Chapter 12

A large bipedal mechanism lurched noisily down the road, while the compartment atop two mechanical legs swiveled to the left and right. The troopers inside were unhappy with their assignment, because they knew too well that this stretch of road had become a haven for insurgents bent on causing no end of grief for Imperial troops. They eyed their instruments nervously and strained with their eyes to see through the thick canopy of forest. Their instruments revealed nothing. Their natural vision picked out the various craters that had been blasted into the road.

Every so often, troopers spotted pieces of shattered and scorched remnants of Imperial equipment off the side of the road. The clean-up crews had done a pretty good job of clearing out most of the debris, and engineers conducted road repair. But here, there was little in the way of road repair. Not all of the blasted remnants of vehicles along the side of the road were Imperial in make. The remains of US Army vehicles dotted the landscape as well. Some of those had been used by the very engineers who had come to service the road and found only an untimely death at the hands of the insurgents.

Evening light was slowly transforming into nautical twilight, and the light of a few of the billions of stars and galaxies were beginning to pierce the sky and grace the planetary surface. Imperial detection instruments were good, and during the start of the insurgency they had been very effective at sniffing out ambushes. Additionally, the explosives native to the planet were powerful, but they were often insufficient against the plasteel armor of Imperial combat systems. That was then. Nobody could prove it, but the local Imperial government knew that Rebels had somehow smuggled high-grade shaped explosives and heavy weapons onto the planet, and they were now in use by the insurgency. Similarly, the insurgents were now much better at concealing themselves from Imperial sensors.

"I still don't understand why they don't just waste this useless stretch of land," growled the junior of the two troopers.

His gaze alternated nervously between the instruments glowing softly before him and the more three-dimensional view of the dark landscape through his periscope. Not so long ago, the forward ports of his Imperial walker would have been pushed open on the bottom, allowing the cool breeze of the evening air to wash over him and offering a limited view of what was in front of the crew compartment. That also was then. Too many walkers had been disabled and their crew killed in the past, and the Imperial maintenance sections added more armor to the compartments, along with more jamming mechanisms. Reports were that the insurgents possessed some walkers and used them in ambushes and strikes against Imperial checkpoints.

"It's the only planet within this galaxy that's inhabited or inhabitable," returned the senior trooper automatically, "besides, they're just a bunch of Rebels. They'll find out they're on the losing side soon enough."

Like his counterpart, he too was studying his instruments, looking carefully for anything even vaguely out of the ordinary. They had stopped earlier in the evening to investigate something suspicious. Dismounting wasn't an option – that invited a quick death. Instead, the walkers had been fitted with robotic arms, packed with local sensors and manipulating claws. It was slow and cumbersome work, but it saved manpower.

The last stop proved to be the result of a hoax bomb. The sophisticated sensors had uncovered three old beer bottles tied together with 550-cord and some old chemical lights. The Force only knew what the insurgents sure to be concealed within the surrounding forest were doing while the walker had been stopped for more than 30 minutes investigating what turned out to be garbage.

"I don't care if it's the only rock in this stupid galaxy or not," replied the junior trooper with bitterness, "So far as I'm concerned, we need to exfiltrate this place, raze it to the ground and terraform it from scratch."

The senior trooper was about to reply, when he heard an audible beep, followed by a voice in Basic with a heavy dialect. It came through weakly.

The trooper's eyes fell upon a rectangular green box that had been fitted into the already jammed compartment. Glowing green digits on the face of the thing identified a series of numbers in the local language. He knew the item was termed as a "SINCGAR," and though he knew that to be an acronym for something, he didn't know what the acronym was, nor did he care to learn. That the thing was in his vehicle in the first place was mildly insulting to him. It was designed by the local military to encode and decode transmissions while rotating through many frequencies per second. It also relied on ancient radio technology, was relatively power hungry for its limited role, and its onboard computer was horribly slow.

As a result, the thing beeped and then a voice emanated forth, and the delay due to encryption was noticeable. The trooper knew why the SINCGAR radio was in his compartment. It was how Imperial combat vehicles communicated with the vehicles native to Sol that were following his walker at a distance. In the past, such native vehicles were outfitted with Imperial communications suites, but the insurgents had proven to be adept at stripping vehicles of those systems once they had disabled them and eliminated the occupants.

The Empire felt it no longer could afford to lose such sensitive equipment to the already dangerous insurgency. The trooper reached for a switch above his head to change over to the archaic radio system. Thankfully, Imperial maintenance crews and communications technicians had wired the radio system into the vehicle's communications suite.

"Last calling station, you came in broken and unreadable. Say again," barked the trooper into the air.

He knew that the system's computer-controlled microphone would modulate his voice for maximum audible value, but it was designed for Imperial systems, not the alien radio systems. While still locking his eyes onto his various critical systems, the trooper listened for the expected reply.

"Scout Five Seven, this is Caveman Six," came in a now readable voice after the usual beep, "We have reached Checkpoint two nine four – negative enemy contact."

The trooper acknowledged the transmission and then toggled a display in front of him. A map glowed, showing the route on which he and the convoy of vehicles behind him were traveling. A few pecks of the screen revealed an angry glow of red dots which represented historical attacks by insurgents along the route. With the slightest tinge of relief, he saw that his convoy was beyond the most popular ambush sites.

The vehicles carried bulk supplies that were destined for smaller Imperial combat outposts. Not so long ago, Imperial shuttles delivered supplies to those isolated locations, but Rebels had not neglected the smuggling of deadly weapon systems that were all too effective at acquiring and destroying airborne craft, and after the Empire had lost a few dozen shuttles, they decided the risk of re-supplying the combat outposts by air was too high for the benefit.

Thus, ground convoys to such locations were now the norm. Most such convoys were protected by several Imperial combat vehicles, but this was a small one, so only two modified scout walkers were allocated to provide security. The trooper had been told he could expect air support if needed, but it was not allocated to the mission. Unless he saw craft overhead, the trooper knew that a response by such airborne craft would likely come too late to help him.

"This is bantha fodder!" said the junior trooper suddenly.

His counterpart turned to him to learn just what the trooper thought was crap.

"What?" he replied uninterestedly, both annoyed and relieved at having his attention momentarily removed from the instruments.

"We have the best systems and equipment in the galaxy, and they're all but worthless for finding rebels in places like this," continued the frustrated trooper, "We should be able to see a tick on a gungar with these scopes, but…"

WHUMP!

The shock against the rear of the walker's compartment was barely noticeable, but experience instantly told both troopers that the blast had come from their rear, was not aimed at them, and had been considerable. Slight sounds that penetrated the up-armored walker also informed the troopers that heavy weapons fire was ringing out behind them.

"Scout Five Seven, Caveman Two Four, the Six has been hit! Damage appears catastrophic! We're taking fire from our three and nine o'clock, returning fire. We've got no PID!" said a disembodied and frantic voice over the SINCGARS radio system after the characteristic beep.

The ranking trooper cursed softly to himself and maneuvered his walker to turn 180 degrees. He scanned his systems and saw vague readings that were most likely insurgents murdering members of his trust. He fired a quick burst from his side cannon at the forest edge. He could still see the heavy weapons fire through his visual scope, but much of it originated from the mounted weapon systems of the trapped wheeled vehicles.

The senior trooper had been on patrols like this long enough to recognize .50 caliber machine gun tracers, and his instruments confirmed that such fire was also coming from the wood line. The insurgents had waited for his walker to pass by and then sprung their ambush on the wheeled vehicles hauling supplies, equipment and personnel.

How many stormtroopers were trapped in those burning vehicles? Not all of them were, for the trooper could also see lancing red blaster fire leaping into the forest. At least some of the stormtroopers had dismounted and joined in the fight. He couldn't see their armor, for the stormtroopers had long ago ceased wearing the bright white armor and now sported camouflaged armor that blended in with the terrain.

"Contact, bearing two four three, mark two!" barked the second trooper.

As the walker continued lurching toward the gunfire, angry red bolts burned forth from its tubes and found marks inside the forest. A small fire now burned lightly within the trees, and the volume of heavy weapons fire was lessening. Small-arms fire from native projectile weapons mixed in with the heavier projectile weapons and red blaster fire, but all of it was now originating from the convoy.

The lead trooper called for a cease fire as he and his counterpart busily scanned the forest for signs of further enemy activity. He found none, but scanners picked up about a half dozen dead bodies inside the forest line, and more than 30 were dead within the convoy, along with many more badly injured. He knew from experience that insurgents did not leave behind wounded. They usually killed themselves or were in turn killed if they were too badly injured to escape. Some booby-trapped themselves in hopes of slaughtering more of their foes even in death.

Infuriated and frustrated, the lead trooper conducted a call to his higher headquarters and his counterpart gave the appropriate instructions to the remaining functional vehicles and personnel within the convoy.

Damaged vehicles were completely destroyed in place, and the bodies of the locals found hasty graves along the side of the road. Some bodies were loaded onto wheeled vehicles, but most of those had already been loaded down with supplies and equipment, and were now cross-loading from damaged and destroyed vehicles. Equipment that could not be loaded in the few vehicles remaining was also destroyed in place. Then there were the injured. The lead trooper shook his head in frustration. This isn't what he had signed up for.

…

Billions of stars burned brightly, sending their light across countless light years and through the transparency, reminding anyone who viewed them just how insignificant a being was in relation to their vast expanse. An older man with hair speckled more with grey than a younger brown peered blankly through the transparency, allowing his eyes to drop to the glowing orb about which his ship orbited. His furrowed brow bespoke the recent setbacks that Imperial troops had been dealt throughout various continents on the planet now reflecting blue light from its large oceans to his vision. He had petitioned to the High Command to raze portions of Sol in order to restore order and quash the various insurgencies, but his requests had been denied. While this had initially been a much sought-after post for Imperial officers, it now had become a place to be avoided.

The massive star destroyer in which the admiral was currently ensconced possessed sufficient weaponry in and of itself to reduce the planet at the lower end of his vision to a smoldering ruin, and yet its immensely powerful guns remained mockingly silent. He knew that three other star destroyers and a small host of smaller warships floated in orbit around Sol, and picket ships were scattered throughout the solar system.

The multiple-colored squares arranged neatly on his tunic marked the man as an admiral, but for now he felt as helpless as a cadet, powerless to exercise his true authority. His hands were tied, and rumor was that the Emperor himself was instrumental in ensuring the knot was tight. That was only rumor though, and for all his disappointment, the admiral was an Imperial officer. Orders would be obeyed without question, even here on the edge of nowhere.

A soft beep within his room informed the admiral that his attention was needed. He absently checked his chronometer, noticing that it was nearly time for his periodic update. Suppressing a sigh, the admiral exited his room and made his way to the bridge of the flagship. During his trek, officers, crewmen, and stormtroopers duly stepped aside for him, some coming to the position of attention, and others pausing momentarily and then moving hurriedly onward. The admiral paid them little attention as he continued on his way. The blast doors to the bridge swished open at his arrival, and two flanking stormtroopers snapped to attention, with their blasters at port arms.

"Admiral on deck!" shouted a senior crewman who happened to have his eyes on the blast doors when they opened.

Other crewman and officers quickly rose to their feet.

"As you were!" replied the admiral as he continued toward the front of the bridge.

To either side of him, officers and crewmen in pits resumed their seats and attention to various instruments, scopes and monitors. The vessel's captain, a young man by the name of Rogh from Alderaan, waited at a modified position of attention. He held a small remote in his right hand and stood in front of a large monitor. Several seats were to his front, along with various senior officers including ship captains and senior ground commanders standing in front of the chairs. "Take your seats, gentlemen," said the admiral as he took his own seat at the front of the group.

Captain Rough gestured to another officer, who began to brief the admiral and gathered senior officers on the events of the day. Included were at least three detections of possible smuggling operations.

"Were we able to intercept any of the smugglers?" inquired the admiral.

"Sir, we intercepted one outbound Corellian freighter, but the occupants checked out and we found no contraband. Sources indicated that the ship likely brought in contraband destined for Rebel sympathizers on the planet – possibly explosives and small-arms weapons."

The admiral frowned. "Rebel sympathizers" were what insurgents on Sol were being labeled now.

He had held his post for almost two years, and he wasn't sure the label fit. The insurgents seemed to sympathize with nobody, though they were all too willing to take whatever the Rebels could get to them. The Empire had sent in bounty hunters against known insurgent leaders, but most of the bounty hunters did not return, and the few that did catch leaders of the insurgency took their bounty and left, swearing off the practice of their trade upon the surface of Sol. The insurgent leaders provided little of value, even when the interrogation droids got through with them.

Part of the problem was that there was no single insurgency down there. There were many different insurgencies and many different goals. The only thing they held in common with each other was a hatred of the Empire. The Empire had rounded up thousands of people and executed them in response to insurgent violence, but such actions seemed only to provoke the populace further against Imperial rule, and insurgents only grew stronger. They had an uncanny ability to wage an effective information operations campaign against the Empire, blowing Imperial mistakes out of proportion and demonizing even the most benign Imperial efforts to assist the planet's populace.

The Imperial officer providing the brief continued, covering the numerous attacks against Imperial forces across the planetary surface. No one land mass seemed more or less active than another. Had that been the case, the Empire might have been able to make an example out of a more rebellious population. Reprisals against the populace still continued, and insurgents who were captured were publicly put to death. The policy seemed to garner little effect though, much to the chagrin of the senior leadership now present.

The briefing officer's multiple reports of attacks against Imperial forces down below would have drawn much ire and angry retorts from senior commanders several months ago. But now, most appeared unfazed and almost disinterested at the reports of dead and injured Imperial personnel due to enemy action. It was just part of doing business here. As the younger officer concluded his brief, he opened the floor up to questions.

"We haven't seen much violent activity in certain sections of what are otherwise violent and insurgent-controlled landmasses," said one of the generals in charge of a land mass near what was called Europe.

"Sir, some population centers are less prone to armed resistance than others," said the briefing officer obviously, "but those areas less prone to violent resistance are still subject to non-violent resistance."

The admiral silently wondered why the general had bothered to speak. These briefs were depressing and lengthy enough without someone asking stupid questions or pointing out the obvious. Yes, some of the population centers would conduct activities like work stoppages instead of violent activity, though such activity was hardly less damaging to Imperial interests on the planet. After a couple more questions and disinterested answers or promises of forthcoming answers, the brief was concluded.

As the gathered senior officers departed the bridge for their various shuttles, the admiral slowly made his way to the enormous view plates of the star destroyer's bridge. At the lower edge of the transparencies, a bright glow of Sol seemed to warm the feet within his boots. A brief smile flashed across the admiral's face as he allowed himself to envision hundereds of gigatons of destructive energy encased within the ship's heavy turbolaser bolts biting deeply into the crust and mantle of the accursed planet, withering all life away in righteous fire. Then reality came crushing back down, wiping the smile from his face. No. More of his men would uselessly die there, and for what? Yes, he knew the planet was the only habitable one detected within this galaxy, but why not raze and terraform it, or why not just poison and eliminate the native intelligent population, allow the poison to subside, and then colonize it?

The admiral shook his head. That led only to more futile thoughts. The admiral turned his gaze outward, toward the stars. This pathetic population had managed only the very beginnings of space exploration when the Empire had arrived, and now much of that population had access to hyperspace travel that could hurl them to far-flung worlds in a different galaxy altogether. How did they display their gratitude?

Again the admiral shook his head and fixed his gaze upon a distant and dim star. He could almost imagine Coruscant in the distance, though he knew the notion to be absurd.

Still, one could occasionally afford to daydream, even in a place like this.

…

"Yes, the report is true. You are slotted for the next class here on Imperial Center," answered the personnel clerk over the intercom.

Greg blinked. He had put in an application for the Imperial Military Academy five months ago, but he had been all but assured that he would not be accepted. Academy administrators and personnel screeners were notorious for weeding out all but those deemed to be most loyal to the Empire. Greg also found out that the academy generally accepted only applicants from core systems or systems closer to the core. Sol definitely did not fit the bill. He had inquired about other commissioning sources, but there appeared to be none. Greg could find no officer candidate school or even a form of reserve officer training corps. From what he understood, that made sense. The Empire wanted its officers firmly vetted and indoctrinated, and a four-year academy wherein the activities of cadets were tightly monitored and controlled would go a long way in ensuring loyalty throughout the officer ranks of the far-flung Empire.

"Thanks, uh, do you have a starting date for the class?" inquired Greg of the speaker on his console.

The person on the other end did not respond for a while, and Greg wondered if perhaps he had terminated the connection.

"You will report in twenty-eight standard days," replied the clerk, just as Greg was about to attempt to reestablish communication.

He wondered inwardly why such communication did not include video, but then what had just been said registered.

"Twenty-eight days? My commander…"

"Your commander has been informed."

"Uh, ok, I guess. Thanks for the information. Uh, out," said Greg as he pressed a button to terminate the connection.

He pondered what he had just learned. Greg had heard the rumor from a fellow intelligence crewman who had offered him congratulations earlier in the day. He had first dismissed the information as a joke, but then another crewman had also congratulated him later in the day. That proved too much of a coincidence.

Greg also pondered the cryptic message he was sure had come from his former boss on Sol. That was almost a year ago. It had informed him to act, or so he thought. Greg expected follow-on instructions, but they had not yet made their way to his terminal. He had briefly considered revealing the message to his superiors, but then he decided against it. He wasn't yet ready to turn on his own people, though what defined his own people now seemed increasingly vague with each passing day. He could think of nothing in the message that forbade him from attending the Imperial Military Academy on Coruscant.

For the life of him, Greg couldn't figure out what MS. Elliott had meant by a kick winning a football game. He assumed that meant that he was supposed to do something. But what was it he was supposed to do? Find the Imperial inquisitor and kick him in the nuts? A brief smile washed over Greg's face, and he nearly laughed out loud. He was glad he didn't. Other terminals were still in use, and he would have drawn odd looks.

Greg stared at his terminal. He had made significant progress in programming in counterinsurgency doctrine and tools, and he had provided training to others. He understood that some of those tools were being used to good effect against the terrorists throughout the galaxy, and the Rebels were starting to feel the pinch. It was even rumored that his identity had been leaked to the Rebels, who now sought his untimely demise. Greg chuckled. The thought of being added to a death list simply for entering what he knew into a terminal struck him as absurd. Greg had made some solid acquaintances with some of the analysts with whom he worked, and he would miss spending some of his free time with them.

Greg had enjoyed cruising some of the bars and clubs throughout the city, and there were no shortages of places to visit. He had even dated a couple of women, though none of them struck him as possibilities for long-term commitments, nor did they seem interested in such a prospect. He didn't know if his girlfriend on Sol was still alive after all this time, but he imagined that she had moved on by now, likely assuming the worst of Greg, or perhaps just finding someone else. Greg logged off of his terminal and made his way to his commander's office. As he strode down the hallway outside of the work center, Greg nearly ran headlong into General Voss.

"Uh, pardon me, sir!" said Yost as he snapped to attention. The general stopped and looked at Greg.

"Congratulations on your selection to the academy, Yost," announced the general without preamble.

Greg was taken aback and nearly lost his composure. He also almost asked the senior officer for what he was being congratulated. Then he remembered who the senior officer was and what he tended to know.

"Thank you, sir."

The general gave Yost a weak smile and then continued on his way. Greg relaxed and then made his way to his quarters. Packing took less time than Greg thought it would. He really didn't have much. Twenty-seven days and a wakeup were all that separated Greg from becoming an Imperial cadet. The mused what life would be like at the academy and thought about asking an officer about it.

No, asking officers about the academy would likely garner little other than sharp replies. Most Imperial officers didn't appear too keen on speaking with enlisted members outside of duty requirements. That struck Greg as a bit sad. As a US officer, he had known a great deal about his own enlisted men, and while he was never friends with them, he was happy to answer any questions they might have had.

Greg changed out of his work clothes and decided to relax in one of the facility's multiple recreational centers. There were female crewmen about, but not very many. Greg had halfway hoped to strike up a casual relationship with one of them, but now that he was slated for the academy, that seemed less of a good idea. As it was, Greg ordered what passed for a beer and settled in to watch a holovid. This particular piece of entertainment depicted the end of the Clone War. Greg watched as Jedi turned on their clone troopers, slaughtering them in place with lightening from their fingertips and then turning on helpless, screaming civilians. Truly, these must have been people bent on evil. Vaguely, he now wondered if that Imperial inquisitor had once been one of those awful Jedi. Greg involuntarily rubbed his shoulder, where he could feel a small bruise.

…

Harry Bertha was feeling better. For three nights this week he had got more than six hours of sleep per night. Only two months ago, that would have been unthinkable. He still ordered the movement of his tactical operations center nearly every day, but his team was adept and quick. TOC jumps were so fluid now that their impacts were hardly felt anymore. Not jumping the TOC now seemed unnatural. He had received deliveries of advanced equipment, munitions, weapons, and supplies from higher. He learned that the Rebels had smuggled the stuff to Earth, doling it out to the many insurgencies. They were hurting the Empire's efforts here on the planet. Not that the Empire was going away, but their stay was becoming more miserable by the day.

Harry had long since stopped thinking about why he was fighting. That question was for higher headquarters and people with larger paychecks to answer. For months now, he had even begun receiving salaries for his soldiers and officers, though it was all in cash. The Empire had attempted to eliminate cash and implement their electronic credit system. Some parts of Earth were using the system, but much of the population still wasn't. Cold, hard cash was still accepted pretty much wherever you went in what was once called the United States. The Rebels had made it possible for patriots to strike Imperial interests far and wide, and the Imperials were smarting from such attacks. Official news releases played down patriot attacks, but Harry knew better. He had seen the actual reports, and thanks to successful attacks he was in possession of superior equipment from another galaxy.

Briefly, Harry Bertha wondered why the Empire didn't turn its massive warships loose on his planet. He knew they possessed the ability to unleash hell on the surface, but with the exception of a show of force in the Middle East, Washington D.C., and a select group of cities across the globe, the guns of the giant starships had remained mostly silent. That puzzled Harry. Were he in charge of such ships, he most certainly would have ordered a series of deadly strikes on the planet. He wondered about the competence of the Imperial officers commanding those ships. Oh well, it wasn't his call, and thankfully the Imperials hadn't yet unleashed those ships of theirs.

"Sir!" said a junior officer, poking his head into Harry's small room.

Harry studied the kid, for in his mind that's what he was – a kid. The young officer wore civilian clothes like every other patriot, but Harry knew that he was ranked as a second lieutenant. He knew the lad had not attended any form of commissioning program, and yet he was a commissioned officer – for a nation that officially no longer existed. These were indeed strange times.

"Yes, lieutenant?" replied Harry, who simply could not remember the kid's name.

"Sir, you've got a message from Lancer Six."

Harry started. He hadn't received a message from Lancer Six in months, though he did send periodic reports. Gone were the clunky radio sets and CBs. The battalion now had extra-galactic communications equipment with unimaginably complex encryption. Harry walked into the communications room. Still present was an HF radio set, but it had not been used in many months, and it served only as a backup if all else failed. Harry walked toward the far end of the room where a small, alien-looking data pad awaited. It wasn't much larger than a calculator, and it reminded him of an over-sized and flattened cell phone with a built-in computer. He looked at the message displayed on the screen.

THE HALF BACK IS IN THE LOCKER ROOM. THE COACH IS SET TO MAKE ONE HELL OF A HALF-TIME SPEECH!

So that was it – Yost was in now. Harry recalled the young lieutenant who had served as his assistant S2. That seemed an eternity ago. He had been a quiet but promising officer, and Harry knew him to be intelligent. He was also loyal. He would need that loyalty now. The right strings had been pulled and the right folks impressed, so now Gregory Yost was set to become an Imperial officer.

Colonel Bertha thought about his own days at the US Military Academy. They had been arduous and full of indoctrination. He had come out with a great sense of honor for his country and a deep sense of duty. Would the Imperial Academy do the same for Yost? Would his loyalty to the US survive? In four years, they would know. Then again, in four years they all could be dead and nothing more than a memory. Harry shrugged and peered over at the watch officer.

"How's the coffee this morning, Bill?'

"It's hot, sir."

"Outstanding! Think I'll grab a cup," said Harry with a wry smile.

…

Gregory Yost stepped off the transport and found himself milling about with a crowd of men, mostly younger than himself. The majority of the young men wore civilian clothes denoting the planets from which they hailed. A small scattering wore grey service uniforms like Greg. He knew that the academy allowed a very small percentage of enlisted men to compete for entrance. The hall at which the men had been deposited was cavernous, and Imperial posters announcing duty, sacrifice, and service to the Empire were scattered throughout the massive hall. Nobody here seemed to be in charge.

Greg was tempted to take charge and get all the civilians into a formation, but then he heard the heavy and synchronized footfalls of Imperial stormtroopers. Greg saw that the element of stormtroopers marched out toward the disorganized crowd, members of which hurried out of the way of the impressive display. Then the stormtroopers split their formation without warning and, continuing to march in unison, turned in sharp angles until they completely surrounded the crowd. At once, all the stormtroopers snapped to attention, their blasters at port arms. The crowd was now almost completely silent.

Loud footfalls of military boots announced the arrival of a few individuals. Greg had to maneuver his way toward the front of the crowd, using his uniform to make it seem he belonged there. He could now see that a high-ranking individual stood in the center of two stormtroopers with distinctive shoulder pauldrons and wicked-looking carbines at the ready. Greg guessed they were the senior officer's personal security detachment.

"Welcome to the Imperial Military Academy on Imperial Center!" announced the senior officer, "My name is General Nadine, and I am the Commandant of this academy."

Greg looked around in slight bafflement, because he knew that the voice of the general could not naturally carry in this vast hall. The man apparently had a lapel microphone or something like it. From this distance, Greg couldn't tell.

"You have all come here to seek to serve as officers in the Empire! Many of you will not make it through the rigorous training the next four standard years will entail. Those of you who do will gain the high privilege and deep responsibility of leading Imperial soldiers and crewmen in battle against the forces of chaos, disruption, and terrorism that threaten daily to upset the peace and order of our mighty Empire. Long live Emperor Palpatine!"

With that, the general was finished, and he and his personal security detachment conducted a perfect about face, marching back to wherever they'd come from.

Greg looked about at the hall and the awed mass of civilians within it. This would be interesting.