done when they had processed him was take his armor and hide it away somewhere in the facility. For all he knew, they had destroyed it or dumped it into a trash compactor. After three months of being exposed, he missed the cold anonymity of his Mandalorian battle helmet. He stared into his own intense blue eyes and wished he was staring into the familiar, sinister T-visor of his helmet. It would be a comfort in this dark place to be able to see something recognizable.
He turned away from the palm-sized mirror, tucking it back under his mattress, and turned his attention to the wall. Using bits of rocks or sometimes his own fingernails, he had carved out a mark for every day he'd been held prisoner. Technically he had no way of knowing the difference between days, since he was never taken outside the complex, but he was able to estimate based on glimpses he caught of wall-mounted chronometers in the various labs he was led past on his way to the Tests.
Three months... three months he'd been here, yet it seemed like a lifetime. He had been terrified several weeks earlier when he realized he couldn't quite call up a clear image of Brianna's face. Only by powerful concentration was he able to hold the picture of Jay or Rame or Mia in his mind.
He slowly stood, grimacing as he felt the needles shift inside him. He limped toward the shielded bars of his and pressed his palms to the shimmering field that stretched between reinforced durasteel bars. The field was warm to the touch and thrummed rhythmically beneath his fingertips. He watched the view outside bend and warp, thinking about what the day had in store for him.
"You were dreaming again," a voice suddenly whispered. Unlike in his dream, this voice was quiet and unmistakably male.
He scowled. "What did I say?"
"Nothing important. You just kept muttering Bri, Bri."
He stared through the shield to the hall outside, but didn't say anything. There was a long pause before the unidentified man murmured, "So you dreamed of her again?"
"Of course."
"What did she have to say this time?"
"The same thing as always," Vhetin said, narrowing his eyes. "That I should stay hopeful for rescue."
"She seems pretty confident."
"She's a dream. The real Brianna is somewhere on Mandalore, probably celebrating the fact that I'm gone."
"I remember you said that you didn't part on the best of terms."
"I wish I could say it was mutual, but that would be a lie."
"She may take you back. That happens sometimes."
"You don't know Brianna," he said. "When she makes a decision, she sticks to it. Whether she likes it or not."
"It would probably be easier to pull an apology out of a Hutt, given everything you've told me about her."
Vhetin chuckled. "I know I'm losing it when I'm discussing relationship troubles with a voice coming from a hole in the wall."
"See it from my point of view. I'm listening to relationship troubles from a voice coming from a hole in the wall. Who's really losing it?"
"I should be stronger than this," Vhetin said. "I've always been able to take care of this stuff on my own."
"You've been speaking to me every day for almost three months. And you still think that everyone here can't be trusted? Not everyone is against you."
"The only reason you're here is because of me," Vhetin sighed. He looked over in the direction of the voice, to a tiny hole in the duracrete wall. On the other side of that wall was a man who had been kidnapped and taken to this facility to be subjected to horrible biological tests. Even after three months, Vhetin had no idea why anyone would want anything to do with him. The guards missed no opportunity to point out that the only reason anyone was stuck in the facility was because of Vhetin's superhuman abilities. Given the fact that the most of the test subjects were criminals with life sentences, the majority of those stuck in the facility were only too happy to corner and attack him. They hadn't succeeded yet, but Vhetin's strength could only get him so far.
He shook his head and murmured, "Because of me, you have to have to go through the Tests every day like everyone else. Why would you harbor any good feelings toward me?"
There was a pause, then the man on the other side of the wall said, "I believe in judging people by what they've done during the time I've known them. And you've done nothing but offer me conversation to pass the time. For that, I'm grateful."
Vhetin laughed dryly. "That's a very Mandalorian outlook."
"If you say so. In any case, I don't hold anything against you. I trust you, at least as much as someone can trust a voice he hears through a hole in the wall."
Vhetin sat down on his cot and stared at the floor of his cell. "You can keep your pity. I'm Mandalorian. I don't appreciate that."
"Fine. I'm just saying that there are people here who don't know or care who you are. You have allies, even in here."
"I have more enemies. Three-quarters of the test subjects are criminals. Criminals who want me dead for what I've done to them."
"You said you're a bounty hunter, right?"
"I used to be."
"Then just think of all the scumbags you'll be able to round up during your escape. There's got to be tens of thousands of credits' worth of bounties in here."
Vhetin narrowed his eyes. "Optimism can kill a man in here."
"And pessimism won't net you any escape opportunities."
"Now you're starting to sound like Brianna."
"Fine," the voice said. "Stew in your own self-pity. But you of all people should know that you need to stay icy to see details that you would otherwise miss."
"You haven't had bounty hunter training, have you?"
"Not that I know of, no."
"Shame," Vhetin said, sitting back on the flimsy cot. He slowly closed his eyes and sighed. Eventually he frowned and said, "You know, after three months you'd think that I'd ask your name."
"It's Mantis," the man said. "Mantis Tequorik. Thanks for asking."
Vhetin nodded to himself. "Well... thank you, Mantis. I am in your debt."
The man scoffed. "For what?"
"For the conversation," Vhetin said. "And the lack of judgment. It's appreciated."
A dry chuckle from the other side of the wall. "We're both victims of circumstance. Neither of us want to be here, but we should try to make the most of it."
Vhetin watched a line of stormtroopers marching past his cell door. "I guess it's almost time for the Tests," he murmured.
"I guess."
Vhetin sighed as four stormtroopers stopped outside the entrance to his cell. One of them began tapping the release code into the panel outside. Vhetin slowly stood and stretched, careful not to irritate the plugs set into his body.
"Time to go to work," he muttered.
The troopers took him from his cell, binding his wrists and ankles with stun cuffs. Two troopers had to half-drag him down the hall, holding him under his arms and supporting his weight. Vhetin would have been able to walk passably well himself, but he didn't want the guards to know that he was healthier than they expected. If the time came that he was presented with a chance to escape, he wanted to be able to surprise them.
They led him down brightly lit, whitewashed halls, past countless holding cells that were surprisingly dingy compared to their pristine surroundings. Humans of varied ages, both men and women, cowered within, watching the passing troopers with terror and undoubtedly praying it wasn't their turn for the Tests.
All this pain, Vhetin thought as he was dragged out of the detention block, and I'm the cause of it all. I wish I could help these people.
Toward the end of the detention block was a series of empty cells; the prisoners had died as a result of the genetic testing. Their bodies horribly scarred and mutilated by genetic mutation, they had been executed by the stormtrooper guard. Their bodies had been swiftly disposed of, with no evidence to trace their remains back to the Facility.
The Facility, as much as Vhetin had seen it, was a series of winding, interconnected halls that held holding cells, research installations, barracks and housing for the guards, and security posts to keep back any escaping prisoners. The place was designed to be a twisting maze of confusing hallways and dead-ends, designed to keep prisoners locked away inside.
Security was tighter than any research base Vhetin had ever seen. There were automated droid turrets (known by the prisoners as Spiders because of their arachnoid limbs and scuttling form of locomotion), armed stormtrooper guards that were the elite of the Imperial military, and Vhetin's personal favorite, advanced Mark-III Darktrooper Battle Droids that were specially outfitted for riot control in the event of a mass breakout.
Finally, Vhetin had been paying close attention to the various Imperial VIPS and researchers that came to and from the base. Very rarely did he see them in person, but he occasionally heard them talking during the Tests. Rumor had it that Darth Vader himself was overseeing the operation, which was code-named Project Whiteclaw, but so far Vhetin hadn't caught sight of the armored Sith Lord. There were, however, a few faces he had learned to recognize over the course of his three-month imprisonment.
First on Vhetin's list was Doctor Xehn Uthalian, the lead researcher. He was a human male with a heart of ice and a steely determination to see the Project a success. He ran the Tests with ruthless efficiency, never stopping to give the prisoners food, water, or rest from the violent side effects of the chemical injections. Two of the dead prisoners had been killed by the Tests alone, while another three had been killed in fights during exercise hour. Uthalian didn't care about anything but the Tests, and the actions of the numerous criminals within the Facility were of little interest to him.
One of the few non-human researchers was Doctor Temminath Kasiporo, a Twi'lek male. Though not as ruthless as Doctor Uthalian, he had fought his through the anti-alien medical schools of Coruscant and had adopted a sense of resolute apathy for anyone who stood between him and his goals. Doc Kasiporo wasn't going to let anyone add a negative commentary to his spotless permanent record.
Of the few researchers Vhetin didn't despise were Doctor Kenneth Torch and his assistant, Nurse Khara Pepis Monro. The two seemed genuinely concerned for the well-being of the test subjects. They seemed to have been forced into servitude with the rest of the Whiteclaw project. They scheduled regular checkups on the test subjects, including physical and psychological examinations. They regularly petitioned Uthalian to cut back the test subjects to a skeleton crew of two hundred beings, rather than the current thousand. Needless to say, their requests had fallen on deaf ears.
And finally, Vhetin's biggest problem, was Colonel Tech Packard, the head of the stormtrooper guards in the Facility. The Colonel was an ideal Imperial: ruthless, apathetic, and loyal to his superiors. He had been ordered to keep the Facility secure and had so far succeeded. He had no orders, however, to keep the Facility peaceful. He routinely turned a blind eye to fights in the exercise yard, wounds due to stormtrooper brutality, and all manner of other violence.
In all, it painted the perfect picture of hell. Vhetin hated the place with every ounce of strength he had left in his ravaged body. But he had in the past month or so resigned himself to the fact that he would remain here for the rest of his life. He could only hope that time was short and relatively painless.
I wonder what Jay is doing right now, he suddenly thought. It surprised him; he hadn't thought about his former partner for over a month. Still, he amused himself for a few moments with thoughts of her blasting her way through the criminal underworld, capturing fugitives and administering the justice that only a seasoned bounty hunter could.
Then the image of the other alternative: that she was lying dead in some Coruscant alleyway, gunned down by nothing more than bad luck. The thought turned his blood to ice for a few moments. If she had been killed because he was unable to help her...
If that's the case, he thought, then her problems are over. Mine are still with me. It's pointless to worry about things over which I have no control.
Finally, they dragged him through a set of reinforced doors. Once beyond them, he saw no white-armored stormtroopers. Instead, he saw white-uniformed doctors and burly orderlies dressed in the same. They approached the troopers escorting him, clutching holoboards and folders of flimsiplast reports.
"We'll take him from here," one of the scientists said.
A trooper shoved Vhetin forward, causing him to jerk against his electro-shock restraints. He grimaced and stumbled, crashing to the polished and sanitized floor. One of the orderlies roughly hauled him to his feet.
"Careful with that one," one of the troopers said. "He's feisty. Put Six-Nine in the medcenter a couple weeks ago."
"He is the Primary," another scientist said. "The subject we are studying the closest. Appropriate measures have been taken. You are dismissed."
One of the troopers moved to leave. The other, a sergeant, just stared at Vhetin through his contoured faceplate and said, "Don't let him get anything in his hands. The guy can turn anything into a shiv. And don't take off his wrist or ankle restraints. He doesn't need-"
"Appropriate measures have been taken, sergeant," the scientist repeated forcefully. "You are dismissed."
The trooper nodded, then turned on his heel and strode after his companion. After a few moments they stepped through the reinforced doors and out of sight.
"Well come on, then," one of the scientists said, gesturing for the orderlies to bring Vhetin to the testing chambers. "We've got a busy day ahead of us."
Testing Chamber 13-B (Reserved for Primary Testing)
Vhetin sat in pitch-darkness, bound by his restraints to a heavy durasteel chair welded and bolted into the floor. He heard a door open somewhere, heard footsteps enter the room. Someone sighed wearily as they settled into a seat across from Vhetin. A bright greenish light sprang to life as that someone activated a datapad to take notes. Vhetin could make out the shapes of a human face, hanging ghost-like in the darkness. Then he leaned back out of the light so his own face was thrown completely into shadow.
"Patient Interview Eight-Six-Zero-One-Five," a male voice said, speaking into the recorder on the datapad. Vhetin knew there were other scientists scrutinizing him on vid cams as well, watching and listening intently.
"Project Whiteclaw operational date," the man continued, "five months and counting. Patient name, Cin Vhetin. Species, once believed human, now confirmed to be Salpatian subspecies of humanoid Kiffar. Former occupation, bounty hunter.
"This is Doctor Kenneth Torch, Senior Researcher, beginning the interview." The man set the datapad on a table between them that seemed to melt out of the shadows. He folded his arms and stared at Vhetin's shadowy form for a time before sighing again. "As per patient request, the lights have been shut down. We are in absolute darkness. As such, examination of patient's physical well-being is impossible."
The man cocked his head and directed his attention to Vhetin again. "Tell me, why did you ask for the lights to be extinguished?"
Vhetin said nothing. He just glared at the man, an expression he knew the scientist couldn't see.
"Why don't you like the light?" Doctor Torch pressed. "What do you gain from putting yourself in the dark?"
Vhetin finally spoke.
"Anonymity."
"Excuse me?"
"The darkness provides anonymity."
A long pause. "Do you enjoy feeling like an anonymous being?"
"What I enjoy doesn't matter."
Torch tapped something into his datapad, then stared at Vhetin again. "What do you think matters?"
Vhetin stared at the shadowy face of the man sitting across from him. "What matters is the present moment. You and me."
"Ah. And what about you and me is so important?"
"The conflict."
"Conflict?"
Vhetin nodded, knowing the man couldn't' see it in the darkness. "Among my people, we are taught that every moment is conflict."
"Your people... these would be the Mandalorians?"
"That's right. We're taught that every action is only noticed because it conflicts with another action. That personalities are only noticeable because of their conflict with other personalities. Every aspect of life is a battle, one in which we train ourselves to be victorious."
"Right. And this conflict is going on right now?"
"Right as we speak."
"Can you explain?"
Vhetin nodded again. "This interview itself is a battle. A battle of wills between you and me. And right now, I'm winning."
"How so?"
"The darkness," Vhetin repeated. "In normal social interaction, people read of facial cues, body language, and all manner of other sensory manifestations, in order to better understand the other person. I can see you, Doctor, even in this darkness."
"Ah yes, the enhanced visual senses native to your species. A rare gift."
"Or a curse," Vhetin said. "One that normal humans don't share. I can see you, Doctor, almost as clearly as if the lights were turned on. But you can't see me. For all you know, I'm working loose my restraints right now, preparing to attack you."
"I have faith in Imperial manufacturing. Your restraints are secure."
"Faith is comforting, but can you know for a fact that I'm not already free? That I'm not already preparing to attack you?"
Silence. Vhetin listened to it with satisfaction, nodding to himself. "I didn't think so."
They were silent for a few more long moments, then Vhetin sighed and asked, "Why are you interviewing me?"
I am attempting to gain a better understanding of how your mind functions. Your mental health is vital to the success of the project."
"Your concern is touching, but spare me your psychoanalyst osik. You want to know about the side-effects of the Tests."
"That... that would be helpful, yes."
"In my old occupation," Vhetin said slowly, "things worked on a system: you give, you get. Let's institute the same system here, yeah?"
"To what extent?"
"I give you the information you want to know, then you answer my questions."
Doctor Torch was silent for a few moments, no doubt consulting silently with the other researchers. It was a long time before he said, "We could just ask another patient."
Vhetin shrugged. "You could. But I'm the Primary, remember? This little magic drug you're injecting into all those people comes from me. I vomit it up every morning, puking and coughing that black gunk out of my body, then wait for your scientists to come and distill out your serum. So whatever symptoms I get, I pass along to the test subjects."
Another long pause. Finally, Doctor Torch murmured, "All right. You first. What are your symptoms?"
Vhetin narrowed his eyes, focusing on the feelings coursing through his body at the moment, as well as memories of past side-effects. "Nausea. Strengthening of appetite, but inability to hold food down. Frequent vomiting. Insomnia."
"Okay... anything else?"
"Frequent, violent coughs, to the point of coughing up blood," Vhetin continued. "Chills. Nightmares. Cold sweats. Fever. Unexpected muscle cramps. Hair loss. Drastic reduction in basic motor skills and muscle density, although that might be simply due to the short length of exercise hour."
"Anything else?"
"Not to my memory, but if there's any more I'll be sure to call you right up."
Doctor Torch stared in Vhetin's direction, searching the shadows for his face. He shook his head and said, "Vhetin, do you realize that I'm trying to help you? I'm one of the few people in this facility that actually cares about your well-being."
"I know," Vhetin said trufthfully. "But you're also one of the ones who sticks me full of needles and pumps that black stuff into my lungs. Excuse me if that makes me a little cautious to trust you completely."
"I am truly sorry for what they are doing to you," Torch said. "I have tried to assist the patients here. But there is only so much I can do."
"And there's only so much I can give," Vhetin pointed out.
A pause. "What do you mean?"
"All right," Vhetin said with a sigh, "Time for my questions. What are you doing to me? And I mean really. The conversations your scientists have while testing on me has given me an idea, but I want to know for certain."
Another long pause. "What do you know so far?"
"I know you're using a mutated form of a normal sickness to induce the majority of my symptoms. Using this sickness, you can get at that black slop that keeps forming in my lungs. My question is this: what the hell is it?"
"Pneumonia," Torch said bluntly. "It is a mutated form of pneumonia."
"Is it? Interesting," Vhetin said. "I also know that the other test subjects here weren't injected with this sickness like I was. They caught it naturally. Which means that you altered your neo-pneumonia virus so that it's contagious. They caught the sickness by interacting with me."
"Go on."
"Pneumonia is a virus," he continued. "Viruses are unreliable as carriers for biological contaminants, since people can build up a natural resistance to them and a virus can't infect the same person twice without mutating. But you guys have somehow made this pneumonia as tenacious as a Keldabe hay tick. But why go through all that trouble? Why not find some other carrier?"
"You're very observant," Torch said, sounding impressed. "We had to find a way to quickly transfer your symptoms to others, making it easier to filter and re-introduce the preservatives. Without it, there would be no way to bond your cells with those of the other test subjects. Bodily gestation is the best method for cellular recombination."
"But why a virus?"
Torch shrugged. "I'm not privy to the design plan of the Whiteclaw project. I do know, however, that all the symptoms that we needed – frequent vomiting, lungs filling with fluid – were already present in the pneumonia virus. I believe the planning committee decided to adopt a don't fix what isn't broken attitude."
"And then there's that. I'm guessing that the black stuff in my lungs that I keep vomiting up is some sort of self-sustaining preservative for DNA. It captures my cells and stores them for you to study, and it also carries your virus".
"The principle was that we could quickly and effectively transfer your abilities to a number of hosts without need for individual treatment. If the preservative was introduced into a group of soldiers, if the fluid carried your superior DNA for the bonding process, they would all easily be given the necessary traits. Most product, least effort. A medicinal assembly line, as it were."
Vhetin narrowed his eyes, pondering over all he'd figured out over the past three months. "Somehow, parts of my genetic sequence are responsible for the development of my superhuman traits. You believe that if you can somehow blend certain strands with those of a normal human, you can transfer my abilities to everyday people."
"An incredible discovery," Torch said. "With terrible consequences."
"Do you really believe that?"
"I do," Doctor Torch said. "I harbor no illusions of how the Empire would use such knowledge. But I know too much. Backing out now would be impossible."
Vhetin filed that away for future reference before saying, "Finally, I know that you haven't had success with your super-soldier objective, even after months of human testing. What's going wrong?"
"It would seem..." Torch began slowly, "... it would seem that your DNA reacts rather violently to being bonded with human cells on a molecular level. Your abilities, your unique physiology, are incompatible with humans at this point."
"What happens?"
"In hosts where the bonding is at least partially successful, cellular structure begins to almost immediately degrade. It manifests itself in physical signs, many of which match your own symptoms: loss of hair and skin tissue, decrease in mental and motor skills, violent allergic reactions leading to deformation or death. They experience some signs of increased physical traits, but the other side-effects usually are too lethal for the subjects to be combat-effective."
"What kind of physical traits?"
"Increased speed and strength," Torch listed, scrolling through a file on his datapad. "Hmm... greatly increased aggression. A slight spike in brain activity, which we believe is indicative of a small increase in the speed of cognitive abilities, although there is a much greater decrease in cognitive qualities as a whole. That's all we've discovered so far. Tests are still ongoing."
Torch's information matched what Vhetin had already seen; test subjects that were deformed and driven mad by the Tests, transformed into pitiful, malformed creatures that were barely capable of basic human abilities such as walking or even sitting up.
"And in subjects where my DNA doesn't bond?"
"No side-effects have been observed," Torch said with a shrug. "Their cells merely... reject the bonding process. As if the subjects were immune to your genetic material."
"Is there a reason for it?"
"None that we've been able to identify. So far, it looks to be completely random."
Vhetin scowled and said, "One last question: what if this doesn't work? What if all of Project Whiteclaw is a failure and it turns out my species is the only one who can have these abilities?"
"If that is the case," Doctor Torch said, his voice sounding sad and resigned, "the test subjects will be terminated and Project Whiteclaw will fall back onto a contingency plan."
"Which is?"
"Viral weaponry. We have proven so far that the neo-pneumonia virus is quite capable of incapacitating or killing large groups of beings of potentially limitless species. Once completed, the Empire would introduce the virus into a rebellious system, allow it to run its course with the population, then send in military forces to deal with those not fatally infected or those who are naturally immune."
"That's sick."
"I agree completely. But we all have our orders. Those are mine."
"And if this sickness gets out of control?" Vhetin asked. "What if you send in your military forces and they get hit with it as well? Not very cost-effective if you ask me."
"Precautions have been taken. Imperial manufacturers are working on new hazardous-operations armor for stormtroopers and all military forces in nearby systems are being retrained on all matters regarding viral weaponry."
"Is there a cure?"
"Oh yes," Torch said. "That was one of the first things we developed, and it was surprisingly easy. But unfortunately, without proper supervision, the virus is extremely virulent. Rarely enough time enough to administer it."
"And you know this how?" Vhetin said, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me you haven't field-tested it."
"We are not near enough to that stage of the process. But we have tried to save several of the test subjects who have shown negative reactions to the treatment. Unfortunately, it appears that the cure is ineffective once your genetic material has had enough time to gestate and fuse with non-Salpatian DNA. If the cure is not administered within hours of the virus' introduction, it is useless."
"How convenient. So if you send this virus into a population, everyone will be scrambling to cure themselves, not knowing it's already too late."
"It is horrible," Doctor Torch agreed. "And I am trying my hardest to petition for that entire wing of this project to be decommissioned, but my pleas are falling on deaf ears so far."
"Big surprise there," Vhetin said, narrowing his eyes. "What did you expect?"
"We all have our demons," Torch said. "I see a chance here to nip one of mine in the bud. Your Imperial file says that you were almost fanatically devoted to administering justice to criminals. You have been caught on record multiple times claiming that you did not work for money, but rather the positive repercussions of removing dangerous bounties from the streets."
Torch slowly stood, gathering up his datapad. "I am trying to do something similar, in my own way. As long as I am here, I will do everything I can to see that this project is officially decommissioned. I suggest you stop wallowing in your own hatred and self-pity and attempt to do the same."
He tipped his head. "Until next time, my friend."
His footsteps faded into the darkness, leaving Vhetin in silence. He almost thought that his trooper guards would take him back to his cell. Then he heard the door open again and a quiet voice with an educated Coruscanti accent murmured, "Lights on."
The world suddenly erupted with blinding white light. Vhetin grunted in discomfort and closed his eyes, grimacing against the painfully bright illumination. It was a long time before his vision adjusted and he could fully see his surroundings. He was sitting in a large, mostly empty room with bleached white walls. His chair was set on tracks that stretched out somewhere behind him.
The man who had spoken earlier was a hatefully familiar face: Doctor Xehn Uthalian. He was a human male in his fifties. He had black hair streaked with pale gray, his eyes were an equally pale blue, and he had a permanent scowl etched on his gaunt, angular face. He was dressed in a surgical gown with rubbermesh gloves covering both hands. There were four other doctors and two nurses standing behind him.
"It is time to begin," he said coldly. He raised a datapad and tapped in a command sequence. There was a metallic thunk and Vhetin's chair began sliding backwards. Vhetin sighed and let his shoulders slump. He had been in this position many times before. He knew what was coming next.
His chair hit something heavy and his slow progress backward was suddenly halted. Heavy electro-shock shackles clamped down over his raw arms and his heavy backpack let out a long buzz.
"Test Twenty-Five-Sixty-Four-Xeno-Tennbry," Uthalian said, pulling a surgical mask over his mouth and nose, "commencing at oh-three-hundred hours military time. Beginning injections: three hundred CCs of Polytorizine, one hundred CCs of lithanthium oxidate, forty CCs of hetrotoxilidide, and a new canister of genetic preservative fluid."
Vhetin felt as if his entire body had been plunged into arctic ice water. He felt some kind of fluid flowing through his backpack's tubes and into the plugs set into his body. The icy sensation seemed to flow through his limbs before converging into a single chilling point directly behind his forehead. He grimaced against the feeling, knowing the worst was yet to come.
"Commencing hetrotoxilidide injections into bone marrow," one of the doctors said. He pulled out a long syringe and drew closer to Vhetin. He swabbed the side of Vhetin's throat with alcohol and murmured, "Try not to move. This is going to hurt."
Vhetin felt the needle break the skin, then his world exploded into pure, white-hot agony. The cold pulsing in his head exploded into an agonizing heat that raced through his body. He felt something brush against the bones of his neck. Then, with a sickening crackle, something gave way in his body and he involuntarily arched his neck and screamed. He pulled against his heavy restraints, to no avail. Two of the doctors grabbed his shoulders and held him still against his chair, restricting his movements. He could hear his pack chugging away, pumping fluids through his system. A wave of dizziness washed over him, followed by an overpowering sense of nausea. He swallowed, trying to get his stomach under control.
"He's on the verge of expulsion," one of the doctors said. "Inject the rest of the hetrotoxilidide before its too late."
Vhetin felt his bile rise, felt his throat tighten as the nausea overtook him. He felt one of the doctors push some kind of tube into his mouth, pushed his jaw closed so he would clamp down on the mouthpiece. He felt his chest tighten, then could no longer hold back. He vomited, his body expelling internal fluids.
What began pulsing up through the tube in his mouth, however, was not vomit. It was viscous and black and gurgled as it slowly moved into a collection tank at his feet. He felt his chest seize up as his lungs contracted, pushing out the black fluid that filled them. He gagged and coughed weakly as the pumps on the tank kicked into action, sucking as much of the fluid from his body as could be harvested.
It seemed like an eternity before the mouthpiece was pulled from his mouth and the tube was retracted. He gasped for air and coughed violently, slumping against his restraints as Uthalian studied the results on his datapad.
"Hmm..." he said, narrowing his eyes. He pulled down his surgical mask and tapped at his pad. "Preservative yield of one-point-six quarts. Below average."
"It's possible that the virus is losing its potency," one of the doctors ventured. Vhetin, still gasping for breath, watched the man with streaming eyes as he passed a handhold scanner over his chest and head, studying his vitals.
"Perhaps," Uthalian murmured. He snapped of his datapad and said, "Increase the dosage to his system. I want his symptoms to be twice as severe by this time next week. We've come too far for him to build up a resistance to the virus now."
"Sir, if I may," a doctor said, "if we up the dosage now, we may kill him. His immune system is extremely weak from the drugs we keep injecting, and-"
"When I need your advice, Doctor Kaylen, I will ask for it. Do as I say. Up the dosage. If he dies, his body will still provide enough genetic material for decades of research. That is all."
With that, Uthalian turned on his heel and strode out the door, leaving the doctors and nurses to finish with the Tests. One of the nurses produced a canister of viscous black fluid – identical to the kind Vhetin had just expelled – and fed it into a receiver on his backpack. The heavy device began to buzz again and Vhetin felt it push the fluid down the two frontal tubes and into his chest. He experienced the terrifying sensation of cold fluid filling his lungs and was reminded of a time he almost drowned on a hunting contract. The black fluid seemed to keep pouring into him until he could actually feel it sloshing around inside his chest.
The flow eventually tapered, then died. He took a shaky breath and found that he couldn't inhale more than half a lungful of air. They had almost filled his lungs, leaving just enough room that he could take wheezing gasps for air.
"Okay," one of the doctors said, repeating words Vhetin had heard numerous times before, "After your injections, you'll feel a little disoriented. Try to keep off your feet as much as possible and just take it easy for the rest of the day."
The doctor checked a wrist-mounted chronometer and said, "Exercise hour starts before too long. Remember what I said. Stay away from the other test subjects and don't go looking for trouble."
Vhetin responded with a fit of wheezing coughs that left him gasping for air. The doctors slowly unbuckled his restraints as his stormtrooper guards stepped through the doors to escort him to the training yard. When the soldiers dragged him to his feet, he could barely stand. His vision wavered in and out of focus as the guards escorted him back through the whitewashed halls the way he'd come.
He began to slip further into the void of unconsciousness. Before he did, however, he remembered the echoing words of dream-Brianna.
Stay strong... stay strong for me.
Then everything faded away.
When he woke again, he found that his trooper guards were gone. He was lying face-down on rough duracrete, surrounded by sounds of life. He heard voices shouting, metal clanking, and footsteps all around him.
"Think he's dead?" a voice said.
"Hope not," someone else growled. "I want to crush his face in myself."
"Nah, he ain't dead," someone else said. Their voices were getting clearer, sharper. "His pack's still chuggin' away. An' if his pack's still workin', he ain't dead."
Vhetin's eyes snapped open as someone kicked his pack. He saw the shadows of other people standing around him. His mind snapped into overdrive, taking stock of all manner of details.
It was cold. Like everything else in the Facility, the exercise yard was inside. The Facility's thermo-conditioning system was set to keep the entire facility noticeably chilly. That would sap the strength of all combatants involved. The cold also meant that any wounds would hurt worse than usual. A possible combat advantage?
There were at least three beings clustered around him, maybe four. In his weakened state, they had him at a serious disadvantage. But, judging by their rough tones and their bulky shadows, he assumed the beings had little in the way of combat training. They were probably common street thugs.
He was weaponless, weakened, and outnumbered. He didn't know what area he was stuck in, so he didn't know if he could use his surroundings to his advantage. But he knew that the majority of the Facility's test subjects were criminals, and these men most certainly meant him harm. And he wasn't going to let them make the first move.
So, when one of them moved to kick him again, he swiftly flipped over, grabbed the man's foot, and twisted. It broke with a sickening snap and the man fell backward screaming.
Vhetin was on his feet before the remaining men – four in all – could even begin to react. His heart was pumping in his chest and adrenaline was coursing through his veins. His reflexes kicked into overdrive, seeming to slow time by a few fractions of a second. It felt good, being thrust into a combat situation once again. He was in his element now, doing what he had spent years training his body to do.
One man lunged forward with a shout, letting a meaty fist fly at Vhetin's face. Vhetin easily dodged the blow, his heavy pack pulling him slightly off balance. He staggered slightly and wasn't fast enough to dodge the attack of a second thug. The blow caught him in the collarbone and sent him staggering against a thug standing behind him. The man caught him around the shoulders, holding him so the others could punch away.
But Vhetin wasn't about to be some jailbird's punching bag. So when the biggest thug, obviously the leader, came to swing at him, he arched backward and swung both legs up. His bare feet caught the onrushing man in the chin, sending him staggering. Vhetin continued his upward swing, arching right over the head of the man who was holding him. He landed behind him and drove a shoulder into the man's back, pushing him away.
He fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air. His fluid-filled lungs couldn't draw in a full breath and he was already wheezing as if he'd run for hours. He wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer.
One of his attackers decided to take advantage of his momentary weakness. He rushed forward and kicked Vhetin hard in the ribs. Vhetin cried out and collapsed as the man continued kicking him. With a grimace, he rolled out of the way and staggered back to his feet, holding his side.
He looked around for something – anything – that he could use to assist him. He spotted a round durasteel pipe a few feet away, sticking vertically from the rough ground. He instantly staggered toward it and grasped it with both hands.
With a tremendous wrench, he snapped the pylon from its housing. He may be weakened, but he was still stronger than most human beings. His muscles took over from there, drawing him through the familiar maneuvers of the weapon.
A pike, he thought as he whirled the pipe in front of him. That's all this is. My good old lightsaber pike.
He advanced on the five thugs, holding the weapon in a combat-ready stance. Holding the weapon seemed to draw some strength back into his bones, made him feel better than he had in months. He spun the pipe in front of him, the weapon making a deep whistling sound as it cut through the air.
The thugs hesitated, eying his new weapon. They cast nervous glances at the stormtroopers guarding the exercise yard. But the white-armored soldiers were just leaning against the railings overlooking the area, watching with amused snickers or mutters.
Then one of the prisoners spat, "Kriff this," and pulled what looked like a sharpened metal shard from the waistband of his prison fatigues. "Get ready to hold 'im down, fellas. I'm gonna stick 'im so full of holes he'll look like a human sponge."
Vhetin brought the pipe in front of him, preparing to block the incoming attack. The other man waved his shiv through the air menacingly, then darted forward with surprising speed. Vhetin was much faster, though, and brought his makeshift pipe up to bat the shard away. The man cursed and stabbed again. Vhetin dodged back and shoved his pipe forward, slamming it into the center of the man's forehead.
The others rushed forward now, attacking Vhetin all at once. Vhetin backpedaled, spinning and slamming his blunt weapon against anyone he could reach. He hooked the shaft around the ankles of one onrushing thug, yanking back and tripping the man off his feet. He then stepped to the side and planted the end of the weapon in the small of another man's back, shoving him face-first into the durasteel wall of the exercise room. As the thug slid groggily down the face of the wall, Vhetin whipped his pike across the man's face and knocked him unconscious.
One down, he thought, three to go.
He stifled another coughing fit and tightened his grip on his pike as the others slowly fanned out around him. One made a move to attack, and Vhetin smashed his pipe against the man's shoulder. The other two rushed Vhetin, grabbing his arms and holding him steady. One of them wrenched his pike from his grip and tossed it aside.
"Now we gotcha," the first man said, grabbing his shiv again. "You thought you were so smart with your little stick swinging performance. Well how smart are you now?"
The man drove the shiv forward and Vhetin screamed as he felt the makeshift knife sink between his ribs. The man twisted the blade with a sneer and Vhetin screamed again, feeling blood pour down his side.
Suddenly, blaster shots rang out through the exercise yard. The thugs released Vhetin, letting him drop heavily to the ground. Vhetin rolled over, clutching at the shiv blade still lodged in his side. With a wrench, he yanked the blade out of his body and tossed it aside. He looked up to find stormtroopers rushing toward him, rifles drawn.
"Get those prisoners into solitary confinement!"
Three troopers split off from the group, pursuing the thugs who had attacked him. The squad sergeant pointed to Vhetin and barked, "And get the Primary to the medbay, now!"
One of the troopers turned and began speaking into his wrist-mounted comlink. "Get a medical team down to the exercise block. The Primary got into a scrap with some inmates and is wounded. Affirmative. And inform Doctor Torch of the situation; he'll want to know what happened."
Vhetin kept his hands pressed tightly against the stab wound in his side, trying to staunch the bloodflow. One of the stormtroopers knelt next to him, pulling an emergency medkit from his belt. Vhetin scrambled away with a muttered curse and shouted, "No! Stay away from me!"
"Look, kid," the trooper said, "I'm just going to give you a bacta injection to slow down the bloodflow."
"I don't... need your help," Vhetin gasped, eyes watering. "Stay away from me you... damn Imperial scum."
"Son," the trooper said, "we all have our orders. I'm the squad medic, and my orders are to keep wounded people alive. That includes you."
"I don't need help... from an Imperial."
The trooper chuckled. "Kid, you got some spunk. But that ain't going to be worth a tauntaun hide in hell if you bleed out all over the floor."
Vhetin rolled onto his back, letting out a gasp as he grudgingly let the trooper inject a hypospray of bacta into his side. An uncomfortable wash of numbness settled over his chest. He settled back limply and muttered, "I've had worse."
"I'm sure you have," said a weary new voice. Vhetin weakly looked up to see Doctor Torch approaching with a med team. "It almost seems like every time I turn my back, you're getting into trouble."
Vhetin grimaced as the medic trooper sprayed his stab wound with synthflesh. The bio-spray hissed and bubbled, stinging his skin. "Not my fault. Bunch of... prisoners jumped me."
"They resent you because of your part in the Project," Torch said quietly. "You'll need to stay in the medbay for the foreseeable future. You need a sterile environment; I'm not going to risk your wound becoming infected."
Vhetin chuckled weakly. "Afraid you'll... lose your Primary?"
"Keep your prejudices in check," Torch said, kneeling next to him and pulling an emergency med kit from his supply pack. "You're losing blood fast. It looks like that shiv grazed one of your kidneys."
He pulled out a syringe of clear fluid. Bacta, unless Vhetin was mistaken. Torch inspected the needle, tapped it to get the air bubbles out, then said, "This is going to hurt for a moment."
Then he pushed the needle into the side of Vhetin's neck and depressed the plunger. Vhetin felt as if fire was racing through his veins, not unlike his previous experiences with the Tests. After a few seconds, though, the pain faded. It was replaced by a hazy feeling of exhaustion. His eyelids suddenly felt as if they had weights hooked to them.
"You're going to sleep for a while," Torch said, his face wavering in and out of focus. "And when you wake, you and I are going to have a talk."
Then Vhetin fell down into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, the first he'd had in months.
The sky was roiling with purple-black clouds. Dirty-looking lightning forked silently through the sky far off in the distance. The faint murmur of thunder wafted through the air several moments later, and electrical interference from the lightning made stormtrooper PX-542's HUD crackle for a split second.
He sighed and hefted his rifle, ambling back and forth in front of the entrance checkpoint. He opened a comm channel to his buddy, TT-983, who was guarding the next checkpoint in.
"Is there anything more boring than being out on patrol?" he asked.
83 replied with, "Eight-Three here. Chrono shows we've only got a couple more hours until shift's up. Keep your space panties on, Four-two. You'll get plenty of sack time later. Anything wrong on your end?"
"Nope. All quiet here." 42 looked up at the sky again, watched as another off-color lightning bolt raced from cloud to ground. "Ever wonder what's wrong with the sky? It's never not about to rain, and the clouds are all purple and blue and stuff."
"Kriffin' atmosphere's to blame. Solar radiation makes the sky all kriffed-up. At least that's what I hear."
"Think it has something to do with whatever happens inside the facility?"
"Nah. I heard that's all about biological weapons. Nothing that would change the weather. Besides, the clouds have been like this since we got here. Unless the brainiacs in the facility finished with their little science fair freak show months ago already, it wouldn't change the atmosphere."
"You know," 42 said slowly, "I heard this project has some pretty big investors. I mean really big."
"How big?"
"As in the big guy in black himself."
"What?" 83 scoffed. "Ol' freaky-faceplate Vader? Nah, you've been swiggin' down too much Tarisian ale on off-hours, Four-two."
"That's just what I heard. I also heard some folks around base saying they saw him."
"And they didn't get their windpipes crushed in? They should count themselves lucky."
"They're lucky that they're still stuck guarding kriff-knows-what on some backwater world in the middle of nowhere? Making sure no one gets in or out without knowing who or what is even going to try? Our orders are bullshit and you know it."
"Copy that. But as long as the Caped Crusader is marching up and down the halls, no one's gonna say a damn-"
The rest of 83's transmission was washed out by static. 42 put a hand to his comm unit and said, "Eight-three? You reading me?"
After a few moments, the static vanished and 83 said, "Yeah. Just a little interference. I'm guessin' it's from the lightning. I'll take my bucket down to Maintenance later, see if they can-"
Static again, drowning out the rest of the trooper's speech. 42 stopped his march back and forth in front of the main checkpoint and said, "Eight-three? Eight-three, you should boost your signal strength to-"
83's voice came back, grunting and gasping as if he was struggling against something. There was an odd clicking, warbling noise in the background of his transmission, as well as the scraping of metal against metal.
"Eight-three? What the hell is going on?"
"...et off me you... damn piece of... -crap metal!"
That was it; Four-two set off at a run through the security checkpoint. He activated his comm as he went, saying, "Trooper PX-Five-Four-Two, requesting assistance. I've heard sounds of a potential attack. Possible security breach in sector-"
His transmission was cut short as something flashed past his field of vision and he tripped over something in front of him. He sprawled forward onto his faceplate, his rifle clattering away. He rolled over onto his back and muttered, "What the-"
He was suddenly pinned to the ground as a woman dressed entirely in white planted her knee against his chestplate. He was about to signal for help when she balled up a fist and punched him in the throat. All that passed from his lips was a dry rasp.
The woman stared at him with pale blue eyes that were narrowed to slits. Then she reached out and pulled his helmet off. Four-two could still hear the comm dispatcher saying, "Four-two? Four-two, do you read me? Is there a security breach?"
The woman pulled a device from a pouch on her belt and held it to his helmet's earpiece. She pressed a button and his own recorded voice began speaking.
"Nope," the recorded voice said. "All quiet here."
There was a long pause from the dispatcher. "You just transmitted that you heard an attack."
The woman depressed another button. "That's just what I heard."
"Eight-three," the dispatcher said, "can you confirm that it was a false alarm?"
"Yeah," came Eight-three's voice over the comm system. "Just a little interference. I'm guessin' it's from the lightning. I'll take my bucket down to Maintenance later."
"All right," the dispatcher said, still sounding a little suspicious. "I'll log this as a false alarm. Pay better attention out there."
"Copy that."
The woman shut down her recording device, then looked down at Four-two again. She pulled a contoured cylinder from her belt and pointed it at him. He tried to scream, but no sound would escape his lungs. He tried to scramble away as twin durasteel shafts sprang from either end of the cylinder, turning into a three-foot weapon, but he barely made it a foot. The woman pulled back and whipped the staff across his forehead, sending him into dark, silent oblivion.
The woman in white dragged the unconscious stormtrooper to a nearby ditch, rolled him into it, then covered his unconscious body with foliage to disguise him from any passerby. He would probably stay unconscious for the next few hours. More than enough time for her to complete her objective.
She turned back to the Imperial facility that was built into the gentle slope of a hillside. That meant the majority of the building must be underground. Worrisome, but not mission-changing.
She hooked a comm set into her ear and whispered, "Objective complete. I am infiltrating the facility now."
"Hmm," said a dark, nasally voice. "Did you incapacitate the guard? Or did you ssplit his sskull?"
"That is not your concern, Trassk," she murmured with a scowl.
"The successs of the mission iss very much my concern, Handmaiden."
"She's right," said a new, female voice. "Put a lid on it, Trassk. Status report, both of you."
"Hmm, my sscavenger droids are making their way into the facility as we sspeak," Trassk snarled. "They should have accesss to the facility's computer ssystemss in a matter of minutess."
"I am making my way into the facility as well," the Handmaiden added. "I will infiltrate via the ventilation ducts and attempt to find a viewpoint of our target. I will contact you again when I have completed my assignment."
"We'll be right behind you," said the second female voice. "Set your mission clocks and remember your objectives. Get the facility's security systems down within two hours. If you can't, we'll all be walking into live fire."
"With the utmosst pleasure," Trassk hissed.
"It shall be done," the Handmaiden murmured. She stealthily crept back to the security checkpoint, wary of any troopers that may have returned. She found the place as deserted as she had left it.
She easily found a grating that led into the facility's complex ventilation system. A well-placed kick to the grating knocked it free of its housing and gave her an opening wide enough to crawl through. She pulled her white cloth hood over her head, then disappeared inside, pulling the grating back into place as soon as she was clear.
A gentle breeze wafted through the empty security checkpoint. There was no sign that anyone stormtrooper or otherwise had stood there only five minutes before.