Chapter 8
The deep-blue glass stretched out for what seemed an eternity, and what passed for a sky shifted with varying colors, mostly composed of a purplish hue. Greg peered down at his feet and they appeared suspended over the glass, beneath which appeared to be nothing at all. How thick was the glass, and why did it have no end? What held it up? Just as quickly as those thoughts flitted through his mind, they vanished like a haze in a lazy breeze. Ahead of him, Greg could see shadows in the distance. They appeared so far away that he couldn't make them out. Every so often he thought he could hear whispers, but he couldn't make out what they said.
Greg walked toward one of the shadowy figures, which got larger but strangely less descript. The whispers became louder, even if they were coming from different directions, but Greg could not make out even one word. He looked down and noticed that he was no longer walking, but instead he was gliding over the strange, glass ground. Suddenly, he stopped as though he had hit a wall. The still nondescript shadow closed in on him and whispered unintelligibly into Greg's face.
One piece of a phrase made it through to him, "It is a lie!"
Without warning, the glass ground and purple canopy of the sky vanished, replaced by hot ash. Greg felt himself sliding down a hole beneath, which led to but more ash and a glowing of a great flame.
Downward he slid on the ash. He was not burned, but he did feel hotter the further down he slid, and all about him he could hear laughter. It wasn't a happy sound, but a twisted and corrupt laughter, filled with darkness.
Greg awoke with a gasp, looking at the bunk above his own. He quickly realized the time and knew it was at least two hours until his time to report for his shift. The Dominion was a large ship by crew standards. These older dreadnaughts apparently required a great amount of men to crew, and that was one of the reasons the Empire maintained so relatively few of them, or so he had been told by one of the senior enlisted men.
Something else had been eating at Greg too. Several days ago he had lost a Sabaac game to some men he scarcely knew. The man who had invited Greg to attend had been very guarded about what he told Greg. He told Greg that all was not as it appeared. He also gave Greg a name to keep on the lookout for from incoming communication. Griff gave him the name of Ms. Linda Elliott. The name meant nothing to him, but Griff told him to expect communication from her. Greg shrugged to the darkness. Two hours or more of sleep couldn't hurt, and the next day promised to be interesting.
"I granted you some of my time, because I felt you might provide me with something useful," said the lieutenant.
Greg consciously did not shake his head or change his facial expression. He had just spent the past twenty minutes describing the use of situational templates and basic pattern analysis to the Imperial officer, who seemed either not to get it or just not care.
"Sir, I've laid out here," Greg indicated the paper in front of him, "how we can use this pattern analysis diagram to determine where the Rebels are likely to strike next. All huma… er .. beings, set a pattern of behavior over time, whether they want to or not. As you can see by looking at these circles, we divide our pattern by type of incidence, time period, and we look at all of them over an extended period of time. Look here at the orange dots. Those represent…"
"I know what you said they represent, crewman, and you're wasting my time. Our computer systems are more than capable of picking out patterns from the Rebels, without the use of your … drawings. We have been beating Rebels for some time now without the assistance of outmoded and grossly outdated tools of a conquered race. If you've nothing more valuable to add, then I'll thank you for wasting my time."
The lieutenant rose from the table, a sneer of contempt still on his face. Greg wanted to grab the snotty idiot by his collar and smack some of that arrogance out of him. Greg knew all about the analysis systems embedded in the Imperial mainframes, and he was not impressed by what he'd seen. Not once had the computer accounted for instances of resupply, confirmed or suspected caches, or even safe houses (or safe planets in this case). This officer had no clue of how to conduct actual analysis. He had no concept of putting on the "red hat" and thinking like the enemy.
The enemy got a vote in combat too, but the Empire seemed to think that military might and overwhelming superiority by itself was sufficient to carry the day. Greg winced inwardly – it might be enough, but at unnecessary cost, and the result would be an endless civil war or a simmering insurgency at best. The pattern analysis wheel might look foolish to the Imperial officer, but at least he could have taken some time to attempt to understand it. Instead, he was wholly dismissive of Greg and anything he had to say.
"I have one more word of advice for you, crewman," growled the lieutenant as he turned to face Greg, "Spend less time doodling on scratch paper and pursuing foolishness, and spend more time concentrating on doing what you're here to do."
The officer was gone, so Greg did shake his head now. Over 16 thousand men were aboard this ship alone, and that didn't come close to the thousands of men on the other ships in the local sector fleet. The computer was very good at tracking combat actions by the Rebels, and it even conducted pretty good analysis on the attacks themselves, scanning for weaknesses in both enemy and friendly systems, but it did little to analyze the overall picture. Realization slapped Greg like a drunken woman.
Tactical intelligence: From what Greg could see, the Imperial navy simply had no concept of it. Senior officers appeared not to have the extensive staffs that Greg was accustomed to seeing in the US. No dedicated S2 or G2 provided an uncooperative enemy against whom to war-game. Amazingly, the operations section was left to conduct much of the analysis, and what they did provide was spit out by these infernal computers. More amazing still, nobody to whom Greg had spoken concerning his observations seemed to care one way or another. His shift would begin in about one hour, and he intended not to waste any more of it here in this cramped briefing room.
"So, you're a crewman then," said the man with short brown hair and a slight bit of facial growth.
Greg looked up at the man sitting to his left at the bar. He looked down at his drink, really wishing it contained alcohol right now.
"Yes, that's right," said Greg.
The man wrinkled his brow at him, which didn't surprise Greg.
"Can't place your dialect, friend."
"Sol."
"No kidding! You know, I know of one of my mates who was supposed to pacify that planet," said the stormtrooper.
The man was wearing civilian clothes, but he had felt it somehow necessary to strike up a conversation with Greg and had during the course of that conversation revealed to Greg his occupation. Greg was still depressed about his conversation with the lieutenant, so he found the conversation less than stimulating.
Greg gave the stormtrooper a half-smile, wondering why the man looked inebriated when his drink contained nothing more in the way of alcohol than did his own. The stormtrooper, Fluun was his name, smiled at Greg.
"You think there's something in my drink that makes me … looser, eh?"
"The thought crossed my mind."
Fluun leaned in closely toward Greg and said in a low voice, "I got some stuff, or access to some stuff that will help put your mind at ease, or at least let you forget about your hardships for just a little while."
As Fluun smiled, Greg was reminded somewhat of a used car salesman, or perhaps a shark.
"… and is this stuff … legal?"
"It's as legal as we need it to be," replied the stormtrooper.
Greg wrinkled his nose. He had been briefed on different types of contraband, including the penalties for being caught with it. This Fluun would likely want credits for whatever stuff he was offering, and then again he might be trying to set him up. Credits were transferred electronically via data pads, which were undoubtedly tracked by Imperial computer systems. Either way…
"Think I'll pass on it for now, Fluun, but thanks anyway."
"Suit yourself," replied Fluun nonchalantly, as he returned to his drink, "but I can see you have some issues.
Greg gave the man a sideways glance.
"What makes you say that?"
"You look like a man with a lot on his mind. You don't behave like a run-of-the-mill ship crewman, and you think you're limiting yourself."
"So, you're a shrink now too, Fluun?"
The word, "shrink" came out in English, so Greg quickly explained. Fluun laughed and shook his head.
"No, I'm not one of those, but I've been in service of the Emperor a long time, and so I can detect certain things. Why don't you tell me about it, or did you have something pressing to do instead?"
Greg thought about it. He had only recently completed his shift.
"Fluun, when is the last time the Empire faced an enemy on par with itself?" The other man appeared baffled by the question.
"The Rebels…"
"No, Fluun – a real and dedicated enemy with a standing military force on par with the Empire; that's what I'm talking about."
The man scratched his hair and peered at the far bulkhead.
"Separatists…"
"Clone War?" replied Greg.
"Yes. That was it. I wasn't around for it – not in the service of the Emperor, but one of my instructors served during that time."
He seemed to be recalling something that had taken place long ago, swishing his drink as he furrowed his brow.
"The Jedi were there. Were they military commanders?"
The other man glanced sharply at Greg, narrowing his eyes.
"You ask too many questions," growled Fluun.
Greg was taken aback at the man's sudden change, but he looked all the part of an off-duty stormtrooper now, and his glare was full of suspicion.
"Sorry I asked. You forget where I'm from."
Fluun's visage softened only slightly, but then he smiled weakly and nodded.
"Friend, some things are left better unsaid, and some questions are better unasked. That … war was what sealed our Empire as the ultimate power, and no one can stand up to us now."
The older man rose to his feet and turned to leave the bar. He slowed and turned his head, "And you would be really wise not mention those … sorcerers again. They're dead now, so let them rest in peace."
He strode out of the bar, and Greg was left alone with his drink. Belatedly, he wished he had asked about that "stuff" for his drink.
…
Griff peered at Greg over his cards, eyeing Greg with almost a detached interest. The room was mostly dark, save for the low lighting offered by the recreation room, and the droning of a holovid a couple of other crewmen were watching. Greg had acquiesced to playing another round of Sabaac with Griff and his quiet pals, so he had read up on the game. It was a game of chance, much like card games he had known back home. There, he knew only the games of Solitaire and Hearts. He returned Griff's gaze, who then glanced down at his cards and dealt one.
"So you like talking to stormtroopers?"
Greg blinked at the unexpected question and glanced quickly at Griff and then to the man in the shadows to his right. Like Griff, he appeared interested in his hand of cards, but Greg could feel his eyes through the darkness.
"He talked to me first. Was I supposed to tell him to pound sand?"
Griff smiled weakly and leaned back.
"I forget you don't know much about … how things work."
"What do you mean?" returned Greg. The other man chuckled quietly.
"Stormtroopers. It's not a good idea to get involved with them."
"How did you know I was speaking to Fluun anyway?" inquired Greg with suspicion edged on his words.
"You're on a first-name basis with him," said Griff with a smile.
Seeing Greg open his mouth to protest, he held up his free hand and continued, "It may seem like a big ship to you, Greg. But when you spend nearly a lifetime on this bucket, it shrinks. Not a lot goes on that I don't know about … or find out about."
The man leaned forward and eyed Greg thoughtfully, "You check your messages?"
"What do you mean?"
"Messages – on your terminal."
"Oh, you mean email." Greg recognized the looks of puzzlement and explained what he meant. Griff nodded.
"Might be a good idea to look at your … email. Might have some of your friends from your world missing you. You never know," added Griff indifferently.
Greg nodded, returning his attention to his hand.
Griff said, "Looks like we'll get an opportunity for some shore leave within the next week or so, so you might want to save up some credits."
Greg studied his hand, and it didn't look strong. He also didn't have much in the way of credits, and who knew what opportunities shore leave would offer. He folded and said goodbye to Griff and his buddies. Greg stopped at the holovid to take a look. Despite the entertainment being depicted in truly stunning 3D, the story didn't appeal to him, so he left the recreation room.
Greg decided to peruse his personal messages.
Dear Greg,
It has been a while since we were together in Pensacola, and I would very much like to see you again. I am so happy to see that you're serving in the space navy, but I want to see come back to Earth nice and safe. Mr. Belter asked me to say hello, and Chrissy misses you too. I will be in touch with you!
Love,
Ms. Elliott
Greg considered the message. He knew none of the people in the email, but he had been told to expect something from Ms. Elliott. One of the choices included a receipt request, and the message requested one. Greg reached out to select the choice, and then he stopped. Why should he reply at all?
Ms. Elliott was undoubtedly tied to the resistance on Earth. His reply would necessarily be considered a reinforcement of his commitment. Moreover, it would more than likely soon be followed by instructions. He moved his finger away from the selection. Then again, Griff was the one who had told him of Ms. Elliott. What was his tie in to this whole thing? Many of the crewmen on the Dominion would be eligible for shore leave within the next few weeks.
Kothlis was supposed to be rife with Rebels, and the Bothans were not entirely supportive of the Empire. Greg knew that was where he would get his leave, and he figured that any Rebel sympathizers aboard the Dominion would be in contact with insurgents on Kothlis as soon as their boots hit dirt. If one individual on one of many ships could find a way to get a message to Greg, then it wasn't a stretch to imagine what a planet full of Rebel sympathizers might be like.
Someone would know the message was delivered. Someone else would probably be able to determine that he had seen it, and then someone else would ask him questions he didn't want to answer. In anger and frustration, Greg shook his head. Why did things have to be so complicated?
Greg made his decision.