"ILUM" is not for the faint of heart. It contains realistic, detailed depictions of modern war, and its victims. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter I

Pride and Disgrace

"State your operating number for the record." The Lieutenant lit himself a cigarra while he waited for the trooper to gather his thoughts.

"TK-311, sir," the trooper mumbled. In his left hand, he fiddled with a holographic stress toy. It took the form of a small, bendable stick the user would flip through their fingers, awarding the user a point for each successful flip.

"No need for formalities, Corporal. We're just talking."

"Right, sir. Sorry, s- uh, yeah." He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"And you're with the 212th Attack Battalion, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Under the command of General Kahdah?"

"Yes, sir."

"For how long now?"

"Three years next month."

The Lieutenant took a drag from his cigarra. "And you were on Ilum?"

"Yes. I was," TK-311 nervously admitted. His eyes scanned the room as though he thought he was being watched.

"Then you remember the events of two weeks ago?"

TK-311 nodded slightly, without saying a word.

"Is that a yes?"

He nodded again, even less visibly.

"Can you please state it for the record?" The Lieutenant asked in a calming tone, as a stray ash fell off his cigarra.

TK-311 left the stress toy on the table and put his hands in his lap. "I have a vivid memory of what took place two weeks ago."

The Lieutenant pressed one button on his datapad, and left it on the table. "Please tell us, in your own words, what happened on that day."

TK-311 stared at his body armor, bundled in a neat pile on the opposite corner of the room. A faded bloodstain marked the left bracer of the otherwise pristine set; a stain that persisted through hand cleanings and caustic chemical baths alike, outlasting even the fresh white paint that covered it up.

"Would you like to hold your blaster while you speak? We've found that helps sometimes."

TK-311 shook his head. "No. I'm fine." He took the stress toy and started fiddling with it again. "It started as a routine burnout op…"

The Lieutenant pushed another button on his datapad, but let TK-311 speak uninterrupted.

"Sometimes we find rebels hiding in civilian villages. Standard procedure is to check the village for contraband, then resettle the villagers in the capital and burn the structures. I must have done it a thousand times in the last three years. But two weeks ago… something was very different about that day. In the past month, we'd lost more scouts to the blizzard than actual combat. We'd find unidentifiable bits of Imperial armor just jutting out of the snow. Never any scorch marks, just telltale signs of exposure. General Kahdah was usually there when we needed something. He stayed on top of supply shortages, dips in morale, and the like. He always had a solution for everything. The men loved him for it. Sorry if I'm rambling."

"You're fine."

"We trusted him with our lives, quite literally. That's why, when he ordered the burnout op, none of us questioned it. I didn't question it when I noticed we didn't bring enough transports to evacuate the villagers. I didn't question it when Kahdah ordered us to block off every route in and out of the village. I didn't question it. And it would have done me no good if I did. One by one, they filed out of their homes, most still half asleep and wearing pyjamas. A small girl dropped her toy bantha in the street, and a trooper from my squad knelt down to help her pick it up. Once they were all assembled, Kahdah assured them it was a routine operation, and ordered us to separate the men from the women and children. That was not routine. The men were taken to an old Czerka warehouse on the other side of town, and the women and children were put in a bakery while we 'waited for more transports.' I was with the first group, at the warehouse. I was scared. I didn't know what the hell was going on. I started asking the other troopers why the civilians were being separated. Then we had our answer. An explosion went off in the direction of the bakery. My team started firing indiscriminately and hurling detonators into the warehouse. Smoke poured out the windows. A vicious fire engulfed the entire building. The screams of three hundred innocent men drowned out the blaster fire, and the awful stench of their charred flesh overpowered the ozone from my own gun. Occasionally a man would emerge from the flames, coughing and wheezing, only to be gunned down in cold blood. When the shooting stopped, I ran back to the bakery to find an even more gruesome scene. The building had completely collapsed. My comrades were sifting through the rubble for survivors… and shooting any they found… women and children…" TK-311 trailed off in thought.

"And what of General Kahdah?" The Lieutenant asked him, as cold as an Ilum night.

"Staring at the rubble, holding the bantha toy from earlier. No discernable expression on his face."

"And you're certain he gave the order? Even though you didn't see or hear it?"

"I'm positive. Or… I hope so."

"Excuse me?"

"I hope he gave the order, because the only alternative… is we decided to slaughter hundreds of innocent people all on our own."

The viewscreen darkened, as the lights came back on in the courtroom. If this was a less pressing matter, it might be settled in a court-martial back on an Imperial world. Instead, Kahdah had the dubious honor of being tried in the mess hall of the ISD Tenacious, a capital ship he had commanded almost since the end of the Clone Wars, and which was to be sold to the Miners' Guild following the scandal.

To accommodate the court-martial, the benches had been rearranged into makeshift seating, and the doors to the kitchen had been locked. In lieu of holographic displays, large view screens were moved from the bridge and crew quarters, and placed adjacent to each other in the mess. A few soldiers of the 212th sat in the gallery, but most were subject to charges of their own. Despite his popularity, not one spoke in support of Kahdah.

"If it may please the inquisition, I believe the evidence in this video speaks for itself." A tall woman in an officer's uniform spoke on behalf of the prosecution. Under military law, the onus of Kahdah's defense fell on himself. "One of the defendant's own men, forced against his will to commit unspeakable acts of violence against loyal Imperial citizens, now sits traumatized and barely able to speak. Furthermore, had this massacre never happened, we might never have investigated what the 212th was really doing on Ilum all this time. This was far from their only incident. Murder, extortion, rape, theft of private property, random executions; we even found instances of on-duty Stormtroopers performing contract killings against civilians. He ran this world like a Hutt, and he got away with it for years. Make no mistake, Inquisitor, Kahdah is the worst war criminal to befall the galaxy in centuries."

Standing opposite her was a large sentinel droid in an ornate, red robe; its expressionless, domed head shining underneath the artificial lights above. It was a messenger droid, used to carry messages from all corners of the galaxy.

Finally, the droid came to life. The dome on its head lit up, projecting the visage of a masked, humanoid woman in black armor: The Fourth Sister. Her voice boomed across the makeshift courtroom, even though the droid's hardware had distorted it somewhat. "Although the Inquisition recognizes the defendant's heroism during the Kashyyyk revolt, we can not abide these sorts of atrocities. Kahdah's crimes are beyond the pale of any I have seen or judged in almost 20 years. He shows neither loyalty to his Empire, nor respect for any sort of sapient life. Not only must he face justice, but an example must be set. The defendant is thereby condemned to death by firing squad, to be carried out upon transfer to Coruscant, one week from today." The eyes in her mask flared a bright red. "Furthermore, in all official documentation, he is only to be referred to as 'The Butcher of Ilum.' May his crimes follow him beyond this life."

The officer knelt before the visage of the Fourth Sister. "As you command, Inquisitor."

"We must not allow The Butcher to endanger Imperial interests on Ilum. Far too much is at stake. The mining must continue."

"What must I do?"

"Pull the 212th offworld. The 9th Engineering Battalion is due for reassignment, and a soft touch may be warranted in these situations."

"Thy will be done, Inquisitor."

"Once I am finished with my current… duties, I will be visiting Ilum to check the progress of the colony. If things have not improved by then, The Butcher shall not be the only one condemned. Do I make myself clear?"

The officer's voice trembled. "Yes, Inquisitor."

The Inquisitor's visage faded away. The droid fell lifelessly to the ground, cracking its dome on the durasteel floor.

"... was sentenced to death by firing squad, ending the protracted investigation once and for all. Victims of the 212th are encouraged to seek…"

The carnivorous roar of heavy machinery drowned out the HoloNet terminal.

"Hey Gomen, not asking you to help out or nothin', but can you at least haul your ass out of that tent before it folds up?" Johan asked, clearly frustrated by the laziness of this outfit. High Command had ordered Outpost Felucia packed up by 0900, and it was now 0915. It would have been an understatement to say things were behind schedule.

"My ass leaves this tent when I no longer need the HoloNet, Corporal." Fran Gomen knew he couldn't pull rank on a man with the same badge on his chest. On the other hand, neither could Johan. It's an impasse that, he hoped, could win him a few more minutes on the terminal before it's packed up.

"You never needed it to begin with. We're already 15 minutes late to leave this rock, and I don't want to stay here a minute longer than needed."

Gomen resigned. With a long sigh, he held the power button on the terminal. "Like Ilum's going to be any better? It's a frozen wasteland. What exactly are you looking forward to?"

"Civilization, for one. I'll take a mining town any day over these hell jungles. Sick and tired of seeing acklay trample into our minefield, and I'm damn tired of getting them back out again." The terminal powered down with a mechanical sigh. "Second, I could always learn how to ski."

Gomen scoffed, loudly. "You? Ski? Go to hell, Johan. You have the balance of a drunken nerf."

"Laugh all you want, but at least I'm trying to learn a new skill. You should try it sometime, old man." Johan keyed a command on his datapad, and the Officers' Tent started to contract and implode, folding itself for easy storage.

"Too busy staying alive here, Corporal. You might want to try that sometime, especially where we're going." Removing his helmet, Gomen felt a warm, humid breeze through his graying hair. Drops of sweat finally evaporated after what felt like ages. "If it were just Rebels, that'd be one thing. But Ilum's a special bitch of a world. On top of the cold freezing half the company to death, the 212th screwed things up so bad that the locals are out for blood."

The tent finished its long fold into a compact crate. Johan keyed another command, summoning a loading droid to take it to the shuttle. "You worry too much, Gomen. After three years in this hole, I'll take being a little nippy anyday."

"And the locals?"

Johan pounded the back of a loading shuttle with his fist, signaling the pilot that it was ready to leave. "Carrots and sticks, old man. They'll welcome the prosperity we bring, and we mop up anyone who tries to make trouble."

"Like it's ever been that easy. Seems like every day another planet needs the 'stick.' Almost like they don't want our 'carrots' anymore." Gomen swatted a small insect that buzzed around his sweaty arm, then wiped it on his pants. "I know, imagine that."

Two more loading shuttles took off nearby. Only a few crates and tents remained at the site. Unscrewing his canteen, Johan poured water on his sweaty face and soaked his undershirt, hoping it would be the last time he had to waste water like that. He poured an extra drop into his hand, and splashed it in his face.

A few meters away, Gomen noticed a loading droid tangled in the massive vines of the noxious Felucian flora. "Your turn," he told Johan. "I got the last three. Looks like we're casting off at 1000."

Johan let out an exasperated sigh. "Rusted piece of shit," he swore under his breath, as he pulled out his survival knife and worked on the vines. "Just get your decrepit ass on that shuttle before go-time."

"Wouldn't miss it, asshole." Throwing back an obscene gesture, Gomen strolled casually to the landing site.

He took one last good look at Felucia, knowing that one way or another, he was gonna miss this horrible place. Gomen had been in the military, off and on, since before the Clone Wars started. It would be about 20 years next month. He was in his 40s by this point, and still not getting very far in his career.

Ahead, he spotted the only other man in this outfit who remembered the war: Colonel Thire. As the C.O. of the 9th Engineering, Thire has done an admirable job keeping the unit together on Felucia. The past three years had been, primarily, a pirate hunt. Bandits from Ohnaka's outfit were hitting local hyperspace lanes, and using the dense jungles to hide the stolen goods. The 9th would occasionally find pirate camps hidden in the middle of nowhere, and pound them with artillery until they surrendered. Usually, the crooks surrendered after the first shot. Others took 2, 3, even 4 shots. One camp held out to the last man, and even tried to counter-attack during the night. It went very poorly for them.

Thire waved a hand signal to the last shuttles as they prepped for takeoff. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted Gomen on his walk. "Last call, Gomen. Ready for a new adventure?"

Gomen strolled up beside the Colonel with his hands in his pockets. "Born ready. And so is Johan."

"Excellent." A hiss of hydraulics preceded the shuttle lowering its passenger ramp. It was time to board. "You hear from Butch or the new kid yet?"

"No, and I hope I don't." Gomen was the first to step on the loading ramp. A few soldiers walked past him as he turned back to face the Colonel. "New kid is textbook nepotism if his file's accurate. And Butch… I could live without ever seeing Butch again."

Thire stifled a grin. "I can't imagine what about him puts you off so." His voice dripped with sarcasm. It reminded him of the dry jokes he would exchange with Jedi Generals during the war. "Between his drinking, his whoring, his complete lack of regard for decorum, well…" He paused to check a fuel line. "He's a model trooper if ever there was one."

More soldiers filed onto the loading ramp. The camp, by now, was completely gone. These men were all that was left. The clearing in the jungle, where their camp once was, would be thriving again in a matter of months, leaving no evidence that the Empire had ever been there at all.

"Leave it to you to find the best in a man like that," Gomen remarked, before following his comrades aboard.

"They're probably on the star destroyer by now," Thire surmised. "Just a step ahead of us. We'll meet back up with them when we get planetside." After a final, redundant check, he too walked up the ramp. As the last man aboard, he knocked twice on the cockpit door to signal that everything was green for departure.

Imperial troop transports didn't tend to have any windows on them. There's little point in soldiers getting nostalgic for a planet they'll likely never see again, and even less in letting a sniper make a lucky shot to someone peering through. Instead, as the repulsorlifts roared to life, Gomen pulled up a hologram of Felucia on his datapad. It wasn't incredibly detailed, but it served its purpose well enough. He zoomed in on their current location, and invited everyone onboard to wave goodbye to this noxious, humid, overgrown slice of hell.

There were very few takers.

Am I a hero? Yeah, I'd say so.

Images flooded Thire's mind. A village on Ryloth burning to the ground; women and children screaming for help; clone troopers strung up on trees…

Rys!

Gunships firing indiscriminately into the chaos; sunrise; some other planet; his gun pointed at… something…

Fire at will!

A sharp shock jolted him to a different time.

The real world came into focus. Specifically, the gray, metallic ceiling of Thire's quarters on the ISD Virtue. He felt his heart beating out of his chest, his breathing erratic and staggered. With a deep breath, he focused on the first object he could find: a holographic clock he'd set to wake him as soon as the ship left hyperspace. It still showed 5 hours and 14 minutes left in the journey.

Steadying his breath, he sat up in bed, cradling his face in the palms of his hands. There was a time he would have been reduced to a sobbing mess, but that was not today. Dreams come and go. Memories rise and fall. The past does not need to be the present, unless we make it so.

Rising from his bed, he staggered to the cabinet to find his usual cure.

"Good morning, Master Thire." The automatic sensors in his protocol droid knew him better than he knew himself. "Standard time is 2:33 AM. Protocol recommends at least 6 hours of sleep per night. You are currently 2 hours and 7 minutes away from fulfilling this recommendation. Do you require noise dampening or other sleep aid services?"

"I'll be fine, T5." The cabinet indeed held the key: a large, ornate, half-empty bottle of bright orange liquid. Aged Bothan brandy.

"Sir, it is not my place to pry-"

"Then don't." He yanked the cork with his teeth, and steadied a glass to receive its bounty of brandy.

"But sir, I am required to remind you that psychiatric services are available on one hundred and twenty-three different Imperial worlds. You need only request and-"

"Thank you," he grumbled. "Consider me reminded. Go back into sleep mode."

"Oh…" T5-68 had no explicit programming for the emotion of disappointment. Some things transcend code, however. "For how long, sir?"

"Indefinite. I'll wake you when I need help. Sound good?" Thire took a stiff swig of his Brandy, and sat back on the bed. The droid simply stared at him, silently watching gulps of the distilled drink pass its master's lips. "I said, 'sound good?'"

"Oh!" Jolting to life again, the droid hastily fashioned a response. "Uh… You're welcome… sir. And if there is anything I can…"

Thire frustratedly turned his head to face T5. The stubble on his chin glowed in the artificial light of his desk lamp as he swirled the contents of his glass impatiently.

"Entering sleep mode," T5 resigned. "May the Force be with you, Master Thire." The droid's eyes dimmed as power ceased to flow through its circuits.

Thire exhaled loudly. "When has it ever been?" he mused aloud, then left his empty glass on the nightstand, curling back into bed.

Only Clone Troopers could have had a midlife crisis in their late 20s. Thire, being among the first batch to leave Kamino, was at that point. The growth acceleration in his DNA had left him with the body of a man twice his age.

Less than 1% of the clones who fought in the war still served the Empire. Thire was one of the "lucky" ones. He rose to the rank of Lieutenant during the course of the war, and simply never left service. Time, however, has a way of catching up to even the most stubborn men; no matter how hard they fight it.

Sleep came quickly to Thire, aided by the steady droning of the hyperdrive engines. No dreams dared disturb him this time.