Chapter 16

Ash filled the air, but the frequent dust storms often made it indistinguishable from blowing sand. The ash of the destroyed city of Mecca mixed neatly with the dust, and the wide-spread destruction of the city ensured its remains travelled far with the raging winds. The evenings were growing cooler, but not so much as of yet. The local calendar recorded that it was late September, and the bristling heat of the summer had slowly given way to more sane temperatures deep within the Arabian wastelands.

Fluun and his garrison had relocated to just outside the city of Riyadh, which was the capital of this particular land-mass. For a couple of weeks after the destruction of Mecca, Imperial forces had suffered ferocious and suicidal attacks by the locals. Intelligence had reported that not only the locals had been involved in such attacks, but those adhering to the local religion from outside the local land-mass had also been part of the attackers. According to what Fluun had been told, most of the attackers had come from outside the local land-mass. He was simultaneously amazed and disgusted by the reckless fury of the attacks. While they had been largely ineffective, for nearly two weeks they had been also unrelenting.

Then, about a week ago the attacks had trickled down to just a tiny flow. Significant enemy activity was reportedly now no more than could be expected in any of the other land-masses on Sol. That both relieved and disturbed Fluun. Why had the attacks suddenly abated? Did the locals realize they were conquered? Did they finally realize their resistance was silly and futile? Fluun wanted to think so, but he was no less cautious and alert during patrols even so.

Today, he and his squad were conducting a dismounted patrol through the streets of downtown Riyadh, and he felt mild comfort at the newly-fielded battle droids intermixed with his men. He had signed for three of the devices. They were spherical droids about twice the size of what the locals would term a football. They contained a suite of sensors and were armed with heavy blasters. Fluun had also been briefed that the droids contained at least a couple of thermal detonators that could be launched in case his squad fell under heavy attack. He peered to his left and spotted one of the droids floating in the air on repulsor-lifts. It quickly darted down a toward a side alley and conducted its own scan and analysis. It was dark-grey in color, and only a few small red lights marked its otherwise clean surface. Fluun knew that the droid would report only what it perceived as possible threats.

Two days prior, the droid's sensors had detected a road-side bomb that Fluun's own sensors had not. After Fluun had ordered the droid to neutralize the threat, the droid had informed the squad of a minimal safe distance, emitted a shrieking alarm that startled and scattered the locals, and then fired upon the concealed bomb. A terrific blast showered fragmentation toward the street, and Fluun reflected darkly what such a blast might have done to him or his men.

Fluun turned his gaze away from the hovering droid. Two others like it were also in the vicinity, working tirelessly to keep his squad in one piece. Rumor had it that the locals had already developed methods to neutralize the droids, involving something that had been smuggled in by the Rebels. He ardently hoped that the locals here had run across no such equipment. Chanting in Arabic floated from loud-speakers of some of the local mosques. This was the call to prayer. Fluun watched as men in traditional dress, carrying sticks, walked among the shops to ensure they were closed during the time for prayer. Multitudes of men (Fluun could spot none of the black-clad shapes reportedly containing females) walked outside and unrolled small carpets on which they then faced the ruins of Mecca to pray.

Fluun ensured his squad gave the men a wide berth, for nothing was to be gained by overtly irritating or interrupting those who chose to engage in the widely-popular superstition. He was confused though. The local religion demanded prayer toward a city that the Empire had wiped off the face of the planet, and yet here they were – praying toward the ruins as though the city and its religious artifacts yet remained. Unconsciously, Fluun gripped his weapon more tightly.

The desert here was unforgiving, and it was hot. No calls to prayer were to be heard over loud-speakers, and the Empire had not seen fit to wipe out any city, nor had the inhabitants of this land provided them reason to do so. Even so, a short but furious battle raged above the skies. A local teenage farmer peered through binoculars into the sky and watched what he could of the unfolding conflict. His instrument was not very powerful, but he could make out what appeared to be a wedge-shaped starship firing at what could only be a much smaller starship that appeared intent on escaping.

Dim flashes told of enormous levels of firepower being flung between the two ships. After a while, he spotted a bright flash on what was likely the smaller vessel, and the firing abated. He lowered his binoculars and let his imagination run wild. Were those smugglers that were attempting to escape Imperial justice? Were starfighters involved in the fight? He would have given nearly anything to be in such a starfighter, pin-wheeling through space in pursuit of criminals, thugs or Rebels. He envisioned hapless criminals in the crosshairs of his guns as he squeezed the contacts and poured laser blasts forth in divine fury … then reality hit him like the desert heat.

This was Tatooine, and he was likely going nowhere. Last year he had asked his uncle if he could transmit his application to the academy and had been rebuffed. Uncle Owen admonished him, preaching that the family needed him too much for him to leave yet. Yet! Always later! Luke Skywalker felt it unfair. From the corner of his eye, Luke thought he saw a streak – perhaps a meteorite. Ah, what did it matter anyway? Resigned and in frustration, Luke turned his attention back to the evaporator he had been sent out to service. Nothing exciting ever happened to him, nor did it seem it ever would.

…

Power had but one purpose: It was to be consolidated and then carefully guarded. There were only those in power and those without to be ruled by it – or challengers to be eliminated. Power for the mere exercise of it was both the ends and the means. The Sith Lord meditated in his chambers, reaching out through the dark side of the Force. His enemies were there, outside, within the galaxy – his galaxy. He had accomplished what none of his order had achieved, and for that, dark pride swelled within him, but tempered by the purity of hatred. Challengers were all about him – even his own apprentice with his broken and now mostly-mechanical body. Yes, he had known early of Vader's secret apprentice, and Vader had been foolish to think he could hide such from his own master. That apprentice was dead, at Vader's own hand. In the end, the young man had served the interests of Sidious, to bring out his enemies in plain view, just as he had foreseen.

The challengers that Sidious now faintly sensed, like small whispers in his mind were older, and they were not of the Sith, nor were they dark Jedi. It was with unease that Sidious recalled his last battle with the small green Jedi, Yoda. They had never discovered his body, so Sidious had to assume his enemy was yet alive, somewhere. At times, when meditating like this, Sidious could almost sense the presence of his old enemy, but it was flirtatious in nature, never quite there, withdrawn too soon. His anger increased, and his ever-hungry hatred increased in magnitude. It was a perversion of justice that such enemies remained alive within his galaxy – his Empire. There were others too – the galaxy was large, and his enemies had places to hide, even with the vast apparatus at the command of Sidious. His meditation delved elsewhere, further and in a different direction.

His guards were not Force-sensitive, but they were yet more. They were Force-impervious. They had been trained and indoctrinated through the most rigorous training to be absolutely loyal and brutal. More was needed for his enemies though, and Sidious had seen to it that the appropriate measures were taken. Even now, specially-trained Force-impervious men were being trained for a special task. His revenge was not yet quite complete, but it soon would be. Then, there would finally be peace.

…

The reports blurred together, but the officer shook his head to stay awake. He knew the danger of stimulants, even here. While on Sol, Gregory Yost had relied on hot coffee and even chewing tobacco to remain alert during critical planning sessions in the US Army. Here in the Imperial Army, Greg could obtain much more effective stimulants, and they were perfectly legal. Even so, one could not cheat one's body indefinitely, and when crashes came after such stimulants, they came with a vengeance.

There was too much to do to grant himself sleep just yet though, or so Greg told himself. His reports had begun to paint an elaborate and disturbing picture. If his latest hypothesis held any water, the insurgents facing the Empire on both his home planet and in his adopted galaxy were much better organized and focused than he initially thought. He had always suspected that the Rebel Alliance was working with the resistance on Earth, though initial reports showed it to be a relationship of convenience, but recent reports he had analyzed reflected an intertwining he thought before not possible. Too many pieces were still missing though. In the back of his mind, Greg thought of the cryptic messages from his former superior on Earth, and he felt mild discomfort in his gut. Were they part of this puzzle, or was that something separate?

One name that came across his monitor time and again was, "Lancer Six." Greg recalled that had been the call-sign of his brigade commander while serving in the Deathbringer Battalion, but that had to be coincidence. It seemed unlikely that a brigade-level commander would play so prominent a role in the messages he had scanned. Greg typed the name into the terminal, and it took its place within the program he had created. The name took the form of the simple outline of a man, "LANCER SIX" glowing in red next to the form. From that form radiated multiple lines to different names, some identified as part of the resistance on Earth, and others connecting to shapes of men or blocks denoting organizations within the Rebel Alliance. Some lines connected with what were known Imperial agents and corrupt Imperial officials. Lines within lines, and multiple connections bespoke an elaborate organization carefully constructed for both independent operations and co-dependence on a more strategic level. The pieces were coming together, but much more was yet to be done.

Greg rubbed his eyes as he noticed the words on his screen beginning to form into nonsense. His terminal had contracted no virus, but he was exhausted, and he felt the inevitable crash impending. Greg slowly stood, realizing he might collapse if he rose too swiftly. He surveyed the small room in which he worked, and he spotted several of his men busily entering data into terminals similar to his own. A younger officer sporting the rank of a lieutenant came up to Greg with a concerned look upon his face. His hair was longer than Greg's, and Greg thought absently that it was longer than US Army standards would have allowed, but Imperial standards were different. He smiled at the young man.

"Lieutenant Lacks."

"Sir," replied the young man with concern in his voice to match his visage.

Greg realized that the junior officer was obviously concerned about his state of well-being. Greg had been promoted several months before and had been assigned a larger team, including Lieutenant Lacks, Lieutenant Norzt, and several non-commissioned officers and men, amounting to about a platoon's worth of men.

Their purpose was counterinsurgency, and Greg had found no challenge in requesting and receiving only the most capable officers and men, along with whatever equipment and support he desired. Greg was now a captain, and he no longer had to share a room with another officer. He intended to take advantage of such solice.

"Think I'm going down for the night, Jord," said Greg, using the young officer's first name.

Unlike the US Army, Imperial officers appeared uncomfortable using first names, even with junior officers, but Greg did so and here he was the boss.

"Yes sir."

"Do you need anything from me before I duck out?"

"No sir. I have your intent, and we will continue work on the link diagrams and pattern analysis. We are making excellent progress so far, and recent information has revealed a great deal about inner workings of the Rebels."

"Indeed," said Greg, stifling a yawn.

"Good night, sir."

Greg walked down the corridors of the massive building, if it could be called that. Wasn't this whole planet pretty much a building in and of itself? It was also unbelievably ancient, portions of the planet-wide cityscape at the lower levels reportedly thousands of years old. Greg recalled stories of ancient droids deep within the lower levels that were still blankly performing repetative functions programmed into them millennia before. Other tales bespoke droids that had degraded over time to such a point that they had become feral and dangerous. Suddenly, he realized he was dreaming while walking, and he vigorously shook his head with a grunt. He felt the crushing weight of the physical crash fall upon him, and Greg struggled with all his might to remain on course for his living quarters.

After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, Greg found the door to his quarters and used his rank cylinder to activate the lock. Once inside, Greg sat upon his bed. He had intended to unclothe or at least remove his boots, but the state of his body ensured he never reached that objective, and he fell unconscious upon the mattress.

…

Rage filled him, as it usually did. His breathing was simultaneously regulated and labored, as though the abomination in which his weakened body had been encased was designed to constantly remind him of his weakness, and his dependency. Only in memory and in tortured dreams could he recall a time, long before, when he was able to nimbly leap through the air and wield his light-saber in a dizzying array of parries, swings and thrusts with proficient and deadly speed and accuracy, nothing able to withstand his expert attacks. Only, one man had done so and left him for dead, and for that he was now ensconced in a black, mechanical apparatus – utterly dependent upon it for day-to-day survival; and so his rage deepened.

Vader reflected upon his failure: He had been dispatched by his master to locate and recover the stolen plans to the Death Star, and he had failed. His intercepted transmissions had traced the plans to the Corellian Corvette now in the underbelly of his star destroyer. In his initial rage to locate the plans, Vader had physically crushed the life out of the captain of the smaller ship, then tossing the hapless man's form against a nearby bulkhead.

The fear he sought had been felt by all around him, and he had sensed it clearly, except within a couple of specially marked stormtroopers. Those were the newer troopers sent by the Emperor to serve closely with Vader, but Vader did not trust them. Searching them, he felt only … absence. He dared not get too close to them, for they exuded absence of the Force, and in that absence was nothing more than despair and weakness. Even in his mechanical suit, Vader knew he would not long survive without the dark side of the Force. To Vader, those were not men, but nor were they droids, for even droids could be physically manipulated by the Force. Those abominations could not, for they originated from that other, dead galaxy. Yet Vader knew he did not have the freedom to eliminate the new troopers. The will of his master would not allow it. For that, Vader's rage deepened.

Vader reflected upon his unexpected success: The princess from Alderaan was now in his possession. He recalled with a mixture of wonder and fury that she had demonstrated no fear in his presence. The princess had raged that he would not get away with his attack on her ship, but Vader knew beyond a doubt that she was a member of the Rebel Alliance. He had received reports that an escape pod had been jettisoned to the planet below. It had not been destroyed, because the gunners had detected no life forms aboard. Vader had soon realized that the plans had to be in that pod, and so he had dispatched troops to search for and recover the plans at all costs.

For some reason he himself could not discern, Vader could not bring himself to personally oversee the operation on Tatooine. While he desired to see the job through and knew the importance of the mission, something held him aboard his ship. In tortured dreams, he could yet see the form of a haggard woman, abused to the point of death by viscious and mindless Sand People. He remembered the merciless slaughter of so many of them by a young man full of hatred and fury. He recalled a distant childhood of slavery … of weakness … of failure. Dim thoughts of a beautiful young woman, full of life and confidence – no, he pushed that vision away with violent force. He hated the planet below, and he could not bring himself to step foot upon it now.

Vader intended to question the princess further prior to taking her to the Death Star and handing her over to Grand Moff Tarkin and his interrogators. Once in their possession, she would reveal what she knew, but Vader feared that might be too late. He stepped out of his room and headed for the detention area. From behind him, Vader heard the footfalls of two stormtroopers, and he nearly whirled to face them with his saber ignited. Then he quickly remembered the new troopers assigned to him. They would follow him without his command. He stopped without turning around.

"Remain at the entrance to my quarters."

"Yes sir," said the senior of the two troopers in accented Basic.

He heard them retreat orderly to where he had banished them and then continued his trek. Vader thought darkly about the two men he could not sense. No, he did not trust them at all.

…

William Dudley felt unnatural here. Memories long numbed flooded to the surface, and he felt vertigo threaten to take him. This was his native galaxy, though none but he knew it. A couple of officers in his presence wore concerned expressions.

"Sir, are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine. It's just … being in space is a relatively new for me."

"Oh, yes sir. You'll get used to it. It's not like what we had before the invasion. They've got artificial gravity and faster-than-light travel and all that."

"It's pretty incredible."

"Yes sir!"

William stood up, smiled at the junior officers and strode out of the small room. He found his way to a nearby viewing port and watched the colorful interplay of hyperspace. Perhaps this had been a mistake. It was not space travel that had overwhelmed his senses. This space was alive! The Force was here, and he felt it, all at once. After so long in its absence, being immersed in a universe of the Force had been like being immersed in ice-cold water after having walked thorough a scorching desert for many days. It was all about him, immersed even in the beings around him, and yet … he did not sense it in the natives from his adopted world … odd.

William closed his eyes and allowed his feelings to spread meditatively. Then he stopped and opened his eyes. He sensed something amiss. The presence he recalled from so many years before had included his many comrade Jedi, but he did not sense them now. The Force was there, but he could not sense fellow Jedi. Where had they gone? He recalled the massive war that had consumed the galaxy when he had left it. Had the CIS been victorious with its massive fleets and innumerable droid armies? Then he recalled that Palpatine was emperor now, so that didn't make sense. The right side had won. He was tempted to meditate and tune his senses further but thought better of it. William worked to close his mind off to the Force and turned toward the ship's command center.

"Good afternoon, Colonel Dudley," announced the ship's captain as William walked on to the bridge.

William glanced at his watch, which he had reset to galactic standard time. It was indeed afternoon now, though just barely. He saw the vortex of hyperspace in the forward view-plates of the ship and the smiling captain off to his right.

"Good afternoon, Captain Risalah."

"We are about four standard hours from our destination, Colonel." William winced inwardly but did not show discomfort on his face. In the US Army, one was referred to by one's rank only by superiors, and then generally only when being chastised for something. William knew the good captain meant no offense, so he ensured to take none.

"Is Harold in the CIC?"

"I think so."

"Thank you," said William, and he turned aside to the combat information center.

The door swished open automatically for him, and William noted with some amusement that the CIC was little different from one he might have found aboard a floating ship or an Army tactical operations center on Earth. While the instruments were obviously more advanced, they served generally similar purposes. Above a table at the center of the CIC floated a hologram of the galaxy. Studying the hologram with obvious interest was William Kinder, one of the senior officers who had served with him for so many years. As they both shared the same first names, William referred to him as Harold, and Kinder called him William.

"There is our destination, Willliam," said Harold pointing to a glob of light toward one of the inner spirals of the galaxy with an extended telescopic pointer, and he elaborated, "We are currently vicinity of here."

William joined his old friend and studied the map of the galaxy. Dimly, he recalled briefings long in the past when he received detailed orders on missions wherein he and his Jedi cohorts were dispatched. Very similar holograms had then floated in the air, used to delineate detailed tasks.

"How long until we arrive?"

"Captain Risalah said we're about four hours out."

"That's right. I just asked him that."

"Have you seen the briefing on their proposals?"

"I've perused it, but there is still a lot of detail to digest."

"Pay particular attention to sub-section four of section alpha, twenty-four."

"Really?"

"Yes. I think that may cause slight consternation, but we can still fit it into the overall plan if they won't dump it."

"Ok," replied William.

Harold was watching him with his steel-blue eyes. In William's opinion, Harold was easily the most adaptable and forward-thinking officer with whom he had ever served. Cautiously, William reached out with his feelings, but no, the Force fled from Harold just as all other natives of Earth. William smiled and turned toward one of the terminals. He then turned and said, "Who's the lead cat we're meeting with there again?"

"The man's name is Bail Organa."

The name had distant meaning to William. It had been a name of some importance in another life, long ago, but William couldn't place just how. He was familiar with the planet of Alderaan, at least by name. He could not recall having visited the world, but that was now their destination. He decided he had more reading to do, and so he set to work.

…

The rain descended steadily through the darkness. It was often dark and damp here, and the precipitation fell as it had for untold millennia, further soaking a wet ground, feeding vegetation that drunk of and seemed never weary of it. Beneath the thick vegetation, no sentient life made its home, save that of one being.

Yoda sat within one of the few dry confines of the planet of Dagobah. As was his practice, much of his day was spent in meditation. He was old. To his knowledge, he was one of the oldest of the sentient beings in the known universe, and he knew that his immersion in and service to the Force was owed much for that. His eyes formed slits as he reached with his considerable senses into the deepness of space. He saw a frustrated farm boy nearing his destiny. He saw a brave young woman, though inexperienced, facing a personal crisis in the hands of evil. He saw a former apprentice waiting patiently on a desert planet, ready to assist the young farm boy when the time was right. Events were unfolding, and multiple futures he could foresee, based on decisions by others. Would he at long last be able to rest and leave the future of the galaxy in the hands of a new order? Always in motion was the future.

The old gnome wrinkled his nose. A once-promising Jedi Knight, twisted to the Dark Side performed acts of evil, bent on serving the one man who had defeated Yoda so many years ago, causing his exile to this planet. Vader was bent on torturing information out of a young woman; if only he knew the true identity of the young lady, but then … that would be worse. More pain was to come. Yoda sadly shook his head … always, more pain and suffering.

Yoda lifted his head quickly, nearly pulled out of his reverie. He sensed another. This one was new, and yet… The sensation was gone.

"Hmmm," said Yoda to the air around him. It heard him and yet did not. The Force was everywhere … even upon a small starship speeding toward the planet of Alderaan.