Chapter 17

"Bertha, Harold… Ungh!"

Another series of electric jolts stabbed multiple portions of his upper body, increasing in intensity and frequency, causing his already exhausted muscles to spasm, and culminating in a sickening symphony of pain. Automated syringes had pumped mind-numbing drugs into his flesh, and he felt confusion encroaching with each agonizing minute. Worse, the drugs also induced a combination of severe headache, dizziness and nausea, though he was for some reason unable to vomit. Beneath it all, Harry repeated within his mind words he had so long ago memorized:

Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might.

More jolts pulsed into Harry's body, while the drugs coursed through his veins working to induce hopelessness.

Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.

"I grow weary of this repetitive prattle," droned a disembodied voice from behind the device to which Harry was held.

It continued, "I have a great deal of patience, and this machine is fully capable of inducing upon you a severe level of discomfort. While I have no particular desire to do so, I can increase its intensity in a manner sufficient to permanently damage you."

Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor.

Those words are all Harry clung to now. Many years had passed since he had attended US Army Ranger School and memorized them. The pain was nearly unbearable, but Harry felt he could hold on just a little while longer.

"Lieutenant Colonel, United States Army, Social Security number… Gaaah!"

More electricity coursed through his racked body, at multiple points.

"No one is coming for you. There is no hope of escape," said the voice, "What is the point of this resistance? What can it possibly accomplish, other than your own suffering and eventual death? In case you are holding out hope that you will find relief through unconsciousness, I can assure you that the machine to which you are strapped is finely attuned to your physical state and will ensure that does not happen."

Harry had lost track of the time he had been here, but it seemed an eternity. He could recall the face of Mike Zilliox glaring at him. From where had such bitterness come? For the life of him, Harry could not guess. What had driven Mike to turn on him – to turn on his own people and former comrades in arms?

For weeks Harry had been locked up, and he had undergone interrogation by Imperial agents and droids. All had pressed him for information on his role in the resistance, but many questions had centered on Lancer Six. Today was no different.

"Who is Lancer Six?"

"Bertha, Harry, Lieuten …. Aaaah!"

"What is the real name of Lancer Six? Where can we find him?"

"Lieutenant Colonel, United State…."

Harry felt his lungs about to burst as he cried out in pain. The interrogator significantly cranked the power of the device to which he was strapped. Nearly all of Harry's muscles uncontrollably shuddered, and the drugs within him made everything look surreal, mixed with an incredible sense of vertigo and nausea.

"Be careful, or you will kill him," uttered a different voice.

"The idiot persists in this mindless drivel, so what alternative do I have?"

"We have time."

"We have wasted too much, and he knows what we seek!"

"There are other, more effective ways."

"So be it. He is yours to deal with now."

Without warning, the machine ceased its machinations upon Harry, and merciful blackness washed over him.

…

Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin was angry and frustrated. Who was this insignificant girl to provide undue resistance to the might of the Empire? Was not Vader a Sith Lord with power to instill dread into nearly anyone? How had he proven incapable of extracting critical intelligence from that waif? Princess Leia had proven resistant to all means available to his interrogators.

This battle station was unmatched throughout the galaxy, and indeed Tarkin knew of nothing throughout recorded history that could match it. He greatly desired to bring its main weapon to bear on the hidden Rebel base, but the unbending will of one stubborn young woman blocked the fulfillment of that desire. He could feel victory tantalizingly close, and yet how long would he have to wait to see it realized? In his mind's eye, Tarkin envisioned the battle station's main weapon penetrating deep into the rebellious world and obliterating it from existence. If Princess Leia could not be made to see reason, then he would use different means he was certain to be effective.

"Perhaps she would respond to an alternative form of persuasion."

"What do you mean?" replied Vader.

"I think it is time we demonstrated the full power of this battle station."

…

Light rain drifted down through the atmosphere and settled upon a desert floor unaccustomed to it. The local calendar reflected mid-October, and the temperature was mild. Around the city of Riyadh were dotted Imperial outposts and prefabricated garrisons. Stormtroopers patrolled the city streets, but the frequency of the patrols was less than in previous months. Lately, violent incidents occurred as sparsely as once to twice a week, and those usually consisted only of booby traps, instead of suicide attacks or the deadly complex attacks so prevalent in the former summer months.

Fluun checked his chronometer, and it registered a local time of 2115. In the relative safety of the garrison, he could remove his body armor, and so he went without it. Scars lined his face and various parts of his body, mostly resulting from the campaign here in this particular land mass. Though calls to prayer sounded outside the building, he could not hear them inside and for that he was grateful. Not all calls to prayer in the past had been for their intended purpose, but some had rather been audible signals for complex attacks by local fighters.

While Fluun could not obtain the stuff he had access to prior to his banishment to this Sith-forsaken place, he had over the past few weeks gained access to locally-produced product that came close to granting him what he sought. The leadership was opposed to the practice, and they made half-hearted attempts to clamp down on it. But here, few leaders made any real effort to enforce the guidance handed down from higher unless it directly impacted the mission.

Fluun reached for his nose, wiping away some dried blood encrusted within his right nostril. He still felt some euphoria from his earlier use of the locally-available stuff, but the powder had some unfortunate side effects that the spices he could obtain in his home galaxy did not produce. Obtaining the substance was easier these days than it had been even a month ago. Various local workers conducted menial tasks for the Imperial garrisons, and they were quite eager to exchange credits for the product, which they had with them.

Fluun savored the moment, for he knew that he would be back out on patrol within the next few hours. The constant threat to life or limb no longer lurked around every corner, but over the past few weeks it had been replaced by boredom, mixed with ingrained wariness. Fluun suspected every local he met as a rebel, but they had orders not to engage unless hostile intent was identified. Nobody had any interest in seeing the situation with these people degenerate into the nightmare of before. Hostility remained in the brown faces of the men within the city, but the deadly intent seemed less – at least in any overt way. Conversely, the stress Fluun and his men experienced grew. Within a short while, Fluun would be back out there again, attempting to cheat death for yet another few hours.

"Did you hear the latest, sir?" inquired one of Fluun's squad members from behind him.

"What?"

"Over two thousand more joined up, yesterday alone?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You really don't know, sir?"

"If I did, would I be asking?"

"Locals – the Arabs; they're joining the Empire in droves."

Fluun turned in his chair to face the younger trooper. Like Fluun, his subordinate was dressed down to basic clothing, absent his armor. He was nursing a plastic bottle of water that had been flavored by something colored red. He appeared a good dozen years younger than Fluun, but he noted with resignation that such was prevalent these days. His light brown hair was cropped short, and his dialect sounded like one of the planets from the outer rim. Fluun struggled to place the young man's name – he had lost so many in the past few months.

"You're Bren, right?"

"Yes sir."

"You say the locals are joining the Empire?"

"Yes sir; as stormtroopers mostly, from what I have heard."

"Emperor preserve us."

"Rumor has it that the Emperor is all for it."

"So now you have an inside line to what the Emperor thinks?"

"Uh, no sir. I meant no disrespect … uh, I did not mean to infer…"

"Forget it."

Later in the evening, Fluun and his squad conducted their patrol. The intelligence briefing had warned of booby traps, but he found none in his sector. He still felt comfort knowing the hovering battle droids were providing extra sensor and lethal protection for him and his squad. As he stepped around the corner of a building, a young native approached him. Fluun tensed.

"Where do I go to become a soldier?" inquired the native in broken Basic.

Fluun noted he was wearing a white dishdasha, popular among the local male population. As usual, the black shapes allegedly containing females were few and far between – and never alone.

"There are two recruiting centers in the city. Go see them."

"I want to be a soldier like you."

"Go see the men at the recruiting center and tell them."

The young man glanced at the hovering and whirring grey globe overhead, looked back at Fluun, and replied, "Shookran."

The robed man then turned and walked away from the squad. Fluun felt he would never become accustomed to civilians walking up to troopers, much less talking to a trooper. While he had been speaking to the native, his other droids and his men had spread out to ensure they were not being set up for an ambush.

As Fluun returned to the garrison with his squad, he noticed a message on his personal terminal. His commander wanted to see him. Fluun took off his helmet but kept on his body armor. He felt there was little sense in making the commander wait. He made for the office.

Office was a liberal term for what Captain Tamek used for a headquarters. An over-sized cleaning closet would have been closer to the mark, but then the officer rarely used his office except for once or twice a day to check message traffic. Most of his time was spent in the field with his troopers. As Fluun entered, he noticed that the commander was still wearing is desert-camouflaged body armor without helmet. Fluun congratulated himself on his own decision not to dress down.

Captain Tamek busily engaged himself with whatever held his attention on his terminal. There was but one chair in the tiny room, and he was occupying it. After a couple of minutes, he glanced up at Fluun, who was still at the position of attention.

"At ease," he said, and then continued working on his terminal. After another five minutes, he discontinued work on the terminal, leaned back in his chair, and again looked at Fluun.

"Sir, TK-378 reports."

"I am transferring you."

"Sir?"

"The orders have been transmitted to your terminal."

"Sir, if I may … why am I being transferred?"

"You have performed in an exemplary manner here, and you are needed elsewhere."

The captain locked eyes on Fluun in concentration, seeming to hesitate, but then he added, "I know of your habit, which ironically is what helped land you here in the first place."

"Sir, I …"

"It is what it is, and it will no longer be overlooked. Know that your superiors at your next duty station will also be aware of your habit and will be monitoring your activities closely. It would be in your best interest to terminate that particular habit soonest. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Dismissed."

Fluun turned to leave. He knew what was unspoken as well. The commander could have taken harsh disciplinary action against him if he chose, but he had not exercised the authority to do so. He knew that his duty performance likely played a large role in such a decision. Moreover, it was often simpler for commanders to transfer problems rather than delve into the cumbersome processes involved in disciplinary action.

Reaching a nearby terminal, Fluun logged in and checked his messages. There was the order. Reading it, he started in surprise. He was to report to the massive, moon-sized space station known as the Death Star. Inwardly, Fluun smiled. He was finally leaving this cursed excuse for a world.

…

"So, you were a member of the Imperial Senate?"

"That is correct," replied Bail Organa, "My daughter, Leia, followed in my footsteps, becoming the youngest senator in history."

"That is impressive."

"Unfortunately, the Imperial Senate no longer exists. The Emperor dissolved it a short while ago."

William Dudley leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together, forming them into a steeple. The room in which he found himself was well-furnished, but it was in the bowels of the Alderaan Royal Palace. He recognized only a couple of the persons at the table from previous briefs. The architecture of the place was ornate while simultaneously ancient in form, but that was unsurprising. Unlike Earth, societies in this galaxy were thousands of years old. From time to time, William had to remind himself that he was a native of this galaxy himself, though he had no intention of revealing that to anyone else.

To William's left was seated Bail Organa, and he also recognized Mon Mothra at the table. Four others were also present. William understood that two were also former members of the Imperial Senate, while two other served as senior military leaders of the Rebel Alliance.

"I am sorry to hear about the plight of your daughter, Senator Organa," said William, retaining the man's recent honorific.

The older man's eyes fell momentarily toward the table.

"We received reports from our spies that she may have been taken to the Death Star by Lord Vader. That said, she is both brave and resourceful. I have faith that she will find her way through this most recent trial," he hesitated and then added, "She must survive this … if only he knew."

"Sorry?"

Bail Organa quickly recovered, smiling weakly, "Oh never mind. I am just an old man who fears for his daughter."

"That is completely understandable. Our thoughts and prayers are with her for her safe return."

"Thank you," replied Bail who then turned toward Mon Mothra.

Taking the visual cue, Mon Mothra said, "Colonel Dudley, it is a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face. I feel as though I already know you, since we have conducted so many long-range conferences together."

"Ma'am, the pleasure is all mine."

"We have received many positive reports about the resistance on your home planet, and the greater plan is well in motion."

"We lost a lot of good fighters, but we feel that conditions are now set for the next phase of our operation." William recalled poring over reports of horrific casualties, some of the names and their accompanying faces forever imprinted upon his mind.

"I understand you recently initiated Operation Black Horse."

"Yes ma'am. While the events that facilitated that particular operation were horrendous, Operation Black Horse may well be the final piece necessary to achieve our final objective."

Mon Mothra raised her eyebrows, "Do you really think that will allow us to accelerate our plans to the degree Lancer Six proposed?"

"He believes so."

"That would be, impressive."

Over the next three hours, the participants covered details of supporting operations and phases of the major operation. Harold came in about an hour into the meeting with detailed plans, and he covered recent intelligence reports. They had agents throughout the Imperial military apparatus, and they were working to infiltrate even the highest levels. Bribery and corruption had proven to be effective tools.

When the meeting was over, William, Harold and Mon Mothra headed for their respective starships. Much work was yet to be done. As William neared his starship, one of his officers walked briskly toward him.

"Sir, we need to leave as soon as possible."

"What is the problem?"

"Alderaan officials report the Death Star has entered the system."

"That's interesting. Senator Organa thinks his daughter may be on board that battle station. Perhaps they intend to use her as some sort of bargaining chip."

"Sir?"

"Eh? Oh, it's just something we were discussing. Alright, let's go."

…

Lieutenant General Merdon Voss used his time and resources wisely. He knew that he was not widely trusted, and many higher level Imperial officers thought he knew things about them. It was true that Voss had information on high level officers, but the perception was that he knew much more. Voss smiled. He was okay with that. Let them think he knew more than he did. What he did know is that he had over time developed an impressive array of subordinates to plan and execute multiple tasks, and young Captain Gregory Yost of Sol was one of his newer additions.

Voss stared at the lone terminal on his desk. It was capable of holographic projection, which was useful for studying operational and strategic graphics in sectors of the galaxy, but he often chose to view information in only two dimensions, unless he was required at a briefing. He was ever thankful for his aide, Colonel Meridian, but he would soon lose him. He was too talented an officer to remain where he was, and Voss had recommended him for a higher level assignment that would warrant a promotion.

Unlike Voss, Meridian was a family man with three children, two of whom were now grown. One of Meridian's sons had recently graduated from the academy and was now training to become a TIE fighter pilot. Voss recalled that he was a likeable young man who demonstrated considerable potential. He mused that perhaps he could get Meridian's son as a replacement for his personal aide, but that would be unfair to the promising young pilot.

Voss studied the information on his terminal. The recent announcement of the dissolution of the Imperial Senate both puzzled and concerned him. He could not surmise what the Emperor hoped to gain. At least the Imperial Senate had provided a small illusion of democracy for the people, and they had no real power. Voss feared that dissolving the Imperial Senate would work only to strengthen the Rebels. That made his job more difficult.

Voss was also aware of the stolen plans for the giant space station, and he knew that Vader had seized the young senator from Alderaan. She was certainly suspicious due to her ties and activities, but Voss felt that seizing her was a dangerous move, even with the dissolution of the Imperial Senate. She was a popular figure, and rough treatment of her was likely to generate sympathy for the Rebellion.

Voss looked over recent reports sent to him by Captain Yost. The young man was doing excellent work, and his efforts had assisted in the capture of a high-value target that had the potential to provide vital intelligence about the resistance on Sol. The general allowed himself a smile.

"How many do you think are there?"

"Thousands are now in place, and more are following."

…

Deep underground, the two men sat at a table illuminated by a single incandescent bulb overhead. Dampness within the network of artificial caves was further contributed to by underground springs that had been discovered during excavation. Unseen and in the shadows, but known to both men were many other armed men whose sole duty it was to ensure the security of their respective charges, both facing each other at the long table.

Datshi eyed his friend Moheb with caution. The Syrian had recovered from his initial shock well over the past few weeks, and he had thrown himself into his work like a possessed man. By some trick of the sparse light provided by the one fixture in the area, the Syrian's face took on a menacing hue. While they both had been working for nearly a year on the plan they now discussed, efforts to speed, and modify the process were now considerably accelerated. The Georgian had been concerned that Moheb would go off the deep end, but his friend now seemed as tempered and dangerous as a sword.

"What of Grey Six?"

Datshi shrugged, "Lancer Six says he won't talk."

"I do not share his enthusiasm."

"He really does not know much."

"He knows enough."

"Well, what can we do about it anyway, my friend?"

"We can take action."

"Is it worth the risk though?"

The Syrian smiled, "Do you still underestimate me?"

"But Lancer Six…"

"He approves. I spoke to him already."

The Georgian raised an eyebrow.

…

The brilliant light of day assaulted Harry's aching head like a sledgehammer, as he was led out of the building. His hands were manacled behind his back, and he was flanked by two stormtroopers. A gray-clad Imperial officer led the way, while another stormtrooper followed him.

As Harry's vision cleared, ahead of him he could see a transport ahead of him. He knew from previous operations that this was an Imperial shuttle. It looked like they intended to take him off-world. What more could they do to him? The officer in front stopped and turned to face Harry, a sneer of cold contempt on his face.

"You have demonstrated impressive resistance to our questions, but that will soon come to an end."

Harry said nothing, but a smile barely forced its way through swollen lips.

The officer matched his smile, "But I wonder just how resistant you will continue to be in the face of what awaits?"

Harry remained silent.

"Your wife, Mary, is a remarkable woman."

Harry involuntarily surged toward the officer, though he was restrained by his shackles and the gauntleted hands of the two troopers flanking him. The officer smiled without mirth, satisfied at Harry's reaction. Almost in a panic, Harry wondered how they had found his wife. Frankly, he had thought her dead during the initial Imperial attack, but he had later discovered she was yet alive. Out of fear for her safety, Harry had not reinitiated contact, so he was sure she thought he too was dead.

"She will be happy to see you again, though perhaps the feeling will not long persist."

"You don't have her."

"I do not? Very well, then you can tell the woman who looks, acts, and sounds remarkably like your wife that she is not who she claims to be when you see her."

Harry felt a knot in his gut, and he wanted to vomit. Harry felt all hope drain from him, and the hopelessness he had not allowed to envelop him now settled like a cold, wet blanket. The officer turned and continued leading the way toward the shuttle.

"Die, Rebel scum!" shouted a tinny voice from next to the shuttle. Harry looked up in time to see a red flash, and then he knew no more. A blaster bolt crashed center-mass into his chest, and he slumped lifelessly within the grip of his two escorts.

The Imperial officer pulled out his side-arm, and he and the remaining strormtroopers leveled their weapons at the culprit.

"Freeze!" shouted the closest stormtrooper, and the culprit, another stormtrooper, dropped his carbine and held his arms aloft.

The Imperial officer turned and looked at the body of Harry Bertha. One of the troopers who had been escorting the man looked up and uselessly offered, "He is dead, sir."

…

They had captured Lieutenant Colonel Bertha? Greg stared at the blandly-written report on his monitor in some disbelief. That was never part of the plan. Sickly, Greg became aware that his own efforts and input were at least partially credited with facilitating the capture of his former commander.

Greg feverishly dug through the archive and scanned for more reports on Bertha. The man had been captured for some time and had undergone intense interrogation, garnering no results. Greg swallowed, as he envisioned techniques likely used for such interrogation. He continued to scan the documents. As he read, his eyes grew wider and his alarm grew."

"Mrs. Bertha."

"Sir?" said one of the men working on a terminal nearby.

A pale Greg looked at him, "Nothing … uh, never mind," he said, returning his attention to the terminal.

Bertha's wife had been detained. What had they intended to do with her? He recalled the kindness of Mary Bertha during one of the officers' calls to her house a few years ago. She had been cheerful, and Greg's girlfriend had got along well with her. This seemed unreal.

Greg continued reading, and then he could read no more. As calmly as he could, Greg logged off of the terminal and turned to Lieutenant Lacks.

"I will be stepping out for a while, Lieutenant."

"Yes sir," replied the junior officer, staring at Greg with obvious concern. Greg smiled lightly and exited.

Greg secured the entrance to his quarters and sat heavily upon the chair to his small desk. He stared blankly at the inactive terminal on his desk.

"Dead," he whispered to himself.

Harry Bertha had been killed by a stormtrooper. The reports stated that the shooting was not sanctioned, but then why was he shot? Greg shook his head. A yellow message alert began blinking on his terminal, but Greg felt no desire to activate it just yet. He closed his eyes and willed himself to be somewhere else.

…

The stormtrooper stood before the Imperial officer. He was still shackled and his helmet was removed. Two armed stormtroopers stood on either side of him, carbines at port-arms.

"Tell me again why you shot the man we were escorting."

"He was the same one I told you about."

"Yes, we have heard this before, but as before it still makes no sense."

The anger in the eyes of the shackled stormtrooper still blazed, but the officer sensed it was not directed at him.

The officer said, "You have no idea how much intelligence value that man possessed, and now we can obtain nothing from him – thanks to you."

"He was a rebel coward, and he got no less than he deserved," growled the stormtrooper with determination.

"Again, where is your explanation?"

"He and his kind butchered my brothers!"

"What?"

"You were not there! You cannot know … sir."

"Know, what?"

"His unit was the one that destroyed my ancestral town! It was he who was responsible for the butchery of my brothers as they defended their homeland," spat the restrained man, rage filling his eyes.

The officer sighed and leaned back in his chair. It was clear now. It was easy to forget the multiple conflicts that had raged on this planet prior to the arrival of the Empire. These two men were apparently involved in such a conflict, on opposing sides. He would have to punish this man, although transferring him would be simpler.

"Take him back to his cell, for now."

Once the trooper entered his cell, one of the two escorts removed his restraints and secured the cell door. The man looked at the one window toward the top of the wall, opposite the door. A beam of sunlight streamed in from outside, illuminating some of the dust particles permeating the room.

The man closed his eyes. In his mind, he could hear the chanting of verses. Though he did not have a prayer rug with him, that did not prevent him from facing what he felt to be the direction of Mecca, and he began a ritual practiced daily by so many millions of the faithful.