Subject: [FANFIC] Past Imperfect
Date: Wed, 30 Aug 2000 23:42:46 GMT
From: Aron Kerkhof <aronk@-spamerific-galactec.com>
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.vs.starwars

	
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All characters, vehicles, and situations from Star Wars property
Lucasfilm.  All characters, vehicles, and situations from Star Trek
proptery of Paramount.  All rights reserved.

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Past Imperfect - Chapter One

	The cold white walls of the metal canyon seemed to close in on 
him as he pushed his fighter's engines to the firewall. Ignoring his 
fighter's redlined indicators, Wedge barreled his fighter down the 
Death Star's trench.  Beside him, his friend Biggs. In front of him, 
the brash newcomer Luke Skywalker.  Although He and Biggs outranked the 
rookie by a large margin, they had instinctively followed his lead into 
the trench when their attack on this monstrous station had fallen to 
chaos.  Something about the determination and steel in Luke's voice had 
steadied Wedge's nerves.  He now felt something that he hadn't felt 
since he first caught sight of the moon-sized weapon: confidence.

	Suddenly, he caught movement over his right shoulder.  "Fighters! 
Coming in at point three!"  Wedge knew his grim duty. He was to be a 
human shield between the fighters that had decimated their entire 
squadron, and Luke, their point man.  If Luke failed to make this 
shot... it was over.  For him, the Rebellion, and the entire galaxy's 
hope for freedom.

	Wedge and Biggs juked their fighters in all directions, trying to 
paradoxically draw fire and simultaneously avoid being hit in the 
process.  That TIE jockey in the middle is just TOO good! Wedge thought 
in despair.  And his ship, a model of TIE he'd never seen before, was 
at least as fast as his X-Wing, and seemed to be as heavily armed.  He 
looked down at his range meter.  It wouldn't be long now.

	But it was at this point that Wedge's luck would run out.  The 
dark warrior behind him thumbed his laser cannons, and emerald lances 
of energy leapt forward, raking across Wedge's starboard engine. 
Suddenly, warning lights of every color lit up Wedge's cockpit, and his 
droid, Mynock, let out a piercing electronic screech.  The stricken 
fighter began to slow, and the control yoke jumped and bucked in his 
hand.  Maybe I can make it hold just a bit longer... Wedge thought.  
The thought died moments later as his fighter swerved dangerously close 
to Biggs'.  

	"Luke, I can't stay with you!"  Wedge said, fighting for control 
of his craft.  

	"Get out of there, Wedge!" Luke yelled into his helmet's comlink. 
"You can't do any more good back there!" 

	"Sorry," Wedge said as he yanked his stick back toward his 
abdomen, rapidly climbing out of the Death Star's trench.  Maybe I can 
draw a few off with me...

	But as Wedge's fighter pulled free amidst half hearted turbolaser 
fire, none of the TIE's took the bait.  They bore down closer on the 
two X-Wings.  

	Wedge began limping back to Yavin 4; his X-Wing slowly spiraling 
left despite his best attempts at compensation on the stick.  Listening 
in on his flight's comm frequency, he heard the sounds of the battle 
below.

	"Luke, I can't hold them!"  

	"Yes you can!  Hang in there Biggs!"  

	"Oh wait, Luke, I-" followed by static briefly cutting into the 
channel.  Wedge sank his head, knowing that his friend and Luke's were 
dead. Luke was now all alone.

	Crippled fighter or no, I've got to do something.  Wedge snap 
rolled, and executed a high-g hammerhead turn.  "Mynock!  Do something 
with that engine and thrusters!  I've got to have more maneuverability 
than this!"  The droid beeped something that didn't sound particularly 
encouraging, but Wedge pushed his accelerators to full power.  The 
Fighter was pulling much worse to the left now, but Mynock was somehow 
compensating for it back there, and the X-wing was becoming much more 
manageable.

	Wedge looked at the range to target, and looked at how far Luke 
was away from the exhaust port.  He wasn't going to make it in time to 
keep those fighters off Luke.  Even now, he could imagine Luke 
steadying his craft, intently monitoring his targeting computer for the 
perfect shot.  And right behind him, that demon in the TIE would be 
lining up for a shot of his own.  

	"Luke, your targeting computer has switched off! What's wrong?"  
Wedge heard a tactician back on Yavin ask franticly.  The Death Star 
had nearly completed its orbit of Yavin, and was now powering up its 
devastating primary weapon: the superlaser.  

	"Nothing... I'm all right." Luke asked, with a strange dreaminess 
in his voice.  I hope you know what you're doing, hotshot, Wedge 
thought.

	In the lead TIE fighter, a figure clad in black lined up on his 
target. He twisted his targeting dials, and thumbed the firing stud on 
his fighter's yoke.  His lasers shot out, but the fighter in front of 
him acted with inhuman reflexes of his own.  What should have been a 
killing blow merely destroyed the pilot's astromech droid.  

	Seeing the skillful evasion, Wedge yelled in triumph.  Perhaps 
there would be time after all.  Maybe he hadn't waited too long.  

	Wedge was getting closer now, and could barely make out the 
pinpoint shapes that he knew were starfighters blazing down the trench.  
>From this distance, it was hard to make out, but it seemed that the 
oddly configured TIE closed the distance between him and Luke still 
further. Wedge prayed that Luke could hold out just a few more seconds.  
But it was not to be; he was simply too far away.

	"No!" Wedge screamed in his cockpit, as he saw the brilliant 
flash in the Death Star's trench, and saw the three victorious fighters 
slowly rise out of the artificial canyon.  An icy hand gripped Wedge's 
heart. The full import of what he'd just witnessed was rapidly 
descending upon him, and his mind tried in vain to throw up barriers of 
denial and then shock at the turn of events.  "No..." Wedge repeated, 
much more softly this time.

	"The Death Star is now in position!  Repeat!  The Death Star is 
NOW in position!" a rebel ground controller frantically called over the 
channel.

	"Red 2, was the attack a success?" General Dodonna's voice 
inquired. Wedge looked in horror as huge green energy beams began to 
form a sphere of surging energy above the massive dish shaped opening 
of the Death Star's superlaser.  

	"Negative, sir, I'm all that's left, we tried, we tri-" Wedge 
babbled into the mike.

	"Thank you, son," General Dodonna cut him off softly. And then it 
was all over.

	The hideous green surge of power shot from it's holding point 
towards the planet known as Yavin.  The beam barley had touched the 
lovely green world that had housed the Rebellion for the last few 
months. Then it exploded like a powder keg.  Wedge's comm channel 
filled with static for the final time.

	Wedge sat in his cockpit in stunned silence before Mynock's 
frantic whistling brought him out of his cationic state.  Looking 
around, he saw a flight of TIE fighters on their way to finish him off.  
For the briefest of seconds, Antilles considered just closing his eyes 
and embracing the void.  It would all be over in a few seconds...

	No! his mind raged.  I won't let it end, not like this...  

	He input a few random coordinates into his nav computer.  While 
hyperspacing blind was generally an extremely dangerous activity to 
engage in, Wedge was unconcerned.  He had decided that if he flew into 
a star, or landed in the middle of a planet; such would be his fate. 
With one last lingering look at the still expanding debris cloud that 
had been his home, and hope for the freedom of a galaxy, just moments 
before, he pulled back on the hyperspace actuators.  The view of stars 
out his cockpit quickly stretched out into streaks, and then 
disappeared entirely as the outside world became the swirling blue 
vortex known as hyperspace.

-- -- --

	Hundreds of light-years away, Han Solo sat in a dimly lit bar, 
watching a holocast.  Senator Palpatine, or the Emperor as he had 
recently proclaimed himself, was addressing the citizens of the galaxy.  
The man looked stately and imposing, standing tall in his deep blue 
Imperial robes, using his commanding voice to full effect as he 
delivered his victory speech.

	"We are now ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity, free 
from the fear of terrorism and the poison of those who wish to tear 
down our great society," the 'Emperor' intoned.  "The last of the 
Terrorist movement known as the 'Rebel Alliance' has been crushed.  And 
from this let a lesson be learned.  We as a galaxy will not tolerate 
those who wield fear and discord as weapons.  Those following the 
Rebellion's example will meet their fate..."

	Han couldn't take it anymore and looked away from the screen.  
Solo knew first hand just who was the hate and fear monger in this 
galaxy. It wasn't some ragtag alliance of freedom fighters, either.  
And that was before he saw with his own eyes the results of the 
'benevolent' Emperor's latest toy, the Death Star.  He shuddered as he 
remembered seeing a world where billions once thrived, reduced to an 
asteroid field.  And from the sound of things, his recently acquired 
friends back at Yavin had become just another cloud of dust and rock 
vapor in the Galaxy.

	Han looked up at Chewbacca.  Chewie's icy blue eyes seemed colder 
than usual, and his lips were curled back from his fangs, making little 
effort to hide the disgust he felt for his human partner.

	"What are you looking at?"  Han demanded.  "You think that hunk 
of junk out there would have made even the slightest difference to that 
Death Star?" He said, motioning in the general direction of his pride 
and joy, the Millennium Falcon.  "We're a tramp freighter, not a battle 
station killer!"  Chewbacca just continued to stare him down.

	Chewie growled in a low voice.  "Oh, you thought I was an 
Imperial officer and not a freer of condemned slaves, huh?  That's just 
my point!  I let my guard down one time and get involved in someone 
else's fight, and look what happened... I got busted down out of the 
Imperial Navy.  A dishonest discharge.  Reduced to smuggling because no 
one in their right mind would hire a Imperial washout!" Han summoned 
all of the bitterness he could buster for a final parting shot.  
"Thanks for reminding me how much my life improved helping you out, 
pal."

	Chewbacca rumbled deep in his throat, fixing Han with a glare.  
He slowly pushed himself away from the table and left, turning his back 
on Han as he left for the bar.  Immediately Han regretted his words. 
Han was not a man used to regrets, and the feeling did not suit him. 
Looking for a distraction to help take his brain out of gear, he 
started to get up to join a sabbac game across the room.  But then a 
voice inside his head began calling to him. Yeah, you're a great 
gambler.  When the chips were down, and the stakes the highest, you 
just walked away from the table, and left your friends to die.

	Stricken by the truth of the thought, Han fell back down into his 
seat.  He punched up a strong drink from the holo 'tender, and made it 
a double.  Moments later a wheeled chrome droid rolled up, and in a 
motion borne out of centuries of refinement of it's programming, 
simultaneously laid down Han's drink with one arm and took his credits 
with the other.  Transaction complete, it sped off to its next 
customer.  

	"Like it would have made a difference..." Han muttered as he 
slammed down the drink.  His brain instantly started to envelop in a 
comforting fog.  He made enough money to save his skin from Jabba, and 
that's all that mattered.  

	Wasn't it?

	---------

	In a remote part of the Galaxy, over some god forbidden backwater 
planet, far from the notice of the Empire, a wounded X-Wing descended 
from the night sky undetected.  It's pilot activated it's sophisticated 
landing routines, and began scanning the horizon for a likely landing 
spot.  

	Just over there, the pilot decided.  Yes, that will do nicely, he 
thought as he nudged his stick a little, careful to keep the X-wing 
from turning on it's landing lights.  

	The once sleek craft landed on a shadowy landing pad, under the 
deft touch of it's pilot.  Quickly, the orange-suited figure reached 
under the cockpit's dash, grabbed a fistful of wires, and yanked hard. 
Sparks flew out of various consoles and readouts, followed quickly by a 
greasy gray smoke.  Cursing that particular turn of events, the pilot 
fumbled for the cockpit release and thumbed its switch as his eyes from 
the irritation.  Just as soon as the cockpit hissed open, he lowered 
the gang ladder, and the man called Wedge Antilles climbed onto the 
tarmac.

	He turned around, and saw a familiar shape bobbing out of its 
snug socket, whistling and hooting in a concerned tone.  

	"I know, I know, I destroyed the main computer.  But don't worry 
about it, you won't have to fix that or the port stabilizer..." Wedge 
drew his side arm, leveled his aim at the droid, and hesitated.  Mynock 
was more than a droid, the little rust bucket was akin to a beloved 
pet, one who had demonstrated his loyalty to Wedge over and again.  

	"I'm sorry, Mynock..." Wedge squeezed his eyes shut as they began 
to burn once again; albeit, for a different reason.  The little 
astromech hardly had time to consider his master's strange behavior.  
Wedge squeezed the trigger, and the droid exploded into hundreds of hot 
metal fragments.  "But Wedge is a wanted man.  And I have to start a 
new life..."

	Standing there on this cold, barren world, the full weight of his 
situation descending upon him.  He was now truly alone.

	No time for self pity, boy.  Wedge aimed his blaster again, and 
began slagging the armor of his X-wing, vaporizing the plates that bore 
its serial number and identification ID.  It took awhile; the X-wing 
was one tough ship, and where the ident plates where etched into the 
armor itself, it took several full power blaster shots to even make a 
scratch.  Wedge had to pause long enough to reload his blaster's power 
cells twice before completing the task.

	Soon he was left with an unmarked, largely inoperative 
starfighter. Wedge backed up to survey his handiwork.  He considered 
selling what was left of it for scrap.  Such a sale would certainly 
supplement the small amount of cash he had on him.  But, in the end, he 
decided it was too risky.  Besides, he had enough money to get him off 
this rock, purchase some new clothes and maybe a few days worth of 
food.  Enough to find employment, start his new life.  

	Maybe when he was established in his new identity, and certain 
that he was not being tailed by any Imperial agents, he would try to 
re-contact some of the remaining Rebel cells.  Again despair began to 
gnaw at Wedge's soul.  What remaining cells?  The ones that were smart 
would go deep under ground.  And the ones that were stupid... well, 
they wouldn't last long enough without central leadership to be worth 
contacting.  

	Wedge reached around into the small pack that clung to the small 
of his back, and pulled out two thermal detonators; Rebel pilots never 
came unprepared.  If they were ever downed in combat, they had no one 
else to rely on but themselves for defense.  He twisted the ThermDets' 
timers a few times for each one, then pressed both TD's contact switch.  
A muted beep from each acknowledged their armed state.  Wedge walked 
fore, and jammed a ThermDet into the proton torpedo tube. Walking aft, 
he then wedged the remaining detonator in the X-wing's aft-starboard 
landing gear.  That's another thing Rebel pilots don't do, Wedge 
thought with a grim smile; do things half way.

	Except when it comes to destroying moon-sized battlestations when 
your friends' lives are on the line.  Damn.

	Walking away from the spacecraft, Wedge stripped off his form 
fitting flight suit, and threw it in a nearby ditch.  His official 
identification quickly followed his uniform into the hole, where both 
where then blasted to vapor.  Next, he reached into an inner pocket of 
his khaki colored overalls, and withdrew some documentation.  Wedge 
glanced over his "unofficial" ID -- A fringe benefit of befriending a 
rebel slicer a few months back.  "Corporal Antar Roat, huh?  Well, 
Antar, you better get moving, this landing pad isn't going to be so 
lonely pretty soon..." Wedge began walking towards a nearby city at a 
brisk pace...

	Some minutes later, two internal fuses reached the end of their 
countdown, and performed their last duty by sending detonation signals 
to their payload.  Both devices exploded just a heartbeat apart.  The 
explosions ripped through armor, machinery, hull plating, and delicate 
electronics and weapon systems.  A nanosecond later, the proton torpedo 
magazine started cooking off, and a few meters aft, the fusion reactor 
let go.  What started as a modest explosion quickly became a more 
respectable inferno.  

	The X-wing was now a rapidly expanding mushroom cloud of 
superheated metal, with a ring of debris spread out in a half-mile 
radius.  

-- -- --

	"Almost quitting time," one of the pilots of the Civil Emergency 
Force Craft 17 observed. "Thank god." 

	Rapidly moving away from the prime of his life, the grizzled-
looking man had a salt and pepper beard growing on his chin and a 
paunch growing over his gut, which his Civil Force uniform was 
struggling mightily to contain.  He was looking forward to having 48 
standard hours off, just as soon as this shift was over.  Not that he 
had much to go home to, with a shrewish wife and little enough pay to 
blow on anything but cheep booze. But at least he wouldn't be stuck in 
this tub with Captain Stick-up-the-Butt.

	"Come on!" the guy with the previously mentioned rectal condition 
protested. He was a good twenty years younger than his counter part. He 
had joined up with the Civil Forces about eight months ago, hoping to 
make a difference.  The Emergency Force was one of the few places on 
this rock where a person who wanted to make a positive impact on 
society actually could.  "You can't complain tonight; it's been pretty 
quiet."

	Suddenly, an alarm klaxon blared and a red light on the control 
console lit up.  "You were saying?" the older of the two said with 
resignation. "Looks like something's happening at one of the old 
spaceport's landing pads." 

	The younger pilot crisply put in the coordinates, and increased 
power to the engines as they headed off to investigate.

	A few minutes later, the dilapidated vehicle roared into the 
scene on its industrial grade repulsor lifts.  The scarred and pitted 
craft with its rotating yellow warning beacons circled the area a few 
times. The two occupants of the craft searched with their nightvision 
helmets for survivors -- or even large chunks of what used to be some 
sort of spacecraft.  Both searches turned up negative.

	"Whoa, that must have been something," the younger pilot 
remarked. 

	"Yup," his partner agreed. He'd been around the block a few 
times, and as a result, was far less enthusiastic than his youthful 
counterpart. "Radiation is still pretty high, what say you pump some 
more juice into the shielding systems?" A question, it was spoken with 
the force of a command, as he absently scratched an old scar on the 
left side of his face.  He's earned that particular scar and the ones 
like it crisscrossing his body on a run not unlike this one, years ago.  
Back then, some Son of a Hutt crashed his fancy yacht into one of the 
spaceport's newer wings, killing three dozen people in the process. At 
least this guy had the decency to crater into some place more secluded.

	"Roger," the first, and younger of the two said as he boosted the 
shield strength.  Swinging around for another look, he let out a low 
whistle as he examined the minute amount of debris, still standing out 
in sharp relief in his infrared scanners against the cool ground.  "So 
what do you think happened," He asked.  

	"Who the hell cares?" the more experienced, that is to say burnt 
out, man testily said.  "Look, here are our options," he said as he 
held up a finger to illustrate option number one.

	"We can do a proper investigation.  Land this junk heap right 
down there and roll around in the radiation a bit until our nuts fall 
off, and then sit back at base and fill out paperwork the rest of the 
night." He rolled his eyes to show what he thought of that course of 
action, then held up a second finger. 

	"Or, we can spray some suppressive foam on this crap, call the 
boys in HazMat to come clean the radiation up some, and go home early 
to our old ladies.  What do you think we should do?"

	The young man considered the options, and thought about how this 
bitter old fart was really damping his enthusiasm for his job.  But in 
this case he was probably right.  There were obviously no survivors, 
and no immediate danger to the surrounding populace and property.  If 
there was any foul play involved, he was sure the corrupt security 
force would just cover it up...  for the right price.  

	"Priming the foam systems now," the younger man said by way of 
reply. 	 "Hey, you're catching on pretty quick," the old vet said 
with a smirk. 	 By morning all that was left to mark the passing of 
the sole surviving craft of the battle of Yavin would be a black scorch 
mark on this remote landing pad and a slightly elevated background 
radiation count.

	 -- -- --

	Kilometers away, Wedge scanned through a local news-feed.  Not a 
word about the incident he caused last night.  Not really a surprise, 
but still a very good thing.  In the hours since abandoning his X-wing, 
Wedge had cut his hair in a short, severe military style, and dyed it a 
fiery copper color in a dingy space port 'fresher.  Walking around the 
city, he found a sleazy second hand clothing store, where he found an 
olive Imperial naval jacket, a pair of pilot's deck boots, and a 
surprisingly nice pair of black leather gloves.  Paying for both in 
credits, he wore them out of the place.  

	Heading back into the spaceport, he stopped to look at himself in 
the reflection of a shop window.  Between the hair, a few days worth of 
stubble, the clothes, and the haunted look that comes only from 
watching a world be destroyed in front of your very eyes, he doubted 
anyone would recognize him.  He'd let the beard grow out a bit, he 
decided after studying his image. It comes as a surprise to many just 
how effective a disguise facial hair can be.  Combined with his false, 
but quite excellent quality identification, he should have no imperial 
entanglements if he kept a low profile.

	Next stop was the help wanted board, a large holographic display 
in the spaceport's concourse.  Cooks wanted on a spice freighter.  No 
thanks.  Hmm, a communications officer on a merchant marine vessel. 
Promising, thought Wedge as he started to jot down the job 
identification number, but then another posting caught his eye.

	Navigation on a Corellian Corvette.  A fine ship, he thought with 
a touch of Corellian pride.  Four years of pilot experience, and an 
active pilot license required.  The pay looked decent, and the route 
was certainly boring enough.  Pick up a load of carbon coral from 
Byzan, and drop of a load of hyperdrive actuators from Corbin.  Head to 
Corbin to drop of the coral and pick up more actuators.  Rinse and 
repeat.

	Now that's what I call low profile.   Not only was the duty 
routine, but both worlds were on the fringes of Imperial space, and 
military presence would be light if present at all.  Wedge wondered how 
long he could count on that fact now that a civil war wouldn't be 
around to slow the Imps' progress taking over the Galaxy.

	Noting the job identification number, he reported to the ship's 
master chief a few minutes later.  The man was the stereotypical chief.  
Big, surly, greasy, and in a very, very irritable mood.

	"What do you want?" the Chief demanded.

	"I'm Corporal Antar Roat," Wedge began, amiable enough.

	"Well whoopdie-poodoo, Antar," was the response, dripping with 
sarcasm.  "What do you want?" he repeated.

	"I'm here for the navigator position."

	"Experience?"  The Chief was a no-nonsense type.  

	"Five years in the Imperial Navy," Wedge said, and held his 
breath as he slipped the Chief his paperwork.  "TIE pilot."

	"Yeah, so what are you doing out of the Navy then?" he wondered 
aloud, and then answered his own question a second later as he skimmed 
over Wedge's forged release papers.  "Oh.  Disabled discharge."  He 
eyed Wedge up and down suspiciously.  "You don't look disabled, 
Mister."

	"Million credit wound," Wedge said ruefully, as he held up a 
gloved fist and made chopping motion at his elbow.  "I lost it when I 
didn't get my arms pulled in quick enough during an auto eject out of 
my TIE."  

	It wasn't completely a lie either.  The really was an Antar Roat 
who was an Imperial pilot.  Given a galaxy of untold trillions of 
beings, a sizable portion of which is human, identity theft was not 
hard to pull off if you have the technical skills or know someone who 
does. The real Antar was left with far more machine than flesh after 
some sort of piloting mishap.  Of course, in a TIE, you were lucky to 
walk, limp, or even crawl away from any kind of disaster.  In a TIE, 
most near misses ended in fatalities, not to mention a direct hit.

	The Chief raised his eyebrows.  "Ouch."  Wedge just shrugged.  

	"When I finally recovered, my TOD was up."

	"That artificial limb impair you at all?"  

	"Nah." Wedge wiggled his fingers and flexed his arm throughout 
its full range of motion as a demonstration. "It's one of the new 
NK831's. Top of the line.  It'll even pass as biological in most 
medical scans."  Wedge had researched the matter some, and made sure he 
had a little wriggle room in his cover story.  The NK-line of 
artificial limbs was well known and respected, and the latest models 
really could pass for the real thing.  He'd heard rumors whispered in 
the Rebellion that the same technology was being used to create droids 
that were complete replicas of human beings, even high-end assassin 
models. And his papers documenting his 'injuries' were certainly good 
enough to convince. Of course, it wouldn't help if some jerk wanted to 
cut it open for a look-see, but Wedge hoped things wouldn't ever come 
to that.

	The Chief grunted.  "My tax dollars at work, huh?"

	"Something like that," Wedge shrugged.

	"Your license still current?"

	"I still have a little over a year on my military voucher."

	"500 credits a week sound alright?"

	"For starters.  Benefits?"

	"Don't make me laugh.  Your papers look to be in order.  The 
job's yours if you want it Corporal...?"  he asked as he looked at 
Wedge's face, as if for the first time.

	"Antar Roat," wedge said as he extended his 'real' arm.  The 
master chief took it.  

	"Chief Reza.  Welcome to the Jagged Edge," he said and then 
stamped Wedge's papers and handed him some documents.  "Your berthing 
information is all there.  You familiar with a 'Vette's layout?"

	"Sure."

	"You can bunk on level three, just forward of the engine access 
compartments," he jerked his thumb behind him, indicating the rear 
section of the Corvette, largely devoted to housing the massive 
engines. Droids and 'lifters were currently swarming under and around 
the nimble vessel, doing minor repairs, re-supplying, and loading 
cargo. "Earn some seniority, and you can move up to someplace better."

	 "Go get settled in, then report to the Captain at 1400 hours.  
NEXT!" the chief screamed, indicating for Wedge to get out of the way 
of the next applicant.

	Wedge headed for the gangplank, and wasted no time worming 
through the tight corridors of the 'Vette to find his bunk.  On 
reaching his destination, he stowed what little in way of clothes and 
possessions he was carrying, and glanced at his chronometer.  Noticing 
he had a few hours before he was due to report in, he decided to try to 
get some sleep.  It had been well over 36 hours since the last time 
he'd rested. 

	Even though he was desperately tired, physically and emotionally 
wrung out, he found sleep difficult.  For the first time in several 
hours, he had nothing to do but think.  Alone with his thoughts, Wedge 
thought back to Yavin.  

	I could have bought Luke some time.  I could have stuck in there 
a little bit longer.  I could have slammed on the retro thrusters and 
tried to give those Imps a real close look at my engines.  I could 
have... could have... something!  His mind raged.  Anything but do what 
I did: punk out.

	His mind raced, remembering the terror in the pilot's voices.  
Popps. Biggs.  Porkins. Luke.  They had thrown their lives into that 
nightmarish Imperial meat grinder, doing anything to try to slow down 
the spherical juggernaught.  But not me.  I'm the lucky one, he thought 
ruefully.

	The survivor's guilt he felt was amplified by his sense of 
responsibility for Luke's failure.  It's not everyone that has the 
blood of an entire planet on his hands.

	Wedge closed his eyes, willing his mind to shut down. But before 
he drifted off to troubled sleep, he experienced a sensation he'd never 
felt before. 

	Wedge had the slightest tickle in the back of his mind as the 
image of a monster dressed in black came into focus.

	The being, whose visage was hidden behind a hideous death mask, 
was pure evil.  His cruelty was unmatched, the power he commanded 
incomprehensible; and yet he was... flawed in some way.  Wedge felt 
anger and hate seething from the masked apparition, radiating from his 
mind like waves of heat off a desert rock.  And underneath those dark 
feelings, like the jagged rocks under the rushing current of a raging 
river, was raw ambition.  Ambition kept in check only by fear.  Fear of 
an even greater evil, if such a thing were possible.  Yet the ambition 
was there, merely waiting for an opportunity.  And suddenly that 
opportunity came.

	Horrified, he next saw an army of men similar to the black demon 
raise up, ready to do his bidding.  These were even worse in some way 
that Wedge couldn't quite put his finger on.  They were wrong, somehow. 
Standing arrayed around their master in dark robes, there was something 
deeply unsettling about them.  Maybe it was the haunted look in their 
eyes that made Wedge's soul freeze.  Regardless, he sensed the power 
contained with them.  Nothing in the galaxy could stop this force.  

	Yet, the tickle in his mind grew stronger as he heard a voice 
whisper two words:  you can.  No sooner had he heard the words he 
discerned the truth of them.  But what can I do against them? Suddenly, 
as if they had heard his mental dialog, all heads snapped up, all eyes 
bored into him.  For the first time, the dark warriors took notice of 
Antilles.

	They advanced upon Wedge.  Wedge had the sudden realization of 
just how small and vulnerable he was.  Towering over him, one of the 
abominations stooped down to pick him up.  Wedge couldn't run, and 
there was no place to hide.  It's icy hand closed around his body, and 
began to squeeze the life out of him.  He couldn't move, couldn't 
scream, couldn't even breathe.  

	Desperately, he looked around for help... and for the first time 
noticed other faces watching him.  Their faces indistinct, clouded, yet 
Wedge could discern that they were people, not monsters like the 
others.  People like him, who had hatred of their own burning in their 
eyes as they glared at Wedge's tormentors.  Two of them stepped closer 
to the light, and now Wedge could make out what they were wearing, if 
not their faces.  Wedge gasped, partly in pain, and partly in surprise.  
As crazy as it seemed, one was dressed in the uniform of the Imperial 
Navy! The other wore an outfit that Wedge didn't recognize.  On the 
figure's chest was some type of emblem... an arrowhead, perhaps?  With 
some sort of ring encircling it?  You can trust them, the voice 
whispered again.  

	Trust some stooge from the Empire?  The Imperial reached out his 
hand from the shadowy peripheral of the scene.  Forget it, Wedge 
thought, I'll take my chances here. But Wedge knew it was hopeless.  

	Take his hand, they are here to help you, the voice said, no 
longer a whisper.  

	I can't!  Wedge protested.  The Empire killed my friends, my 
family! 

	Trust them, the voice implored, and you will be free. 

	The voice was kind and comforting.  Wedge knew he it was speaking 
the truth, and he was running out of time.  Putting his doubts aside, 
he strained himself, he reached out to take the Imperial's hand, his 
arm shaking with the effort.  The giant fist gripping him squeezed ever 
tighter... 

	WHAM!  The mattress Wedge lay upon flew about a foot into the air 
as one of his new crewmates savagely kicked it from underneath the 
bunk. Instantly Wedge was fully awake, and had bolted upright by the 
time he landed.

	While his eyes were still struggling to focus, his ears made out 
raucous laughter from around him.  Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, 
he made out the shapes of a few burly looking men.  

	"I'm sorry, did I interrupt your little nap?" the man taunted.  
"Were we having a little nightmare?  Maybe you'd like me to call up 
your mommy so she can take care of you, huh?"

	There was a fine line between keeping a low profile, and being a 
pansy.  And Wedge was not about to cross that line. 

	The man turned his head away from Wedge and towards his friend's 
leering faces, looking for reassurance among his peers in the peculiar 
manner of bullies across the galaxy.  Suddenly, they weren't smiling 
anymore, and a few of their jaws had dropped to the floor.  Turning 
back around, the man was just in time to see a black-gloved fist 
rapidly accelerating towards a collision course with his face.

	Wedge's roundhouse punch snapped the larger man's head back, 
spraying saliva and blood from a split lip and smashed nose.  Grabbing 
the man's shoulders, Wedge followed his initial salvo with a full force 
knee to the man's stomach, making the air exit his lungs in a rush.  

	Pressing his advantage, Wedge delivered three more rapid-fire 
punches to the man's face.   Wedge dropped his head, lining up his 
skull and vertebra like a battering ram. Then, putting all of his back 
and legs into the forward motion, he drove his cranium into the big 
man's chest, actually lifting him off the ground several inches, and 
crushing him against the bulkhead.  Before Wedge's would be tormentor 
could even sag against the wall, he grabbed the man's throat and pinned 
him there with a steel vice grip.  The entire exchange lasted all of 
ten seconds.  Already the bloodied shiphand's friends were slowly 
backing away, keeping their distance from Wedge.  No one was laughing 
now.

	"Try having your arm ripped off during a TIE ejection sequence 
gone wrong and see what kind of dreams you have," Wedge said, his voice 
dripping with menace. "And if you think this grip is bad, just wait 
till I get my 'droid arm on you."  Of course, his other arm wasn't 
really a prosthetic, but Wedge couldn't resist adding the extra 
intimidation factor in the possibility of being choked to death by a 
cyborg.  Plus, he had to keep up appearances...

	Wedge lifted his "artificial" arm up and began to place it on the 
now terrified man's throat.

	"Roat!" Master Chief Reza bellowed.  "What in Correlia's rings do 
you think you are doing!  Let him go!" 

	Wedge momentarily tightened the grip just to see his victim's 
eyes widen, then relaxed himself.  He turned toward the chief and 
smiled.

	"I was just making a new friend, is all."

	"In a Gamorean's eye, you were.  I think you'd better go see the 
Captain now, before I rip that mechanical arm of yours off and shove 
the sparky end where the suns don't shine!"  Reza stood with his rather 
beefy forearms crossed in front of him, practically daring Wedge to 
make a move.

	Eyeing the men in the room one last time, and after giving his 
tormentor a final shove, Wedge threw Reza a jaunty salute.  "Aye, aye 
sir."

	By the time he had walked halfway to the bridge, Wedge had 
completely forgotten about the little exchange with his 'friend', and 
was considering his dream.  What was that, anyway?  His mind trying to 
make sense of his sense of frustration, anger, and need for revenge? Or 
was it something more.  Could it be the Force speaking to me?

	The thought literally gave him pause, as he stopped in the 
corridor a few dozen feet short of the bridge to think.  He never had 
given much thought to the Force.  It was something you said before 
battle, before saying good-bye to your friends and comrades for what 
may be the last time.  May the Force be with you. A blessing, 
benediction, hope, and prayer, all rolled into one.  

	It's not that he didn't believe in the Force.  As hard as the 
Emperor had tried to stamp out the Jedi and their religion, he wasn't 
so young as to have forgotten about the stories his father had told him 
of them.  If rumors he heard were true, the Emperor himself commanded 
his own dark Jedi, the very one that had brought about his former 
brethren's destruction.  Was that the dark figure I saw in the dream?

	 They could stop blaster bolts with their laserswords, jump 
dozens of meters into the air, influence the thoughts of others, even 
overcome death itself.  It was said some could see into the future.  Is 
that what that was?  A vision of the future?  Could that really be my 
destiny?

	It was absurd.  What could he possibly do against the Empire?  
The rebellion was dead.  No one was left to resist. And even if they 
were, how could anyone hope to oppose an army of evil force wielding 
wizards?  You will, the ghostly voice replayed in his mind.  But how? 
They are here to help you, he remembered the voice saying.  But why 
would an Imperial ever help him? And those other faces he saw, who were 
they? 

	Wedge dismissed that line of thought, but he couldn't banish it 
entirely. If all that were true, and it was somehow his destiny to 
visit revenge upon the Empire, then he doubted that he would be able to 
hide from fate forever.  Sooner or later, it would catch up to him. And 
there wasn't much he could do about it either way.   


---------------------

Past Imperfect - Chapter Two

	Out of the blazing orange sky that belongs to Coruscant at sunset, a lone 
shuttle was slowly picking its way through the dense traffic that permeates the 
city-planet's lower atmosphere.  Ships of all shapes and sizes cruised through 
the clouds, ferrying food, supplies, weapons, visiting dignitaries, bureaucrats 
of all types, and common citizens around the massive world that over a trillion 
people called home.  It made travel downright hazardous.

	The pilot of this particular shuttle was one of the best of the best. 
Picked early as a standout from his peers at the academy for his perfect 
reflexes, visual acumen, and uncanny situational awareness, he had risen quickly 
in the ranks of the Empire's pilot corps. He had earned his current assignment 
as personal pilot for the Emperor and his top advisors. Not only with his 
natural prowess, but by applying those martial skills in distinguishing himself 
as one of the Empire's top ace pilots in fighter combat.  

	He had personally shot down a half dozen of every type of craft the Rebel 
scum could get their hands upon, and just under twenty of the Rebel's much 
touted X-Wing class.  This made him an ace ten times over, and all within the 
tight confines of a fragile TIE fighter.  His skills and luck-factor were simply 
unbelievable.  He had survived the complete destruction of three of his 
squadrons in over 37 space and 11 atmospheric sorties.  His superiors soon 
looked upon him as a statistical freak.

	His squad mates called him something else; Iceman.  He was so cool and 
collected before and during the mission, his voice on the comlink cold and 
methodical as he acknowledged requests for assistance and reported in his kills 
and completed objectives.  

	What neither his fellow pilots nor his commanders knew was that after most 
missions, as he sat down on the bench in the pilot's washroom, it took 30 
minutes and every bit of willpower he had to force his hands to stop shaking. 
Every time, he reflected that surely nothing could match the terror of battling 
in the cold void of deep space in a souped up tin can with guns.  After just a 
few weeks as the Emperor's personal pilot, he now knew he was wrong.

	He could hear the mechanical breathing behind him.  He could sense the 
hollow gaze belonging to the source of the terrible wheezing, boring right 
through the back of his skull.  And although he knew it was only his 
imagination, he could almost feel his collar tighten with every minor shake and 
rattle of the shuttle as they passed through atmospheric turbulence.  He hoped 
that the disturbance was not unduly displeasing to his occupant, because he knew 
what happened to things that drew his passenger's displeasure.

	Finally, the docking pad came into view, the massive structure suspended 
invisibly by powerful anti-grav units.  Thumbing his com-unit, he opened a 
channel to ground control.  

	"Control, this is Shuttle KX115B, requesting landing clearance."  He 
didn't bother to add the Right the HELL NOW! he was feeling at the moment.

	"Clearance for pad A5-2345 granted KX115B. Welcome back to Imperial 
Center," the controller answered.  Far quicker than usual, too, the pilot noted.  
Perhaps he knew who was aboard as well.

	Activating the landing sequence, the pilot gingerly yet expertly set the 
shuttle down upon the ground.  Only then did he allow the tension that had 
slowly built up in his shoulders during the eternal ride to planet side start to 
bleed off.

	"Pilot," an impossibly deep voice intoned.  "Your name."

	The tension was right back in an instant.

	Standing up from his pilot's seat he pivoted on his heel and presented a 
crisp salute in one fluid motion. The pilot knew he was going to die. It might 
as well be with dignity.

	"Colonel Corbin Solaris, sir!"

	After a moment's hesitation, the passenger rumbled on.  "Your skill is 
excellent, Col. Solaris.  I will remember you if ever it is the Emperor's will 
that I be given command of one of the Empire's ships."

	"I would be honored, sir!"  With that, the dark passenger turned to debark 
the craft.  The pilot sagged back into his chair, completely wrung out.  He 
thought that surely not many men have had Death Himself pass over them, only to 
then offer them a promotion.

	The man called Vader rolled down the ramp of the Imperial Shuttle like a 
black thunder cloud.  Following him was a decidedly less imposing, though no 
less sinister figure.  "It's good to be back home, isn't it Vader?" Moff Tarkin 
asked in a pleasant tone that was bordering on patronizing.

	"Having never had a home, I would not know what returning to one is like," 
Vader said simply.

	Tarkin just laughed at him, a sound that was altogether unpleasant. "Don't 
be ridiculous! Imperial Center is home to all those who serve the Empire," 
Tarkin goaded with a slight rise of his eyebrow. 

	Not many men would have the temerity to speak to the Sith Lord as Tarkin 
did.  He was one of the few men in the upper echelons of the Imperial Military 
that still labored under the illusion that their high rank would protect them 
from Vader's capricious and often deadly anger.  In actuality it was not the 
Grand Moff's rank that protected him, but the fact that he currently curried the 
favor of the Emperor. Fortunate for him, Vader did not bother to reply, silently 
striding forward.

	After an awkward pause, Tarkin continued.  "I for one, am glad to be back.  
It was so incredibly dull being cooped up in the armpit of the universe during 
the construction phase of that thing," Tarkin nodded upwards, indicating 
Coruscant's new moon, the Death Star.  Tarkin smiled as he thought about the 
people that would lose sleep tonight just thinking about it being overhead.  
"Although, the last few days have been rather exciting, haven't they?"

	"Indeed," was Vader's terse reply.  Tarkin was such a fool.  Were it not 
the Emperor's will to refrain from doing so, he would have crushed the life out 
of him, as well as the other foppish Moffs and Admirals he had been forced to 
associate with since he'd been tasked with the security for the Emperor's new 
prize.  The irony of it all was that if not for Vader, Tarkin would be dead.  

	Had he not sensed Obi-Wan on the station, Tarkin would likely have never 
had an opportunity to plant a tracer on the invading Rebel ship. There for he 
would never have tracked them back to the Rebel's base. Such a failure was 
usually looked unfavorably upon by the Emperor, and often had dire consequences.  

	If by some miracle Tarkin had tracked down the Rebels, had it not been for 
Vader's last minute action to personally protect the Death Star's vulnerability 
from Rebel attack, Tarkin would have been blasted to atoms along with his 
precious project.   And that is the excitement he refers to, the fool, Vader 
thought.  His overconfidence is his weakness, 

	The dark lord glanced over to see Tarkin smirking, no doubt smugly 
satisfied with the victory he was bringing to the Emperor, swelled with his own 
importance.  Pray you never loose the Emperor's favor, Tarkin.  For then I will 
repay upon you every indignity you've ever visited upon me threefold.

	"It is unwise to keep the Emperor waiting," Vader reminded Tarkin of what 
should be the obvious as he pointedly increased the speed of his step.

	"I wouldn't dream of it Vader!  Why delay such a glowing report?"  

	Vader and Tarkin strode from the landing platform and entered into the 
smaller hovercraft waiting to whisk them away to the Emperor's private audience 
chamber.

-- -- --

	Entering into the Emperor's inner sanctum, one couldn't help but be 
impressed, no matter how many times they might have had opportunity to visit 
there.  The room was vast, with high arching walls, and dark crimson banners 
hanging floor to ceiling.  Vader and Tarkin walked past the line of Imperial 
Guards, sworn protectors of the Emperor. Each would consider it a personal honor 
to give their lives in exchange for Palpatine.  They were among the most feared 
warriors in the galaxy; perhaps second only to the mandalorians in reputation. 
Most guests to the Emperor's private chamber were set on edge by the very sight 
of their blood red armor and lethal force pikes.

	Vader didn't give them a second thought, hardly even aware of their 
existence.  There was but one person he feared in the entire galaxy, and that 
person sat on the throne that lay ahead.  The throne sitting atop the dais was 
turned toward the large round window that overlooked hundreds of kilometers of 
Imperial Center's surface.  Often Vader would come before his master and find 
him just as now, surveying the very heart of the Empire that he had forged.   
Vader always felt a thrill of power when in the presence of his master.  The 
power the Emperor commanded was such that it actually made Vader shiver slightly 
in fear.  But such power came at a terrible cost;  the dark side energy that 
Palpatine was embued with was literally consuming him from the inside out.  As 
Vader kneeled before his Emperor, the throne slowly rotated to face the new 
arrivals, and Vader noticed how much worse the Emperor was looking in just the 
six months since he had seen him last.  

	Certainly he had seen him in holograms, but the Emperor's cloak had a 
habit of shrouding the greater portion if his face, and trans-galactic holo-
communication was notorious for it's distortion and color fade. Now, face to 
face with his master, Vader noticed how far the Emperor's sickly eyes had sunk 
into their sockets, how slack and pale his skin had become.  Getting up from his 
throne with what appeared to be great effort, the Emperor hobbled over to Vader 
and Tarkin like the feeble old man he appeared to be.  Vader knew better.

	"Rise, my friend, rise..." the Empire croaked out what was for him a warm 
welcome as he patted his apprentice on the shoulder.  Vader rose from his knee, 
an exercise that would be impossible save for the cybernetics that ran 
throughout his body, in some cases replacing and in others merely connecting 
ruined muscle tissue to his damaged nervous system.  To compensate for the 
effort, his breathing regulator increased his breath rate ever so slightly.  Not 
many would have noted the difference, but then not much got past the Emperor.

	"Are your legs bothering you again, Lord Vader?"

	"No, my master"  That response earned Vader a cackle and a knowing look.  
Sometimes Palpatine made such inquiries into his health.  Vader was never quite 
sure if the Emperor asked out of some sort of paternal concern, or if it was 
just a way to needle him, especially in front of his rivals.  Vader didn't 
particularly like either possibility.

	"Good... Good then."  Turning his attention to Moff Tarkin, Palpatine 
asked "How does my new battle station perform?  Is it to your liking?"

	"Yes, your excellency. We were able to destroy the Rebel occupied planet 
of Yavin.  We also were forced to destroy Alderaan in an effort to extract 
information from Princess Leia on the whereabouts of the rebel fortress."

	"Yes, I know.  I... felt them die."  A hideous grin spread across the 
Emperor's face as he said this, his eyes briefly widening in remembrance of the 
sensation.  Then a frown.  "Was it truly necessary, Grand Moff?"

	"Vitally so, your Majesty. Not only were we trying to impress upon the 
Princess the wisdom of giving us the information we need, but as you well know, 
Alderaan was a known sympathizer to the Rebellion.  It's people and 
representatives in the defunct Senate have long been a constant thorn in your 
Excellency's side."  A concerned look.  "I do hope I haven't disappointed your 
Highness in some way."

	Palpatine briefly looked preoccupied with something, as if he was thinking 
about some distant and somewhat unpleasant memory.  But the moment quickly 
passed.

	"Not at all," He reassured Tarkin.  "Still, it is a great pity that I was 
not able to be there when Bail Organa finally met his end.  I always imagined I 
would be able to look him in the eye as he died." The Emperor closed his eyes, 
savoring the image.  The yellowed eyes opened.  "Continue with your report."

	"Yes, your Majesty.  The elimination of Alderaan not only silences that 
particularly noisy troublemaker, but the destruction of such an important Core 
World is important in keeping the systems in line. Fear -"

	"-is a powerful ally.  As well I know," the Emperor completed Tarkin's 
thought, with a another glance at Vader.

	Tarkin was not used to being interrupted, and it made him uncomfortable. 
But what could one do when it was the most powerful man in the Galaxy who was 
cutting you off?  "Uh, yes, your excellency, and a cornerstone in the Tarkin 
Doctrine, as you also know."  Having been partially deflated just seconds ago, 
reference to his pet thesis puffed him up even more than usual.  It made Vader 
nauseous.

	"Lord Vader, I sense there is more that you wish to add."

	"Yes, Master," Vader said.  Tarkin is a small man who is unworthy of 
either of our time and attention, and a complete idiot to boot, he thought.  
Though Vader did fear the Emperor, he did privately have reservations about how 
he exercised his power.  His reliance upon these mundane weapons, no matter how 
impressive, and sycophantic humans had confounded and troubled Vader on more 
than one occasion. 

	These thoughts, however, he kept private, carefully hiding them in the 
deep recesses of his mind.  Voicing them in front of Tarkin could lead to 
nothing good.  Instead, he said aloud, "Obi-wan Kenobi aided the rescue of the 
Princess from the Death Star."

	"Obi-wan!" The Emperor gleefully clapped his hands and cackled. "He has 
managed to elude us for so long.  How strange that he came out of hiding at this 
time. I wonder..."  The Emperor frowned  as he trailed off.  "...but no matter.  
Obi-wan still lives, eh?"

	"No, my master.  His powers were weak, and he had grown old and feeble 
over the years.  He was no match for the Dark Side."

	Another cackle.  "It was good that you were on board the station then, 
Lord Vader.  How fortunate for you, Grand Moff."  Tarkin looked slightly annoyed 
that Vader had stolen his thunder.  Vader hoped that the Emperor would continue 
down that train of thought, perhaps leading to Vader bisecting Tarkin with his 
red sabre blade as a finale.  But it was not to be.

	The Emperor concluded, "I am well pleased with the victory you have 
brought me, Tarkin.  You have my blessing to continue the Death Star 
development."

	"Of course, Excellency," Tarkin said as he bowed.  "Our technicians have 
many improvements to be made over the current model.  The next Death Star will 
be larger, more powerful, with stronger defenses and the elimination of several 
design flaws brought to light at Yavin." Tarkin glanced quickly at Lord Vader, 
smiling.  "It will be the ultimate weapon in a class of ultimate weapons."

	"Very well.  Keep me informed, Grand Moff," the Emperor commanded.  "I 
look forward to your reports of progress," the Emperor dismissed him with a 
wave. 

	"Leave us now.  There are matters I must discuss with Lord Vader in 
private." 

	Tarkin bowed slightly as he turned to leave.  Palpatine watched him go, 
and then turned his gaze towards Vader.

	"You don't approve of Tarkin, Lord Vader?"

	A jolt ran through him, and his back stiffened slightly as a result. One 
could never know how closely one was guarding his thoughts around one so 
powerful as the Emperor. "It is not my place to pass judgement on whom you 
entrust, master."

	"Your thoughts betray you, Vader."  A chuckle.  "It is true that Tarkin is 
hardly our equal.  But we need men like him," the Emperor explained.  "As 
powerful as I am, I cannot control this Empire alone, and not even with your 
considerable help, Lord Vader.  Do you realize how much effort it takes to keep 
the Empire under control?" the Emperor asked as he began to climb the steps back 
to his throne.  "How much effort it takes to keep our officers in line?  To make 
sure things are proceeding as I have forseen?  This is something you must come 
to appreciate.  As a warrior, you want to ride roughshod over the galaxy."  The 
Emperor sat on his throne as he continued.  "But you can't be everywhere, not at 
once," the Emperor chided Vader. "And that's where Tarkin and his like come in."

	"Master, I do not understand your insistence in relying on these weak 
humans and their technology.  We purged the Jedi because they could not see the 
wisdom in doing away with the weak Republic.  The could not see the necessity of 
restoring order and justice to the Galaxy, at whatever cost," Vader paused to 
take a breath before continuing.  "But everyday, more Force adepts are born.  
And everyday, we miss an opportunity to harness that power for ourselves."

	The Emperor favored Vader with a sickly smile.  "My! Lord Vader, what 
passion! I'm truly taken back.  Tell me, what would you have us do with such 
power?  Build an army of Sith?"

	"Master, you know as well as I what powerful allies we could make." Vader 
formed a fist as he spoke. "With such an army, we would have no need of Death 
Stars.  With the power of the Dark Side, we could destroy entire solar systems.  
You know as well as I the power wielded by the ancient line of Darths."

	"Yes, Lord Vader, their power was great," The Emperor conceded with a nod.  
His smile vanished. "But at what cost?  The ancient Sith Lords' hate and 
ambition turned on them.  It brought about a civil war that wiped our way out of 
the Galaxy for two millennia."

	Vader gritted his teeth, and half turned away from his the Emperor; this 
was not the first such conversation he'd had with Palpatine. Emphatically he 
stated, "They're flaw was their lack of honor, not in their approach. They were 
constantly hounded by the Jedi, their numbers reduced, deceived, and corrupted 
by Jedi teaching.  They were always on the defensive.  They lost the purity of 
their hate."  He turned to face the Emperor once more.  "We have no Jedi to 
oppose us. We do have honor.  We can succeed where our predecessors failed."  
Why couldn't the Emperor see this?  The ancient Sith were incompetent. How else 
to explain how they could not do with thousands of Sith what Vader did alone; 
eliminate the accursed Jedi.  Why the Emperor followed their superstitious 
beliefs when they so clearly did not apply to the present situation was 
something he could never understand.

	Palpatine, however, remained adamant. "This order of things has been 
essential to our very survival; there can only be one master, and one 
apprentice," something flashed in the Emperor's eyes. "Have you become mistaken 
as to who is the Master in our relationship, Lord Vader?"

	Vader once again was filled with fear.  He had pushed too hard and too 
fast this time.  The Emperor usually gave Vader quite a bit of leeway in their 
discussions on matters such as these, but Vader sensed that he was about to 
cross over a rather deadly line.

	Falling to one knee, Vader bowed his head.  "No, my master.  My thoughts 
are quite clear on that matter.  Forgive my indiscretion."

	The Emperor's malevolent gaze seemed to pierce right through the Sith 
Lord, sifting through his very soul. This was not far from the truth, and Vader 
tried very hard to repress the feelings of doubt towards the Emperor that had 
recently started to surface.  Having accomplished that, there was nothing Vader 
could do but wait.  After awhile, Palpatine seemed satisfied that whatever he 
was looking for in his pupil was not present. As quickly as the danger had 
appeared, it was gone.

	"I understand your concern, and perhaps one day we can realize your dream 
of ruling the galaxy with a Sith horde at our command.  But not now. You forget 
that I have convinced the Galaxy in believing the Jedi were useless and 
oppressive.  All true, of course, but not in the way they think of things." The 
Emperor laughed again.  "How would they react if we reinstated our own army of 
"spoon benders" so soon after ushering in the New Order?"  Vader actually paused 
to consider that thought, and the Emperor was pleased to see his words sinking 
in.  

	The Emperor continued.  "It is all a game, Vader," he said as he swept his 
arms around him, seemingly encompassing the whole galaxy.  "I know you do not 
like playing it, but as a Sith it is essential that you learn to do so.  We must 
do more by steady and patient manipulation than by direct confrontation, 
precisely because our numbers are so limited."  The Emperor sighed. "I fear that 
your Jedi training will eventually hold you back from reaching your full 
potential unless you renounce it completely."

	"Yes, Master.  I will endeavor to do as you say."  The Emperor had his 
points, as usual.  And no doubt, there was much to be learned from. But still, 
there was a nagging doubt that he couldn't quite brush away.

	"Enough of this," Palpatine dismissed the conversation with a wave of his 
hand. Another hideous smile. "Lord Vader, I have a surprise for you."  Palpatine 
leaned over and thumbed a switch on his throne. "Captain, have my shuttle ready.  
Lord Vader and I are going to visit the Sovereign Project."  Looking back at 
Vader, he motioned for him to get to his feet. "Rise, my friend.  Come see the 
reward for your faithful service."

-- -- --

	Once again Col. Solaris was in the hot seat, as the Imperial Shuttle 
rapidly rose out of the upper atmosphere, effortlessly leaving the gravity of 
Coruscant behind.  The terror he felt bringing Lord Vader to Imperial Center was 
back, for entirely different reasons.  After all, he was much more confident now 
that his piloting had met Vader's approval.

	Having looked over the flight plan, Corbin had a good idea of where they 
were going, and to what purpose.  However, he wasn't so sure of what it's 
meaning was for him.  Guess I'll find out soon.  

	Behind Solaris, standing beside his master's rather opulent chair in the 
heavily modified shuttle, Vader had no idea what to expect.  Vader looked around 
the shuttle to pass the time.  Most wouldn't notice, but as a pilot, and a 
technical wizard by his own right, he spotted several differences that marked 
this shuttle as not being factory standard.  For one, the increased size of the 
power couplers, and the heavier internal armor plating. Then, the bulges 
protruding out of the bulkhead aft of the passenger compartment, designed to 
house the beefier sublight and hyperdrive engines.  Outside the craft, Vader 
knew those heavier power conduits were put to good use feeding energy to the 
twin blaster cannons slung hidden under the belly of the craft, and increasing 
the capacity of the shielding systems.  But the shuttle's defense extended far 
beyond it's spaceframe.

	Flanking the shuttle on all sides were a half dozen of the TIE/A 
superiority fighters that Vader himself had helped design.  And further out, 
Vader knew that there were four Imperator-class Star Destroyers, each carrying 
three wings of TIEs, forming a picket line. They would prevent any civilian or 
hostile traffic from entering the Shuttle's flight path.  Completing the 
security precautions was a single Interdictor-class Destroyer to prevent would 
be assassins from hyperspacing right on top of them.  And all this for the 
small, frail looking old man in the deep blue robes.  A man that really had no 
need of such lavish protection. 

	The thought always irked Vader.  Why did a man that could read minds from 
several lightyears away and kill with a single thought need all of this hardware 
and manpower around to protect him?  Probably just another game, Vader mused.  
Appear weak and feeble so that your enemies do not know your true strength.  
Vader grunted, which sounded like a sharp hiss outside his mask.  Even though 
Vader had his differences with the Emperor, he realized that there was much that 
could be learned from his Master.

	Vader could now see they were heading out towards one of the outer planets 
in Coruscant's solar system.  The planet and its small moons rapidly grew in the 
Shuttle's viewport, as Solaris completed his approach.  What in Sith is the 
Emperor up to?  Vader wondered.

	"Vader, I'm sure you've wondered why I haven't given my most loyal servant 
a ship of his own to command," the Emperor said aloud, jarring Vader out of his 
thoughts.

	"The question had occurred to me, Master."  Vader noticed that Solaris was 
proceeding to enter into a powered orbit around the planet.

	The Emperor laughed.  "The answer, Lord Vader, is simply this; I didn't 
want to give you just any ship."

	The shuttle began to approach a dark shape that was just slightly brighter 
than the black void of space. At that precise moment, with impeccable timing, 
the object began to slide out from behind the shadow of the planet. Sunlight 
slowly revealed a dark gray dagger shape, the familiar lines of and Imperial 
Star Destroyer.  But where most Star Destroyers would have stopped at engines 
and a conning tower, this ship continued, as light kept slowly creeping up the 
length of it's hull.  And it kept creeping.  And it crept some more. If Vader 
had any control over his breathing, he would have stopped doing so right then 
and there.

	Palpatine looked up at his pupil and grinned.  "It's called the Executor.  
It's the very first ship of its class.  They tell me that it's over 17 
kilometers long.  It has thousands of turbolaser and ion cannon emplacements.  
It holds six wings of TIE fighters.  Its shields could ram a small moon and not 
even take notice. It has been designed to engage entire fleets and win.  It is 
simply the most powerful warship in the Galaxy."  The Emperor paused for 
dramatic effect.  "And it is yours, Lord Vader."

	Despite Vader's scorn for the Emperor's toys, he had to admit the vast 
sums of money and resources he pumped into his war machine occasionally paid 
off.  This ship was one such occasion.  As Vader watched the last of the mighty 
vessel slip into view, he couldn't help but lust after the ship as if it were 
the living embodiment of power itself.  

	This ship had honor.  It did not wade through it's enemies to destroy 
their planet; it conquered them.  It didn't shrug off and ignore it's enemy's 
attacks; it confronted them head on.  Its shape was not a clumsy sphere, but 
sleek and deadly, like an ancient broadsword.  This ship commanded not only 
fear, but respect.  It was a ship made for a warrior.  It was a ship made for 
Vader.

	"You do me honor by giving me command of such a vessel.  I truly have not 
seen it's equal."  

	"I thought you would like it. I hope your mission will be equally 
acceptable." Palpatine turned to formally face Vader. "Now that the Rebellion is 
no more, we must continue to restore Order to the galaxy. You will take the 
Executor, handpick its crew, and with a dozen of the finest Destroyers my navy 
has to offer as your escort, bring the light to the dark corners of the Galaxy.  
You will immediately go to the Outer Rim and pacify the wild regions of space it 
contains.  Bring law to the lawless.  Crush and destroy all that oppose you. 
Bring glory to the Empire.  Do you accept this mission?"

	"Yes, Master."  He continued to watch the vessel cruise through space as 
they approached to dock with it, and reflected on his mandate from the Emperor.  
A chance to return to the outer rim where he was born, where crime and green 
still spawned vile scum like those responsible for his enslavement and the death 
of his mother.  A chance to lift up the humans living their miserable lives and 
punish the hideous aliens that made such conditions so.  Oh yes, he would make 
them pay dearly, and as he did so, his own power would grow.  

	Vader spoke now with conviction.  "As you have said it, it will be done."

-------------

Past Imperfect - Chapter Three

	Wedge walked down the corridors of the Jagged Edge, heading toward the 
mess hall.  Two months.  It had been two long months of sleepless nights and 
boring days since the destruction of Alderaan.  If nothing else, Wedge had had 
lots of time to think.  Think of how things had gone so wrong in his life.

	But however bad his life was, he knew there were those with worse lots in 
the galaxy.  The Empire had been waving the flag out on the outer rim lately.  
Apparently the Emperor had seen fit to send out a fairly large fleet, with some 
sort of new supercruiser as its backbone. Something like 12 Star Destroyers, 
with hundreds of corvettes, frigates, and carriers rounding out the fleet.  Not 
much of a fleet by core standards, but it would be an unstoppable juggernaut 
against the criminal lords and pirates in the outer rim.  He pitied the poor 
bastards that didn't have human DNA out there.  

	The Empire singled out aliens for persecution.  They were easy scapegoats, 
Wedge knew.  They were different.  They had often had values and thought 
patterns that were, well, alien to humans, who were by far the dominant species 
in the Galaxy. That very difference sparked fear and hatred more often than not.  
Employment down?  It's the bugs taking all the good jobs.  Kid can't get into 
any of the good universities?  It's the fish heads taking all of the top spots 
up. Some human settlement on the frontier gets razed to the ground?  It's those 
crazy hairballs rampaging through the galaxy again. 

	All in all, it was quite a clever scam, really.  Blame all the galaxy's 
problems on those different from the ruling class, then ruthlessly oppress them 
so the truth can't come out.

	Wedge snorted.  He'd served shoulder to shoulder, and sometimes wing or 
tentacle, with aliens of all species and backgrounds. He knew that they were 
just like any other human being.  There were some good, and some bad.  But all 
of them understood concepts like loyalty, friendship, and freedom.  Especially 
freedom.  

	Wedge's life had quickly settled into a fairly boring routine.  He had 
made a few friends aboard the Jagged Edge, and his fair share of enemies.  None 
that hated him so much as to cause him problems, fortunately.  His little 
demonstration on his first day on the job saw to that.  Wedge smiled in 
remembrance.  Actually, that little stunt had earned him quite a bit of respect, 
even from that crusty Chief Reza.

	But basically each day consisted of eight hours on duty, sixteen off. 
Occasionally Wedge had to pull a double duty and help out a few of the other 
departments.  Turnover was pretty bad in many areas of the ship, especially in 
the cargo handling detail.  Lots of drifters earning just enough money for 
whatever it was they were saving for in their transitory lives, and then cutting 
out with their pay, often without warning.

	The Captain didn't tolerate any attitude in his command crew.  The way he 
saw things, a pilot could help load the ship or even clean the 'freshers out 
just as well as anyone else, and if you had the time, and the ship lacked the 
personnel, well, you did what needed to be done.  Period.

	Which was just fine with Wedge.  Keeping busy was just another way of 
keeping his mind off things.  But not today.  He had his full sixteen hours of 
off time breathing down his neck.  Sleep would take up a large portion of it of 
course, and he could always brush up on his qualifications on the ship's 
rudimentary simulator.  But he was bored of that lately; handling a 'Vette isn't 
exactly exciting once you've spent some time in the seat of an Incom T-65 X-
Wing.  And he wasn't tired yet, so he decided to satisfy one of his other basic 
needs, and thus he arrived at his present destination.

	The low-ceilinged room was large enough to hold a third of the Edge's crew 
of 120 at one time.  At this hour there wasn't a lot of activity going on; 
perhaps half a dozen men playing sabbaac or shooting the bantha to pass time.  
Wedge waved at a few as he maneuvered over to the cook droid.

	The droid, a fairly recent CK-122 model, was pretty strange looking. First 
of all, it was a frosty white all over, because some marketing type somewhere 
decided that white means clean, and everybody wanted a clean droid preparing 
food, right?  It was a modified humanoid shape, with a blocky head, cylindrical 
body, and four arms, two of which currently had mixing tools extended from the 
ends of them.  This particular one suffered from an excess of personality, a 
sour one to boot.

	"What's for dinner, SeeKay?" Wedge asked as he approached the droid.

	SeeKay looked up from his mixing bowl and fixed Wedge with his single 
black eye.  "Same stuff as always, just a different day, Roat."

	"You better say 'Sir' talking to me like that," Wedge said in mock warning 
to the droid.

	"Kiss my conduit, Sir," the droid replied, going back about is business.

	"Much better," Wedge said as he moved down to where you actually picked up 
the food.  There were several plates ready, perfectly preserved in a stasis 
field that could keep the food it held fresh and hot for weeks if need be.  
Picking out one that looked good, he flipped off the field surrounding the 
entree and picked it up.  Next, he stopped at the drink dispenser, filled it 
with ice and water, and then headed off to find a table.

	Finding one set off from his other crewmembers, wedge sat down, and 
propped up his feet. Balancing his plate with one hand on his abdomen, he used 
the other to grab a utensil and started forking food into his mouth.  The food 
here, in this case, Mandarian beefsteak and Daboo roots, was pretty good.  While 
the Captain was a hard case, he did see the value in keeping the men happy where 
it counts.  

	Wedge picked up his glass to wash the first few bites of Mandar beast 
down, when he caught site of a few newspads lying around.  Wedge debated whether 
he should take one; reading them usually just got him all worked up.  But in the 
end, curiosity won out, and he grabbed one of the newspads lying on the table, 
quickly scanning the headlines.

	One article in particular on a new Imperial policy jumped out at him. As 
he began reading, his blood chilled.  

-- -- --

	Han Solo hated when Chewie got like this.  In a mixture of panic, outrage, 
and fear, he was making quite the racket as he was intent on destroying the 
newspad that was in his massive paws.  He was largely succeeding in his efforts, 
too, as Han looked around as the attention they were receiving from the other 
members in the restaurant.

	"Uh, hey pal, you want to calm yourself down a bit?" Han suggested. "I 
don't think we especially want to be drawing attention to ourselves right now."

	Those newspads sure were tough, Han though.  But not many cheap mass 
produced materials could stand up to the full force of a wookiee's fury, and 
this was no exception.  With a loud snap, the slender pad broke over Chewie's 
leg, sparks and smoke shooting from it's newly formed crack.  Chewie howled in 
triumph, and hurled the remains of the pad against the nearest wall, causing 
several people in the general vicinity to duck their heads.

	"Check please," Han said as he motioned with his hand to their waitress.  
Moving with speed that she'd never displayed when Han needed his glass refilled, 
the girl slapped the bill on the table and then left with a squeak as Chewie 
snarled at her.  Han placed enough credits to cover the cost of the meal and a 
nice tip for the waitress, and then rose from his seat.  He was a tad unsteady 
at first, as he had been drinking a little too much before his partner's 
outburst. The drinking was becoming a common occurrence.  "Let's get out of 
here, Chewie."

	Chewie followed Han to the door, and paused to turn around and roar at all 
of the occupants one last time.  Han reached out and grabbed him, forcibly 
pulling him outside.

	"Feel better, now that you've scared a few hundred people, and destroyed 
an innocent datapad?" Han asked.  Chewie roared in the affirmative.  "You know 
that wasn't the only copy of the Empire's new policy, right?  I'm not positive 
on this one, but they probably have a backup copy on Coruscant just in case of 
Wookiee rage."  The big wookiee walking beside him just growled in response. 
"Come on, we got to get to the Falcon and get out of here. If you think they 
didn't call the cops on us back there, you're crazy."  Han broke out into a 
trot, looking left and right to see if they'd drawn any 'official' attention 
yet.  The coast was clear so far.

	Arriving at docking bay 79, where the Falcon had been parked for the last 
three days, Han quickly circled his ship checking for mechanical problems in 
general and electronic bugs in particular.  Nothing seemed to be amiss, so he 
headed over to the loading ramp, keyed in his personal ID, and boarded his ship, 
with Chewie right behind.

	Both smugglers headed to the cockpit, strapped on their communication 
gear, and ran through the takeoff checklist.  Chewie then fired up the sensor 
suite, and checked for any nearby air traffic.  He turned to Han, shaking his 
head indicating that there were no aerial impediments to their leaving the 
planet.

	For most worlds, that was pretty much the only take off and landing 
clearance you really needed.  So long as you didn't collide with anyone else, 
you came and went as you pleased.  Ship captains gave no more thought to their 
landing to or take off from a planet than people in more primitive societies 
gave to pulling out of a parking garage.

	Thus, the Falcon rose upon its powerful antigrav units, and hovered out of 
the landing bay.  Still utilizing its grav drive, it rose a few dozen meters 
straight up, then Han pitched the freighter back about 60 degrees of horizontal, 
telling Chewie to "punch it."  The Falcon's sublight engines glowed fiercely, 
and the resulting impulse rocketed them toward escape velocity.

	Within moments, the sky turned from baby blue, to purple, to navy, and 
finally black as they ripped through the last fringes of the planet's 
atmosphere.  Chewie asked Han a question.

	"Where are we going?  Tatooine," Han answered as he punched in the 
appropriate coordinates.  Chewie formed another query, this one more plaintive.

	"What are we going to do?" Han was silent for a long time.  Then, reaching 
forward to pull back the hyperspace actuators, he sighed. "I don't know."  That 
response especially frightened Chewie.  It wasn't often his partner had no plan 
of action.

	They both quietly gazed out the transparisteel window as the stars began 
to streak past, and finally disappear and a snap and a blur.

-- -- --

	On a distant planet far away from the Falcon and it's destination, General 
Crix Madine held a datapad limply between his fingers, as he looked out the 
window of his office.  The sun was setting over the horizon, heralding night's 
approach.  He had just arrived on the Imperial Training world of Carridia a few 
days ago, after returning from the most difficult mission of his life.

	Thinking back still made him sick at his stomach.  He was assigned to 
covertly land on the planet of Dentaal, and introduce the Candorian plague into 
the population's water supply.  From there, it would spread from person to 
person like wildfire.  After all, that's what the Imperial Bio-technicians had 
designed it to do.

	Madine hadn't liked the orders, didn't like the mission, but he was the 
best there was at what he did.  He was a loyal Imperial, and his government had 
targeted Dentaal for erasure as punishment for harboring Rebel fugitives and 
supporting their cause.  It made it somewhat easier to think of things like this 
in black and white. Legitimate government versus upstart troublemakers.  Proper 
authorities versus terrorist movement.  And so pushing his conscience aside, his 
team had infiltrated the planet and placed their package of death at the 
locations deemed most likely to facilitate rapid spread of the virus.

	10 billion people died.  An entire planet's population wiped out in less 
than 24 hours.  Were they all guilty of harboring rebels?  The little children 
that he and his men had seen laughing with their mothers in the park?  Madine 
tried to put out of his mind the image of a child whose body was rapidly 
breaking down, his cells refusing to bind together, instead rejecting each other 
and dying off.  It would be a horrible death, Crix knew; the research and 
development pukes left him with no illusions about that.  A victim's body was 
rapidly dissolved from the inside out.  Within a day's time, all that would be 
left of what used to be a person was a pile of goo.  He hadn't slept more than 
three hours each night since that nightmarish mission.  

	The kicker was that the entire incident had been pinned on the Rebels 
themselves.  In doing so, the Imperials single handedly did away with their 
opposition and further justified their war against the Rebels. Madine knew that 
it was hardly a rare occurrence.  What he didn't know was just how many of the 
atrocities supposedly committed by rebel forces had actually been carried out by 
the Empire. By guys with troubled consciences just like himself.  He had been 
giving those questions serious thought the last few days.  And then, after 
considering that, he had another question:  Who are the Imperials going to pin 
the blame on now that the Rebels are gone?  Now he had the answer to that 
question, at least.

	He held in his hand an Official Imperial Policy, with Palpatine himself's 
dataprint ensuring it's authenticity.  Basically, it decreed that all aliens in 
Imperial territory be registered at the Alien Information Department at Imperial 
Center.  Once an alien was registered, it would be injected with a nanotracer -- 
a minute transceiver that would not only carry the alien's public records, but 
also allow him, her, or it to be tracked from a 10,000 light-year radius.

	A new datacenter had been constructed at Coruscant for just such a 
purpose.  It was one of the largest computer cores ever constructed, laying 100 
miles underneath the "surface" of Coruscant.  It was roughly 500 miles wide, and 
was powered by four reactors similar to the solar ionization power plants found 
on the Imperator-class Star Destroyers.  Millions of man hours had went into the 
design of it's hardware and software, which was hardly surprising, as it was 
tasked with nothing less than tracking the whereabouts and history of the 
estimated 20 quadrillion aliens living in the entire Galaxy.  That's 20 with 
fifteen zeros after it.  The human mind quailed before such numbers, but not the 
massively powerful computer the Empire now had.

	The rationale behind this was that aliens were dangerous and a clear 
threat to human life and liberty.  After all, wasn't the Rebellion made up 
largely of aliens?  And we all knew how deadly they were, right?  Didn't they 
poison the waters of Dentaal?  Didn't they initiate the Tarridian massacre?  
Weren't they the ones that wiped out the moon world of Deskar III?  The dirty 
kriffing nerfs.  

	And Madine knew that was precisely what the common core world citizen 
thought of the matter.  The ones that actually used their brains and saw through 
the deception were usually smart enough to keep their mouths shut.  After all, 
everyone knew what happened to Alderaan, Dentaal, and Tarridia, right?  For most 
people, the relative peace and prosperity the Empire had brought out of the 
chaotic last years of the Old Republic kept them happy.  And for the clever 
ones, there was the Tarkin Doctrine: fear.

	And now the alien threat was going to be the drum beat to which the Empire 
marched into the mid and outer rim, to "pacify" those regions that had been 
overlooked during the period of civil war.  And he was assigned to be part of 
that mission.  

	On the far corner of his desk sat another datapad, with different orders.  
He was to rapidly assemble from current Carridian trainees and officers of his 
choosing an entire Corps made up of ten regiments comprising about 50,000 troops 
in total.  Of course, one regiment would have an entire battalion devoted to 
Special Forces.  That was a rarity in the army, but then again, this was his 
area of expertise.

	He was to have this manpower assembled, with the appropriate weapons and 
hardware, in 30 days time.  The corps would be loaded on to transports, and then 
rendezvous with the Imperial fleet under command of Lord Darth Vader at Tynna 
just outside the inner rim.  From there they would proceed with a campaign to 
conquer the outer rim territories.  The orders were signed by Lord Vader 
himself.  He supposed it was an honor to be chosen by the Emperor's chief 
lieutenant.  Probably because of the exemplary way he handled the Dentaal 
mission, he thought darkly.

	Madine still believed in the ideology of the New Order.  He dreamed of the 
day when peace would fall over the entire Galaxy.  But at what cost peace? Was 
killing or enslaving every alien in the universe the answer?  And even if it 
was, was the price worth it?

	Madine didn't have the answers.  All he could fall back on was his duty.  
So taking a final look at the dwindling sunset, he began sending his own 
dispatches to officers that he had selected to be in his command, with their own 
orders to select their officers, and so on, until every last trooper had been 
selected.  Madine would probably want to meet with his higher-level officers to 
review their choices, but he largely trusted the judgment of those he chose to 
be under him, or else he wouldn't have selected them in the first place.

	By the time he had signed and sent his last order, darkness had descended 
upon Carridia.  Madine got out from behind his desk, and walked over to the door 
that led to the small deck that overlooked some of the training facilities.  The 
door hissed open as he approached, letting in the cool night air.  Madine looked 
up at the stars; they were so lovely, and he was always taken by staring into 
the vastness of space.  But tonight, he wasn't filled with awe.  He instead 
wondered which of those stars had a planet orbiting it covered by the corpses of 
the ten billion innocents that he had murdered.  He wondered if that is what the 
Empire is willing to do to its human citizens, what horrors might he witness 
committed against the aliens in the outer rim?  How much longer could he keep 
doing this?

-- -- --

	Han and Chewie sat in the forward hold of the Millennium Falcon, 
discussing their plan of action.  Han had a glassful of Zyphurian brandy, one of 
several that he'd imbibe tonight.

	"Ok, so we just get you registered, what's the big deal?"

	Chewie reminded Han that as a Slave, the Empire had detailed DNA records 
of him, and as an escaped slave, he was also a condemned one. If he showed up to 
be 'tagged', they'd crosscheck his records and that would be the end of him.

	"That was a long time ago pal.  They probably have lost or deleted your 
records by now."

	In a series of forlorn howls, Chewie let Han know how likely he thought 
that was, given the enormous computing power and storage the Empire had 
dedicated to this task.

	"Right," Han said, and then emptied his glass in one gulp.  "I need 
another drink," he announced, as he staggered over to the Navicomputer where his 
bottle of brandy was residing.

	Chewie watched his partner with what passed for concern on a Wookiee 
evident on his face.  Since Han had abandoned the Rebels at Yavin, he had been 
on an almost non-stop drinking binge.  At first Chewie had been condemnatory of 
Han and his selfish and cowardly act, but had let up quite a bit lately when he 
saw how hard he was taking it.  

	But Chewie had to admit that they wouldn't be in this position if they had 
stayed and helped the Alliance fight that Death Star.  Either they would have 
succeeded, and the Rebels remained to oppose the Empire, or the two smugglers 
would have died in the attempt.  Either outcome was preferable to the one he was 
looking at now.  

	If the Empire ever caught Chewbacca alive, the best he could hope for was 
a summary blaster bolt between the eyes.  The worst, some form of torture that 
would take advantage of a Wookiee's higher threshold for pain and make full use 
of their biology's unique pressure points. Maybe even pull his climbing claws 
out, combining pain with dishonor. Chewbacca knew there was some interrogators 
in the Empire's service that almost elevated torture to an art form, and did it 
not so much to extract information, but to just keep their skills up to par. 
Thinking again, maybe torture wasn't the worst that could happen. He'd heard 
stories while he was still in captivity of the horrifying medical experiments 
Imperial doctors performed on Wookiees that had grown too old and infirm to 
continue working.  Chewie shuddered at the thought, which was impressive in and 
of itself; Wookiees feared little.

	But these thoughts he kept private.  He owed Han a life debt, and pushing 
him over the edge of sanity with guilt wasn't the best way to fulfill that 
obligation.  So he just waited as his partner returned with his bottle, and 
poured yet another glass.

	"Ok, here's what we're going to do," Han said, pausing to sip down half of 
his shot.  "We've got a course laid into Tatooine right now. We're on Jabba's 
good side again, so we do some work for him, and his turf is pretty well outside 
Imperial space.  Maybe do some runs in the Corporate Sector if we get bored 
working for the Hutts."  Han downed the rest of his glass, then slammed it back 
down.  "Don't you worry, Chewie.  There is plenty of space left in the Galaxy... 
and the Empire's not everywhere," Han's speech had started to slow, and Chewie 
now noticed his eyes rolling back into his head.  "Plenty of space..." Han 
trailed off as he passed out, tumbling out of his chair and onto the floor.

	Chewie muttered several Wookiee curses.  This was the fourth time this 
week.  Han's drinking problem was getting out of hand, Chewbacca knew, but there 
wasn't exactly a twelve-step program you could sign up someone for in their line 
of work.  So Chewie did the only thing he could do.  He got up, walked over to 
Han, bent down.  He then scooped Han up into his arms as easily as a man would 
pick up a small child that had fallen asleep in front of the holoviewer. Chewie 
padded softly down the Falcon's interior ring-like hallway, and gently laid Han 
in his bunk, then switched of the light.

	Next, he made his way to the cockpit, and took the pilot's seat.  He 
carefully set an alarm to wake him a half-hour before they came out of 
hyperspace.  Then he reclined the seat and put his feet up on the dash, 
something that Han would have scolded him for were he his old sober self.  Well, 
as sober as he had been before Yavin, anyway; Han was hardly a teetotaler 
before.  

	Chewie closed his eyes, thinking back to what Han had said.  Plenty of 
space left in the Galaxy.  The thought made Chewie grunt.  Sure, perhaps now, 
but since the Rebels had been done away with, the Empire was expanding it's base 
of power at a terrific rate.  How long would the Imperial forces tolerate the 
Hutts operating independently out here on the outer rim?  Or the Corporate 
sector, or the wealthy Hapians, or any of the others that had been too remote or 
too powerful for the Empire to confront... until now. Try as he might, Chewie 
just could not shake the bad feeling about the future of Han and their 
partnership.

-- -- --

	Col. Corbin Solaris had looked toward this day with a mixture of both fear 
and excitement for quite some time now.  Ever since he had piloted Vader and the 
Emperor out to the Sith Lord's new command, he knew that Vader would make good 
on his promise to offer him a position on the awesome Executor.  The source of 
the fear was obvious; any failure on his part could mean instant death, as Lord 
Vader did not accept anything other than success.  But he also knew that Vader 
was in a position to offer those that pleased him practically anything one could 
desire: wealth, prestige, and power.  Especially power.  Serving under Vader was 
the quick way to promotion; if it was by means of attrition, that was beside the 
point.  And deep down, Solaris was an ambitious man.  His rank entitled him to 
command a starfighter wing, but he longed for his own ship to command.  Not just 
a frigate or an aging dreadnought, but a Star Destroyer; the weapon of choice in 
the Imperial Navy.

	So it was with these thoughts that Solaris accepted Lord Vader's 
invitation to command one of the Executor's half dozen wings of TIE fighters.  
Even better, they were the newer Advanced models that were increasingly 
replacing their more fragile and limited cousins, the TIE and TIE/I's.  Solaris 
had never flown a TIE/Adv, and was eager to get in the cockpit of one to see 
what they could do.

	The odd thing about his new command assignment was that the orders came 
with a dinner invitation from Lord Vader.  Very odd indeed.  Not necessarily 
frightening, though.  After all, surely Vader would not give him a command of a 
fighter wing, invite him to dine with him, and then decide to kill him.  As long 
as he didn't go out of his way to offend the Sith Lord, that is.  Perhaps Vader 
had offered all of his fighter commanders such an invitation.  Vader had quite 
the reputation as a premier fighter pilot himself, dating back to the clone 
wars. Maybe he just wanted to swap stories with a few fellow pilots.  Didn't 
seem likely, but then again Lord Vader was largely an enigma.

	However, making inquiries with a few of the others slated for fighter 
commands revealed that he was the only one that had received such an invitation.  
That fact made a knot form in his stomach, but still his instinct told him that 
he was in no danger.  And over the years, Corbin had learned to put a lot of 
faith into his instincts.  

	So it was that he found himself outside the giant metal doors that led to 
Vader's private dining room on the Executor.  He made sure that he was right on 
time, down to the second.  He pressed the door call button and waited a few 
seconds before the doors slid aside with almost no noise at all.  

	Beyond the doors lay a long, narrow table, adorned with delicacies from 
all over the galaxy.  Anything from Turbian swine, Aldarian bird, steamed Shamri 
root, and fresh bread was to be found on that table, along with what Solaris was 
sure was only the finest vintages of wine in a half dozen crystal carafes.  And 
at the end of the table, rising to his feet, was the dread Lord Vader himself.

	"I am honored that you are able to join me for dinner, Colonel."

	"Believe me Lord Vader, the honor is all mine."

	Vader motioned at the other end of the table, almost 5 meters from where 
the Sith Lord himself sat.  "Please, be seated."

	Solaris did as he was told, but did not begin to help himself to the 
offerings, instead waiting to take a cue from Vader.

	"Do not wait for any ceremony, Solaris.  I assure you there is none 
forthcoming.  You will forgive me if I do not join you in your meal, but my 
condition makes it quite difficult to eat in a form that you would be familiar 
with."  Corbin was shocked at the frankness with which Sith was speaking to him.  
He wasn't sure what to expect, but discussing Vader's limitations due to his 
rumored massive injuries wasn't high on the list.  

	"Ah... thank you my Lord.  Don't mind if I do."  Solaris began to load his 
plate self consciously, really not knowing what to do or say next. With great 
relief, Solaris saw that Vader wasn't going to let silence hang in the air for 
too long.

	"I've studied your record in great detail, Colonel.  It is most 
impressive."

	Solaris poured himself some wine from the selection on the table.  He 
swirled it in his glass before sniffing it, attempting to look sophisticated. 
Then he took a sip, and found it to be one of the best cups that he'd ever had.  
"Again, thank you.  That means a lot, coming from a pilot as distinguished as 
yourself, my Lord."  Corbin hoped he put just the right amount of respect into 
his tone, not wishing to either anger or appear weak before Vader.

	"I have especially noticed the comments that your previous commanding 
officers have included in your files."  Vader picked up a datapad, and glanced 
down at it.  He quoted, "'Uncanny reflexes', 'skill that borders on luck', 
'miraculous survival of even missions where all resources were considered 
expendable...' " Both Vader and Corbin knew that 'resources expendable' was just 
an Imperial term for 'suicide mission.' " 'Solaris appears to have more lives 
than a Targis cat', 'if I didn't know better, I would say Solaris had Jedi blood 
in him,'" Vader looked back up at Corbin.  "Were you aware of these comments?" 

	Corbin was even more uncomfortable as he stopped eating in mid bite. Being 
linked to Jedi wasn't something that you relished in Palpatine's New Order.  
"Uh, to some extent, yes.  I was aware that many of my squadron mates dubbed me 
'Iceman', and considered me to be some what freakish in my ability to survive 
space combat."  

	"I found it most interesting."  Lord Vader paused.  "Many people said the 
same things about me before I even started my 'career.'"

	Of course, this was no surprise.  It was common knowledge among the 
Imperial forces, if not the common citizen, that the Emperor and his apprentice 
were adept in the use of the Force.  Not everyone believed in the Force, 
however, and all too often dismissed Vader's power as mere parlor tricks, or as 
some arcane religion.  Solaris proceeded with caution.

	"Excuse me my Lord, but I have heard that the Force is in fact with you."  

	Vader said nothing for a moment.  Then he raised his right hand in a 
simple gesture, and to Corbin's shock, one of the carafes filled with wine 
floated from the table to hover over Vader's glass.  The container then tipped 
slightly, and filled the Dark Lord's cup with the deep purple liquid before 
retreating to it's original position on the table.  Vader then allowed his hand 
to drop.  "Indeed, you are correct."  

	If Vader had intended to somehow impress Corbin with such a display, he 
succeeded and then some.  It wasn't often that you encountered something that 
fundamentally changed the way in which you perceived the universe, and the 
colonel had just had such an encounter.  There was a big difference between 
rumor and seeing with your own eyes.

	Solaris continued to watch agape as Vader picked up his silver goblet, and 
raised it to where his lips would be behind his grotesque mask.  A small needle 
rotated out of the triangular area of Vader's breathing regulator, and with a 
soft whirring noise, extended into the cup of wine.  Corbin could only assume 
that Vader was actually ingesting the liquid.  After a few seconds, Vader put 
the glass back on the table, and as quickly as the 'fang' had appeared, it 
concealed itself back inside Vader's mask.

	Corbin's mind was having trouble coping with the information it was 
receiving.  First, he has dinner with the man who was arguably the second most 
powerful being in the universe.  Then this same man compliments Corbin on his 
piloting record, levitates some liquor with the Force, and then suddenly the 
colonel is knocking back cold ones with him.  Where in blazes is this going? 
Corbin wondered to himself.

	"Colonel Solaris, we have much to discuss about your future, in the 
Imperial Navy and beyond. Tell me, to what do you feel you owe your incredible 
luck in battle?"  

	Corbin knew from this point onward that the pacification of the outer rim 
was going to be a most interesting campaign.  And his relationship with the 
Supreme Commander of the Executor Fleet was going to be quite interesting as 
well.

---------------

Past Imperfect Chapter Four


	It's sometimes funny how planets turn out to be exactly how they look from 
space. It certainly held true for Tatooine. The planet looked like a dusty, 
dried out old rock, and that is precisely what it was. But for all that, the 
miserable planet was a home away from home for a vast criminal empire, 
controlled by the greedy and manipulative Hutts. This, combined with it's remote 
nature and undesirable status among the galaxy's 'civilized' society, Tatooine 
was a haven for smugglers and bounty hunters. And that is exactly the qualities 
that drew the two occupants of an old battered tramp freighter to this planet.

	Chewbacca approached the planet from it's night side, using the Falcon's 
extremely sensitive passive sensors to snoop for military or other dangerous 
traffic before landing on the planet. Chewbacca was not surprised when he found 
none. The only time an official battle-wagon had been in the region of space, 
Republic or Empire, was probably well over 50 years ago. Until, of course, that 
princess had come here seeking the aid of an old wizard. 

	But that thought got the Wookie thinking along the same tired and 
depressing line of thought that he often found himself wondering about. _What 
if..._ 

	He heard a moan coming up from behind him, and turned to see his partner 
stagger up into the cockpit, holding the side of his head with one hand, and 
bracing himself against the bulkhead with another. Chewie growled a suggestion 
to him.

	"Take better care of myself? Where is the fun in _that?_ " Han started to 
chuckle, but quickly stopped as he winced in pain. Han wondered if there was 
some kind of stellar body in his head that was going supernova, trying to 
obliterate any matter found between his ears in the process. He crashed into the 
co-pilot's seat and covered his eyes with his arm as he leaned back. "Where are 
we, anyway?"

	Chewbacca turned to Han as he growled out a reply.

	"We're there already?" Han sat up to peer at the planet in front of him. 
Just as he did so, Chewbacca crossed the planet's terminator into daytime, and 
the twin suns of Tatooine roared into view over the horizon. The dazzle was 
enough to make Chewie squint. For Han, the resulting pain nearly mad him pass 
out before he quickly shut his eyes.

	"Remind me to lay off of that Zyphurian brandy, will ya next time?" 

	Chewie growled in mild outrage. 

	"Oh yeah, I guess you did. Hey, look, if you can handle the landing, I'm 
going to go back to the 'fresher and run some cold water over my head. I can't 
negotiate with Jabba all hung over." 

	Chewie barked an affirmative. He had gotten them this far, he didn't see 
why landing the crate would be much more of an imposition.

	"Right. See you when we hit topside." Han got up, tripped, caught himself 
before he fell completely on his face, and then continued down the Falcon's 
corridor. _

	What if indeed_ , Chewie thought. Sure, even if they had succeeded in 
destroying the Death Star, they'd still be on the run. But at least they'd be 
running for a cause he believed in, and have destiny somewhat in his hands. They 
wouldn't be working for this depraved worm again, certainly. And Han would have 
been the man that had once thrown away a promising career to save the life of a 
condemned slave; courageous, strong, and honorable. Chewie glanced over his 
shoulder as he heard a crash come from the 'fresher. Han was fast becoming a 
shadow of his former self.

	Chewie was many things, but above all, he was a being the placed a great 
deal of importance on the concept of honor. Honor demanded that he protect and 
defend Han at all costs. Still, Chewie knew that not even Wookie strength and 
courage could save Han from himself.

-- -- --

	Sitting around the conference table, the various Wing Commanders of the 
_Executor_  plotted the destruction of a star system. It was becoming almost 
routine, now that a few weeks had passed into their campaign. The fleet had 
subjugated 216 worlds since the start of the Outer Rim conquest. On the first 
day, the Executor group had split and taken on 18 different planets, in each 
case battering planetary defenses down, bombarding worlds from orbit, and in the 
case of a particularly valuable systems, dropping a garrison force before 
continuing on. In all cases, less than 48 hours after a fleet swept through a 
system countless hundreds of supply freighters and troop transports would 
commence landing on the conquered world, taking advantage of their newly earned 
space superiority. Besides, all transport fleets had at least a dreadnought or 
frigate escort, and could take care of any unorganized resistance encountered. 

	But those initial planets had been easy targets. No planet this far out 
from the wealthy Core worlds could afford a shield generator. And many of them 
had not known that they were going to be the targets of Imperial invasion. 
Hitting soft targets that didn't know what was about to hit them to start was 
always a good idea; it gave the commanders, crews, and pilots time to adjust to 
their new roles and responsibilities, and put the things they had learned 
training to practical use. For far to many of them, this was their first taste 
of real action, and as expected mistakes were made, and resources were lost. But 
in very acceptable numbers. To various admirals, captains, and marshals great 
relief, so far Lord Vader was quite pleased with the fleet's progress.

	The problem was, that this particular star system knew they were coming.

	"This is Borandi, home to about 15 billion. The planet is inhabited by a 
feral mammalian race that is governed by a primitive feudal system. They place 
great emphasis on marital skills, and their fleets and 'fighters skirmish and 
train on a regular basis. The planet Borandi, while not possessing a shield 
generator, has a quite formidable starfleet, and enough starfighters to choke a 
dewback," Vice Marshal Pedigo said as he began his formal briefing. "The Borandi 
employ a variety of capital ships in their system defense fleet. Intelligence 
has informed us that they have around 20 Datanto-class destroyers," as Pedigo 
spoke, a wire framed image of the ships he was referring to came up on the large 
view screen behind him, "which our operations department estimates are a rough 
match for our Strike cruisers. 3 Takata-class cruisers make up the backbone of 
their fleet. They are armed with 45 turbolaser turrets, 2 heavy turbolaser 
turrets, top, and bottom", he pointed to the ominous blisters that protruded 
from the ventral and dorsal surfaces of the cruiser. 

	Colonel Solaris listened carefully to the briefing, and stared intently at 
the image of the cruiser. It reminded him of an aquatic species of ray that he'd 
seen once, with a large, flattened oval body and 'wings' that swept back from 
the sides to curl around the massive engines. Solaris imagined that the craft 
would be pretty fast judging from it's engine to hull mass ratio. Fast by the 
standards of these tubs, anyway.

	"The arsenal of the Takata's is rounded out by 20 heavy ion canon 
emplacements. These are particularly potent, and once the action gets heavy they 
likely going to play havoc on our communication gear. In case of communication 
disruption, the starfighter wings will fall under direct command of their 
respective commanders. Your short range comm-gear should be able to compensate 
for the distortion, allowing you to stay in touch with your wingmates," Marshal 
Pedigo looked over his 50 odd wing commanders before continuing. "The 
achievement of mission goals will fall on each of your shoulders." Pedigo hit a 
button on his podium. The capital ships featured on screen dissolved, to be 
replaced by a half dozen starfighter designs that rotated in place. Several of 
the commanders sat up in their seats at this point; the capital ships were 
largely 'Fleet's problem, these guys would be fall to them. "While the Borandi's 
starfighter weaponry lags far behind ours, and many of their designs are 
outdated, they do have a decisive advantage in numbers. Expect to face upwards 
of two hundred wings of fighters, and fighter drones." Several low whistles went 
out among the assembled pilots. That was more than Seven <b>thousand</b> 
fighters. "Not only are there a whole poodoo-load of them, but the Borandi, 
being what they are, train like nobody's business, so more than half of these 
wings we have classified as 'elite.'"

	Various snorts were heard from the men in the room. One things about 
pilots, they didn't ever suffer from low self esteem. One of the younger, and 
naturally brasher, pilots said aloud, "Kriff, man, those intel pukes would 
classify my grandmother piloting her grav-chair as 'elite'. We got your elite, 
and they're sitting right here," the young Colonel said as he swept his hand 
around the room. The room exploded as sounds of agreement threatened to derail 
the briefing as each individual commander raised his voice to add his own boast 
of choice for anyone who cared to hear his opinion.

	"Alright, shutup, everybody! SHUT THE KRIFF UP!" The marshal screamed. 
After silence fell over the crowd again, he continued. "All I'm saying is that 
our intelligence says we're going up against some pretty dangerous guys." A 
smile. "Of course, we've got some pretty dangerous guys of our own." The pilots 
started to get rowdy again, but the Marshal motioned for them all to shut their 
mouths once more. "But the truth is, if we don't play this smart, some of you 
and your men are going home to mama in plastic bags labeled 'Misc. Body Parts'. 
Now, _pay attention!_ Questions so far?"

	No one in the room raised his hand.

	"Good. Now here is the really bad news. They know we are coming, and are 
no doubt deployed for one heck of an ambush. We haven't gotten any sensor 
readings from this system for fourteen days. The whole system is covered with a 
giant blanket of white fuzz. We're talking about one heck of a powerful jamming 
device when not even the _Executor's_  sensors can penetrate it. What this means 
to us is that we have zero, say again, zero positional data on the enemy 
deployment and no confirmation on enemy numerical strength. We've definitely 
lost the element of surprise, they know we're coming, and what we're coming for. 
That means they are in the position to give us a real swat on the nose."

	"I know what you are all thinking; that this is nothing we can't handle, 
and this is true. We could go in there with everything we've got, _Executor_ and 
all, and push these guys right off the map. While that would certainly work, 
we'd also lose two, maybe three Star Destroyers in the process, a few dozen 
frigates, and only the Emperor knows how many of you wouldn't be coming back. 
Not that I wouldn't mind getting rid of a few of you crazies, but Vader wouldn't 
care for those kinds of losses. And I _do_ care about what _he_ thinks. So, we 
have come up with a new option."

	Marshal Pedigo turned to the screen, and a top down view of the Borandi 
system. Possible enemy formations were shown in red silhouettes, with planetary 
and orbital defense colored in yellow. The commanders watched as tiny green 
triangles rapidly moved in from three different directions.

	"A squadron of heavily modified TIE bombers will jump into the system at 
these coordinates. Flight Alpha will sweep past the outer planets, here, and 
here. Flight Beta will slash across the asteroid belt here, and then over to the 
moons of this gas giant, where we believe they are staging the majority of their 
fighters. Lastly, flight Delta will scope out the Borandi home world here, and 
exit along a trajectory that will take you past their primary moon, which has 
several heavy ion cannon emplacements.

	"Obviously your 'Bombers are going to be equipped with a hyperdrive, and 
it will provide just enough juice for two jumps. We had to remove all of the 
missile and torpedo launching and guidance gear to accomplish this. But, we've 
also been able to tweak a bit more speed out of these buckets, although 
maneuverability will be about the same. Shields are out of the question, but we 
have been able to get slightly more ar—"

	"Sir, this is suicide!" One of the Commanders protested. A general din of 
agreement rose as the commanders muttered to each other.

	"I agree with Commander Thame, Marshal." Solaris said getting out of his 
chair. Everyone knew his reputation, as a man who was no stranger to missions 
with odds of survival approaching zero. So everyone listened as he continued. 
"What you are talking about is going to be throwing away a Squadron of good 
men."

	"Look, Solaris, Thame, I understand where you are coming from," said an 
exasperated Pedigo, "but we have to have this intel! Either that, or we are 
looking at the potential of losing over a hundred thousand men and 1,015 billion 
credits worth of hardware. Now if you've got a better idea, I'd like to hear 
it." None of the pilots could come up with one. Corbin sat back down heavily.

	Many of the Imperial Army's generals that were attached to the 
_Executor's_ fleet were invited to these mission briefings as a courtesy. It was 
a way for the Navy to show 'respect' for their brothers in arms. However, it was 
an unspoken rule that the Army kept their noses out of the Navy's business, and 
only spoke when spoken to. 

	"Actually, I do have a better idea," General Madine said, as he rose to 
his feet.

	Suddenly, all eyes in the room were on him.

-- -- --

	Han and Chewie walked into Jabba's main audience chamber, and as usual, 
the place was rockin'. If there was one thing Jabba could do, it was throw a 
great party. 

	The music was deafening as the live band played a cover of one of the 
current popular hits from Corellia. Han thought that there was something 
distinctly missing after the lyrics underwent conversion from Basic to Huttese. 
Smoke from various hookahs, pipes -- and probably even furniture someone had 
caught on fire during the revelry -- was thick in the room. It was wall to wall 
gangsters and dancing girls, and Han and Chewie struggled to make way through 
the crowd. Having Chewie didn't even help in this situation, as the Wookie long 
ago learned that it took a little more than howling and flailing his arms to 
scare people that partied with Boba Fett. And Jabba wouldn't like Chewie ripping 
arms off of people, so they had to shove through just like everyone else.

	About half way through the audience hall, Jabba's major-domo, Bib Fortuna, 
caught sight of them. 

	"Ah, Captain Solo! Jabba has been expecting you," The weasily Twilek 
bobbed his head and bowed to Han and Chewie, as he rubbed his hands together 
greedily. It was a very annoying habit, Han thought. Bib motioned for the two 
smugglers to follow. "Please come this way." 

	The rather frail looking Twilek accomplished what a 7 foot tall wookie and 
armed outlaw could not; make rapid headway through Jabba's throng. Finally, they 
arrived before the crimelord's dais. Han noticed that the combined body odor of 
the bounty hunters, smugglers, and Gamoreans was particular pungent here. 

	The fat slug was wiggling what passed for shoulders on a Hutt in time to 
the music and ogling one of his many scantily clad dancing girls, this one a 
blue skinned Vironite. Fortuna went forth to whisper something into the Hutt's… 
ear? Han had never really noticed any apparent audio-sensory organs on Jabba's 
head, but somehow Jabba heard whatever Fortuna said anyway. 

	Jabba stopped his gyrations long enough to acknowledge Han's presence. 
"Han, my boy!" he boomed out over the music. "I'm so glad to see my favorite 
human! How have you been?"

	"Much better since every two bit bounty hunter in the galaxy isn't trying 
to burn me down, thanks," Han said, a reminder of the recent enmity that existed 
between Jabba and him.

	"Ancient history, Solo. We Hutts may live for a long time, but we aren't 
one to hold a grudge. Business is business, and you're still the best spice 
smuggler in the whole quadrant."

	"The whole galaxy, and don't you forget it," Han said, with pointed 
finger.

	Jabba laughed his deep bass ho-ho-ho, then reached into his snack bowl to 
pull out one of his tasty amphibians. The hapless creature slid into Jabba's 
mouth with a squeak, followed by an audible crunch. "So, what do I owe the honor 
of your visit, Han? I figured after you settled up with me, you might head core-
ward to supply some of the more profitable luxuries to the humans there," Jabba 
said. It went without saying that by 'profitable' he of course meant 'illegal'.

	"Yeah, well, goings-on at the new Alien Identification Department back at 
Imp-Cent got Chewie a little spooked, so we headed out here where it's not so 
thick with Imperials." Chewie backed Han up with a howl that let Jabba know 
exactly how he felt about the matter.

	"Ah, wise of the two of you," Jabba said, nodding his massive head as best 
as  he could. From the looks of things, the Hutt had gained about another 500 
kilograms since the last time he'd seen him. "Humans… they are so arrogant, and 
stupid. It's a very dangerous combination. Present company excluded, of course," 
Jabba said, not wanting to offend Solo. After all, he really did like the boy.

	"None taken. So Jabba, you got anything for a fairly arrogant and mostly 
half-witted smuggler to do that might earn him some credits?" 

	"For you, my boy, anything. How about your old spice route? The pilot who 
has been taking up your slack has left much to be desired," Jabba casually 
gestured over his left shoulder. Han stood up on his toes to see over Jabba's 
bulk, and quickly lowered himself back again once he say what the big worm was 
referring to. Hanging on the rear wall was the bloated corpse of a humanoid in a 
flight suit. A thick chain was attached to a metal collar around his neck 
holding the body off of the ground. From the looks of it, the ex-smuggler had 
been hanging around here a few days. _So that's what the funky smell was,_ Han 
thought to himself.

	Gagging inwardly, Han put on his best swagger for Jabba. "Well, you've got 
the best, and then there is the rest," he said, nodding to the general direction 
of the Hutt's grisly decoration. Chewie let out a barely audible growl. He never 
did care for Jabba very much.

	"Ho ho ho! Han, you're my kind of scum. Now you'll have even more of an 
incentive to avoid Imperial patrols, Solo. Don't want them to tag and bag your 
Wookie friend!" Jabba thought this was hilarious, as he belly laughed once 
again.

	"Heh, yeah, good one, Jabba. So what are you gonna do when the Imps visit 
this dump? I imagine a being of your… stature would be on the top of their 'guys 
to track' list.

	Jabba's face twisted, his eyes widening at the very thought. "They are 
welcome to _try!_ " Jabba brought up his massive tail and then slammed it back 
down again, sending a reverberating slap through his audience chamber. It was 
enough to make the racket going on there stop for a second, as everyone looked 
over to where the commotion was. Jabba was just warming up. "If those pasty 
faced, slack jawed imbeciles thing they can come out to Hutt space and start 
imposing their will, they've got something else coming to them. They aren't the 
only ones with warships, you know! And I wonder how a few of the admiralty would 
sleep with a million credit bounty on their heads!" Han jumped as the tail came 
down again. "Better yet, on the Emperor's head!" 

	Han considered that, and shared a look with Chewie. He could tell what his 
partner was thinking. _Even that crazy Fett wouldn't take_ that_ contract._  Han 
wasn't so sure. If rumor were true, Fett had done some pretty big game hunting 
back in the clone wars. Even bagged a Jedi master or two, or so the stories go. 
But still…

	"No, Han, the Empire has better things to do than to come all the way out 
here and antagonize us. Besides, our close friend Xizor of Black Sun," Jabba 
made a sour face as he spoke the Falleen's name. Obviously there was some bad 
blood there, Han thought. "is on quite friendly terms with His Excellency 
Himself. If the Empire was to go after us, they'd surely go through Black Sun 
first. And that's just not going to happen."

	Han looked up at Chewie. "Hear that pal? Even Jabba thinks we're going to 
be safe out here." Chewie looked dubiously at Han, but then shrugged his 
shoulders in acquiescence. "See ya, Jabba. Chewie and I are going to the Cantina 
to celebrate our renewed business association." With a bow to Jabba, the two 
left. 

-- -- --

	Xizor walked towards the Emperor's throne room. On his arm was an 
exquisitely beautiful young blonde woman. They walked past the two Imperial 
Guardsmen in dark red combat armor that stood at rigid attention outside the 
arched doorway leading to Palpatine's inner sanctum. Xizor imagined that it was 
with great effort that the ultra-disciplined soldiers clutching their concussion 
rifles did not turn their heads to admire the view from the rear. Xizor wondered 
what they would think if they knew that the woman walking beside him could 
become Death Incarnate at his command. _They'd probably be even more aroused, 
knowing their type,_ he thought with amusement.

	Once inside, other Guardsmen swept them for security, and verified that 
Xizor's visit was indeed scheduled. Obviously, the Falleen Prince carried no 
weapons today. However, the voluptuous blonde with him _was_  a weapon. One that 
would not show up except under the most advanced and rather specific scanning. 
The woman, Guri, was not even a woman at all. She was one of the most rare 
combat droids in the galaxy. She was unique, as a matter of fact. A highly 
advanced killing machine; she could single handedly dispatch every man in this 
room before any could utter the first syllable of the last curse he would ever 
make.

	After the security routine was accomplished, the commander of the unit 
spoke into his com-link, requesting permission to send Xizor in. While they were 
waiting, the guards noticed the Prince's consort lean in for a hushed 
conversation. _A hot number, that one,_ they all thought to themselves.

	"I do not approve of leaving your side, even for a brief time, my lord," 
the girl said.

	"My dear Guri, I will be quite alright. This is the safest place to be in 
the entire galaxy, after all," he assured her with a smile.

	"Safe for the Emperor. Not necessarily safe for you," she replied. 

	"The Emperor has no ill will towards me; I've earned quite a bit of his 
favor."

	Guri had to admit that this was true. Xizor had given the Empire valuable 
data about the Rebel Alliance, that had scored the Imperial Forces several key 
victories early on in the Civil War. Palpatine had seemed very pleased by this. 
But still, Guri was never comfortable letting the principle she was assigned to 
escort out of her sight. Guri feared nothing but failure. Times like this that 
demanded she place her success into the hands of fate made her as uneasy as a 
droid could possibly be.

	Xizor continued. "Now, return to my ship and await my command. I will 
signal you when I am ready to be picked up."

	Uneasy or not, a command was a command. "As you wish, my lord." Guri 
turned on her heel and left the way she had came. Xizor followed her with his 
eyes, unconsciously watching the switch of her hips as she walked away. The 
Prince felt his reptilian blood begin to warm, and forced his thoughts into a 
new direction. It would not do to be distracted in the presence of the most 
powerful man in the galaxy.

	"Prince Xizor, please step into the lift," the slightly tinny voice of the 
Guard commander requested. The Guardsmen were always polite, and they could 
afford to be. Only fools ever gave them cause to raise their voice.

	Xizor stepped onto the lift, and closed his eyes as the doors shut on him. 
As he began a meditation exercise, a smile began to form on his lips. The 
Emperor had promised to reward him for his faithful service rendered during the 
Rebel incursion. Black Sun had among it's other assets information on almost 
every being of note in the galaxy, and those people had included top ranked 
Rebels. This information had proved to be of great value to the Empire. 

	While Xizor was rich beyond the imagination of most beings in the galaxy, 
he knew his wealth was paled in comparison to the Emperor. Even so, it was not 
just monetary rewards the Prince was anticipating. No, the Emperor had absolute 
power, and Xizor lusted to have a share in that power. This day was long awaited 
by the cold Falleen, for he knew that each time he earned the Emperor's favor, 
he would be one step closer to realizing his goal; the destruction of Vader. 
Only then would his family that had been eradicated by the Dark Lord's command 
be avenged. And to accomplish this goal, he would need great power indeed. But 
the Falleen were first and foremost a patient race. Xizor had waited so far over 
twenty years to get this close to his revenge. If need be, he could wait another 
20. However long it took.

	Xizor's eyes opened and the smile disappeared as the lift slowed. The 
doors opened, and Xizor walked out. The rows of the Crimson Guard were ever 
present. Though here they were dressed in ceremonial armor and garb, nonetheless 
they were just as deadly. They served as a constant reminder of the deadly force 
one would encounter if one threatened the Emperor.

	Palpatine sat in his throne, with a weak smile for Xizor as he approached. 
"Prince Xizor, I am so pleased that you could make it."

	"I relish any chance to serve the Empire, you Excellency," Xizor 
responded, dropping to one knee and bowing his head as he approached the despot.

	"Rise, Prince Xizor. As you know, you have been very helpful in your 
service to the Empire. Such service should be rewarded. I believe you have met 
my servant, Lord Vader?"

	"I have had the honor of making his acquaintance, yes." _Why is he 
bringing up Vader?_ 

	"Good then," the Emperor laughed softly, as he flicked a switch on his 
throne's control panel. Instantly, a life-sized hologram of Darth Vader stood on 
the Emperor's right side. "You see, Lord Vader has also been serving the Empire 
rather well. He has brought quite a few victories to me out on the Outer Rim. I 
have planned on giving him a reward, as well. I thought it would be well to 
reward my two servants at the same time."

	"Very efficient, my master," Vader rumbled. Vader did not like Xizor, but 
purely for personal reasons. The Falleen was everything the Sith detested; 
sneaky, underhanded, dishonorable, greedy, alien, preying on the poor and the 
week. Vader was quite unaware of the blood that he had spilled from the Prince's 
family tree. Xizor had made sure those records were lost.

	"Xizor, are you aware of the duties that are carried out here at Imperial 
Center by my new Alien Information Department?" the Emperor asked.

	"Yes, your Highness. Though I must admit, I had been under the impression 
that friends of the Empire such as myself would not be suspected of any 
disloyalty, and therefore would not fall under the AID's jurisdiction." Although 
he would never show it, Xizor was starting to feel less than confidant right 
now.

	"You are quite right, Prince Xizor. I have no interest in tracking you. 
The Rebel Alliance is dead, in part because of your information," The Emperor 
rose to his feet. "As a result, the Empire is no longer in any need of your 
services. Now receive your reward." Xizor felt his scalp began to tingle, and 
his heart began to race as the Emperor's shriveled face twisted into a mask of 
rage. His hands raised in front of him, and the Prince was horrified to see blue 
bolts of lightning shoot from the Emperor's fingertips.

	The pain was quite simply beyond belief. Xizor had been shocked before, 
but this was much different. The Emperor hissed, "I have no desire to track you, 
because you will be dead!" 

	Xizor's body spasmed as his legs gave out and he crumpled to the metal 
decking. He could feel his muscles cramp and knot, as his nerves acted as copper 
conduits to direct the unnatural energy up his spine and into his brain. He 
began to scream, as his legs kicked the ground reflexively and his arms flailed 
wildly.

	The torment let up briefly as the Emperor paused in his attack. "I _used_ 
you and your insignificant organization, you pitiful fool! Did you really think 
I would be beholden to a _lizard_  like you?" Palpatine took a step down the 
stairs leading to his thrown, and sneered as he sent another salvo of energy 
into Xizor's body. "I will no longer tolerate you and your schemes for power, 
Xizor, and I will destroy Black Sun as swiftly as I have destroyed you." 

	Xizor moaned and rolled away from the Emperor. _No, it can't end like 
this. Not so close to my goal. I can NOT die disgraced in front of my sworn 
enemy!_ Blinded, he groped for the comm-unit hidden in his vest. It was a 
special circuit that could instantly communicate his position to Guri in times 
of distress. If only he could get to it in time…

	But just as he wrapped his clawed hand around the transmitter, it was 
ripped from his grip by an unseen force. "You wretch! Do you think _anyone_  can 
save you from the power of the Dark Side?" More black lightning leapt from he 
wizard's fingers and coursed into the Falleen's body. His clothes began to smoke 
and his skin blistered. Xizor thought that surely the pain would end at some 
point. That horror must have a level to which it can attain level but go no 
further. But if such a barrier existed, he had yet to reach it as the Emperor 
poured more energy into him.

	"You wanted power, Xizor? Feel _true_ power!" The Emperor grew tired of 
the whole exercise, and doubled the intensity of his attacks. Xizor rolled on 
the ground like a pitiful dog, trying to get away from the pain, and failing. 
His flailing grew more urgent, and then, as his screams reached a crescendo, his 
form grew still. Xizor had eventually escaped the pain, after all, the Emperor 
thought with a smile.

	"Guards! Remove this refuse, immediately!" The blood-red troops quickly 
grabbed the still smoking body of the former leader of Black Sun underneath his 
armpits and drug him back into the lift, and the doors shut on them. Turning 
back to his throne, Palpatine ascended to the level where Vader's hologram had 
watched the entire scene. "So, tell me Vader, did you enjoy your reward?" The 
Emperor began to cackle in glee.

---------------


Past Imperfect -- Chapter Five

	In the dead of deep space, a black sphere suddenly appeared. It did not 
just appear, but in a seeming defiance of the laws of thermodynamics, just 
sprang into being,  speeding along a vector that would carry it deep within the 
system it just entered.  Attached to it was a 'tail' that resembled a satellite 
dish made of a fine, feathery material. The protrusion's sole purpose was to 
dampen the hyperwave energy and Cranau radiation burst that was the inevitable 
result of exiting hyperspace. Five seconds after appearing, the sphere 
jettisoned it's stealthy umbrella, leaving just the orb to continue on towards 
it's target. It was approximately a half meter in diameter, perfectly smooth and 
flat black in color. The outer skin was insulated so that no heat from it's 
internal workings would escape to be detected. In fact, the sphere was not even 
one-tenth of one degree Celsius warmer than the space it was traveling through. 
It even had a mass-cloaking module fitted inside it, to confound mass and 
gravitic sensors. Everything that went into the probe and its body itself was 
built to avoid visual, electronic, or other means of detection. And it was very 
good at doing just that.  It was a half meter hole in space.

	It had no internal hyperdrive system; instead it was designed to be shot 
out into hyperspace. Once it reached its target system, it would use a compact 
graviton system that sacrificed reliability and efficiency for a one shot burst 
of energy that managed to claw the tiny craft out of hyperspace. From there it 
relied upon it's own considerable inertia to coast to it's target.

	And it was not alone. Over the next 30 seconds, ten more identical to the 
first appear at various points in the system that they were silently invading. 
They each activated passive sensor systems, scanning in an attempt to see if any 
had been detected. After a few milliseconds of waiting, the system next 
activated it's mission routines. Each sphere had three small circular 
indentations on their surface. Covers over the indentations slid underneath the 
object's skin, revealing sophisticated lens systems. And thus they spheres' true 
purpose was revealed.  They didn't manuever.  They just bored in straight to 
their targets with their large, unblinking eyes.

-- -- -- 

	On board the Executor, Admiral Ozzel, obviously flustered, snapped a 
hurried "Carry on," then stormed from the bridge. He had opposed Madine's idea 
from the beginning, claiming that it would never work. He had even tried 
convincing Lord Vader that it was a waste of time, merely giving the enemy more 
time to prepare. But when the ten monitors on the bridge suddenly blinked on and 
begin receiving high resolution pictures of the enemy, he was proven very wrong.

	Solaris smirked as he watched the flag officer walk away. Normally a 
Colonel would not be rubbing elbows with flag officers on the bridge of the 
premier warship of the Imperial navy, but carrying the favor of a Sith Lord 
tends to override military protocol. Something that he noticed as being 
particularly annoying to the pompous Admiral.

	Solaris had pegged Ozzel as a dim bulb from the beginning. He had gotten 
this far in the Empire by being a competent administrator that had enjoyed the 
good fortune of being surrounded by excellent subordinates that tended to hide 
his failures and magnify his successes. However his record might have looked on 
paper, he was clearly out of his depth trying to command a real fighting force, 
as his tactics and technical skill had obviously atrophied.

	"Amazing," Captain Piett remarked. "We couldn't get a better view if we 
had chartered a shuttle into the system."

	"I can't tell you how many times these babies have saved me and my men's 
lives," General Madine admitted. "We normally use them to coordinate covert 
teams on the ground, with these guys in extremely high orbit." 

	 The stealthy black pods had started off life as Merson LD22 Recon 
Satellites, designed to orbit high over worlds, completely undetected, and spy 
on them using infrared cameras and optics with computer enhancement systems so 
powerful that they could resolve images down to the millimeter from lofty perch 
in the heavens. 

	"The fun part was when the engineers fitted the hyperspace break onto 
them, so we could fire them into lightspeed, and they could enter a system 
undetected," Madine finished.  Corbin would have thought that the man would have 
been elated at his success, and although he said the right things, and his words 
had a certain swagger to them, Corbin sensed he wasn't happy about something.  

	General Veers, one of Madine's colleagues, protested. "Why haven't I heard 
about these things until now? They could have save my men a few times too."

	"Being a black-ops commander has it's advantages," Madine conceded. 
"Besides, we don't want the full extent of our covert information capabilities 
known." Madine watched as the probes sent back photos of intricate patterns of 
starfighters, moving walls of capital ships, some with detail so fine that you 
could almost read the manufacture's engraving on the individual hull plates. 
"Anyway, I figured that if I can use them to count the hairs on my men's head, 
they would be more than adequate for spotting ships that measured in the 
kilometers."

	"Ozzel's ranked high enough. He must have known about them. I wonder why 
he was so stridently opposed to their use?" Piett wondered aloud.

	"Obviously making the leap from using something designed to be a satellite 
as a recon probe was to great a feat for his feeble bureaucratic mind," Pedigo 
said with a cruel grin, as he continued to study the images.

	Marshal Pedigo had brass, Corbin had to give him that. And so far he had 
been a competent commanding officer for his fighter wings. He joined the Marshal 
in going over the images. Pointing a large group of fighters that were off on a 
vector evidently designed to engage the Imperial fleet at one of their likely 
invasion trajectories, he said, "We can pop right out of hyperspace with our 
Avengers and be lined up to take half of those fighters out before they get a 
chance to even power up their weapons."

	"That's the plan: hit them hard and fast," Vice Marshal Pedigo agreed. 
"We'll probably want to deploy the Avenger wings here, and have the Accusor seal 
off any possible escape on this vector," the Marshal said as he pointed out the 
formations of various enemy warships and fighters. "The Tyrant will open a hole 
for the fighters at this point, and then Executor will arrive moments later to 
deliver the death blow."

	"Agreed. We should be able to neutralize their fleet and take the planet 
intact." Captain Piett said with a measure of satisfaction.

	"We will do no such thing," Pedigo said emphatically. "As soon as the 
system has been secure, we shall commence carrying out Imperial Order Base Delta 
Zero upon the planet Borandi."

	Piett's eye's widened in surprise. Clearly he was not expecting this, and 
unlike many Imperial officers, was not entirely comfortable with the thought. 
Corbin was slightly surprised-- most Imperial Captains loved firing their big 
guns, and a BDZ was a good opportunity for that.  But, Corbin could see the 
squimishness one might approach turning a living world into a ball of glass.  
Even one full of those damned aliens. 

	"Vice-Marshal, surely taking the planet would be the wiser option. The 
industry and resources alone--" 

	"Nonsense." Marshal Pedigo scoffed, cutting Piett off. "The only thing of 
worth in this system is the shipyards on the moon and the minerals contained in 
their asteroid belt. I have orders from Lord Vader himself that declares the 
planet itself forfeit." He walked towards one of the viewscreens that showed the 
planet itself, with the Borandian warships tending to it. Pedigo stabbed Borandi 
with his index finger.  "We will burn this stiff necked world to cinders. 
Borandi will serve as an example to the rest of the outer rim. Is that clear?"

	Piett swallowed once, made brief eye contact with Madine and Veers, then 
straightened. He was firm in his reply. "Crystal, sir."

	"Good. General Madine, General Veers, you may begin prepping your men and 
equipment for securing the orbital facilities and surface installations of 
Borandi's primary moon. Colonel Solaris, download the mission requirements and 
battle plan into your pilots' flight computers. I will make sure you have 
updated intel and objectives just prior to your launch. We will begin the 
assault on Borandi in six hours. Dismissed." The men saluted, and turned to 
leave the Executor's huge bridge. Pedigo turned to Piett. "Captain, coordinate 
our attack with the rest of the fleet. We must synchronize this plan perfectly 
in order to properly take advantage of this new intelligence data."

	"Ah, sir, what about Admiral Ozzel? Shouldn't he be the one to take 
command?" 

	"I will brief the Admiral personally. I will make sure you receive his 
orders before combat occurs." Piett started to protest again. "It is not your 
concern. Carry on Captain." Now it was Piett's turn to salute, as he withdrew to 
the communications console and began hailing his counterparts on the smaller 
Destroyers that made up the Death Squadron. 

	Vice Marshal observed the images of the planet Borandi for a while longer. 
It was really quite a lovely world, with swirling bands of green and blue. Too 
bad it was lousy with alien scum.  His brother lost his job when Havocomm 
Technology pulled their production lines out of the Core and moved them to some 
Ithorian world.  The vermin would work for nothing, and that's about what 
Havocomm's short sighted executives would probably get out of them, too. 

	Pedigo hated them for that.  It was one of those emotions that defied 
explanation; a kneejerk reaction that you didn't have to justify, because every 
one of your peers felt the same way. So it must be alright. Well, that, and the 
fact that this particular bunch of aliens would soon be trying to kill him and 
his men.  Bastards.  And for that, he looked forward to Borandi's impending 
radical color change, from a living, vibrantly green world, to a dead, blackened 
lump of charcoal.

	He was about to go brief Ozzel, when he heard the doors that lead to Darth 
Vader's anteroom hiss open. Pedigo heard the sound of armored boots treading 
metal deck plates, and the mechanical gasping the heralded the Dark Lord of the 
Sith. Pedigo partially deflated at the sound, and soon the ominous black figure 
stood by his side. 

	"Admiral, are things proceeding as planned?" Vader asked.

	"Yes, sir."

	Vader reached behind him, and detached a memdisk from his belt. "This is 
the altered intelligence data we have received from the General's probes. You 
will see to it that Ozzel's orders forfeit the lives of Colonel Solaris and his 
men, and that the sensor information in this disk finds it's way into their 
combat computers." He extended the disk to Pedigo. "Is there a problem with 
these orders, Vice Marshal?"

	Pedigo hesitated, then took the disk from the Dark Lord's fist. He jutted 
his jaw, then squared his shoulders. "No, my Lord. I will see to it."

	"Good. It would be unfortunate if you would disappoint me." 
Vader turned on his heel and marched back to his private room.

	Pedigo took off his green cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He then 
put his cap back on, and after he quickly checked his reflection in the bridge's 
transparasteel window, a Lieutenant approached him. As Imperial protocol 
demanded, he waited for Pedigo to acknowledge him.

	"Yes, Lt. Baykar?"

	Baykar bowed slightly. "Sir, the fleet is in need of resupply, yet I am 
having difficulty scheduling a supply fleet and still maintaining enough lifting 
capacity to land garrison troops in the Borandi system. It seems our swift 
expansion into the outer rim has temporarily overwhelmed our transport 
capacity."

	Pedigo waved dismissively. "Conscript some civilian craft. They will be 
well paid for their services. Remind them of their duties under Imperial Order 
1627 if they for some reason express reluctance."

	"Yes sir. I will begin sending communications right away." Lt. Baykar 
saluted and started to walk away.

	"Oh, and Lieutenant... contact the Hutts if you need still more capacity. 
They have an impressive merchant shipping fleet, and I'm sure they will be quite 
eager to earn our gratitude. Or so they will think." Pedigo turned and headed 
toward Admiral Ozzel's briefing room. "Carry on Lt. Bayker."

-- -- --

	Wedge returned to his bunk, and grabbed a terminal. Reclining on the 
thinly padded cushion, he checked to make sure he was alone before turning it 
on. He logged on to one of the millions of free hypermail providers, and endured 
the fifteen second advertisement that was the price of the service. 

	Wedge tapped the on screen button to retrieve his hypermail and waited, 
trying to keep his hopes down. Seconds later, he let his breath out in a rush of 
disappointment. The screen said it all.

	ZERO NEW MESSAGES.

	Damn. He had carefully sent out fifteen messages in the last three months, 
all to special accounts that rebel cells on each planet establish as a 
contingency to maintain contact in the event of a communication cutoff. The 
destruction of Alliance high command at Yavin qualified as a definite cutoff. 

	The process was simple. Wedge sends out the agreed upon phrase ( it 
changed each galactic week) and if the cell was still active, it would respond 
with it's own code phrase. After they authenticated with each other, another 
encoded message would ask for either a status update, or a rendezvous. The cell 
would then respond with the requested information, or a time and place to meet, 
again all in secret code.

	So far, on the fifteen worlds he'd cautiously attempted contact, the cells 
were either silenced, or in deep, deep cover, not wanting to risk retrieval of 
their account's mail. With the Death Star patrolling the core worlds, and two 
more under construction, not to mention the Death Squadron tearing through the 
Outer Rim, he wasn't surprised. But lack of surprise did not assuage his growing 
despair of ever taking the fight to the Empire again. 

	But something inside him kept a small glimmer of hope alive. Something 
told him that he still had a date with the dark warriors in his dream, and if 
that were true, then he would eventually meet some friends. He was certain that 
he was not meant to fight the Empire alone.

	Just then Wedge heard footsteps coming toward him. Quickly he initiated a 
hard reset of the terminal, destroying his login information and terminating his 
connection. Stowing the terminal under his pillow, he laid back and feigned 
sleep as the person approached. 

	"Antar, you awake?"

	"Am now," Wedge replied, putting some grogginess in his voice.

	"Hey man, you hear? We might be getting an early bonus."

	"Yeah, I can see the Captain getting generous on us all of the sudden."

	"He can afford to be, when the Empire is bankrolling him."

	Suddenly his crewmate had Wedge's full attention. "What?" he asked, as 
neutrally as he could.

	"Yeah man. The Imps need some supplies out in the Borandi system, and are 
conscripting us jerkwater freighter jockeys for help delivering the goods. We're 
diverting from Byzan right now to go pick up the Imp shipment. Palpatine is 
paying top dollar too!"

	"Borandi? That's not an Imperial world."

	"Yet," the man grinned in the dim light. "I guess that the Empire is 
moving against it within the next day, and we're going to be arriving there 
right after the dust settles."

	Wedge felt sick... heading right into the mouth of the dragon. Outwardly, 
he said, "Sounds good man, about time we get to haul treasure instead of trash." 

	"You bet. Anyway, the Captain wants you on the bridge when it's time to 
hit dirtside," the guy slapped him on the shoulder. "You know he doesn't want 
anyone but you putting his baby down." The man stood and headed for the rec. 
room/mess hall.

	Sithspawn. Heading right for the Empire. An Imperial invasion for that 
matter. But... this was a borderworld. Under imminent Imperial attack. If I were 
a rebel on such a world, I'd be planning for some underground resistance of the 
inevitable Imperial garrison. What would there be to lose? And I bet I would be 
wanting some help where ever I could find it.

	Wedge quickly weighed the risks in his mind, and decided that sending two 
covert messages so close together was worth the chance. He took the terminal 
from underneath his pillow, and once again created a new account under a 
different hypermail provider. Then he began to compose his message:

	DEAR MOM -- GOOD NEWS! I'VE GOT SOME TIME OFF AND WILL BE IN TO VISIT YOU 
AND DAD SOON! I HAVE SOME OF THOSE DENEBIAN EGGS YOU LIKE SO MUCH. MAYBE YOU 
CA...

-- -- -- 

	Corbin went over their mission orders with his men in the cavernous hangar 
of the Executor. Thirty or so of his wngmates huddled around him as he gave them 
their objectives, and last minute updates on enemy positions and formations, 
just like Marshal Pedigo promised..

	"It's going to be like clubbing baby Ewoks!" a younger pilot remarked.

	"That's the idea Lieutenant. Any questions?" There were none. "Ok, I'm 
with Alpha wing. Daron, you lead Beta, and Ribo, you take Theta." Those named 
nodded in assent. "We're going to spank these guys. Now get to your craft. We're 
spacing out in twenty minutes."

	His men cheered as they grabbed their helmets and marched off to their 
craft, held firmly in launching claws that would fling them out into space.

	Corbin started to head to his own Avenger and pull his helmet on, when he 
heard the now familiar hissing sound. He turned around and bowed his head. "Lord 
Vader."

	"Col. Solaris. I came to see you off. Walk with me." Of course, Corbin 
fell into step beside him. "Have you been practicing your meditations?" 

	"Yes master, every chance I get alone. I'm not sure what exactly I'm 
supposed to be feeling, though."

	"The Force has chosen you to hear it's will. It is your destiny. When it 
is your time to fully embrace it, you will know." Solaris reflected on Vader's 
words as they strode towards his fighter.  "It is quick to join a warrior in 
battle. Perhaps you will meet your destiny in the one ahead."

	"It will be a glorious victory for the Empire. And for you, I promise 
that."

	Vader wheezed in what might have been a bitter laugh in normal man. "There 
is nothing glorious about these battles Colonel. We are exterminators. Nothing 
more. We are erasing a stain from the Galaxy," Vader rumbled as he spread his 
arms as if to encircle the entire cosmos. "A task to take pride in, to be sure. 
But they are not our equals. And there is no glory in squashing bugs." 

	Solaris was uncertain what next to say. Vader glanced over at Corbin, and 
surprised him by putting a hand on his shoulder, in an almost fatherly way. "I 
foresee that you will get the glory you desire, and deserve. One day you will 
get to face your equals in battle, and they will fear you." They arrived at 
Corbin's TIE, that was clamped four meters above the deck. Solaris began to 
climb the ladder. Vader merely bent his knees slightly and leapt onto the top of 
the TIE in a blur. He then kneeled down and extended his armored hand to Corbin. 

	He accepted it and pulled himself onto his TIE, and just like that, he was 
standing face to face with the Dread Lord Darth Vader, Master of the Sith, hands 
clasped together in a gesture of mutual respect. In that instant, Corbin felt 
the exhillarating zing of fear in the presence of his new Master. Fear, respect, 
and... jealousy?  A dull roar, like cupping a seashell to your ear, registered 
on his senses.  

	And then the moment passed. Palming the cockpit release, the durasteel 
hatch rotated open, and he slid inside. 

	"I am glad you have such faith in me, my Lord. I only hope not to 
disappoint you."

	"Corbin..." Vader paused, choosing his words carefully. "Remember, a 
warrior's strength lies in his resolve. His resolve is forged by anger. It 
purges you of weakness.  You must learn to wield your anger like a weapon."

	"But Master..." Did he just call me Corbin?  "I've always been taught that 
anger and hate is wrong. Every civilized world holds that these emotions lead to 
evil. I have trouble --"

	"Let go of your doubt," Vader said, gently cutting him off. "Is it wrong 
to hate evil?"

	"Of course not."

	"Is righteous anger evil -- if it causes a wrong to be righted?"

	Corbin frowned, thinking. How could it be? "I see your point." "

	"Society shuns anger and hate, for they do not understand the purity of 
resolve they lend. The weak are afraid of anger, as they cannot control and 
harness it, nor can they protect themselves against the depredation of the evil 
and corrupt... The evil and corrupt are afraid of anger because it often becomes 
a weapon directed at them. Only the strong are able to focus it, to possess the 
resolve to release it's power. Release your anger, and you will feel the true 
power of the darkside."

	Corbin felt resolve. "I will try my best, Master."

	Vader shook his head. "No. Do or do not. There is no try." Vader stood up, 
and grabbed the TIE's hatch. "The galaxy is full of evil and corruption, and 
your anger can help you stand against it. It can give you power. It will give 
you power. I have forseen it." Vader shut the hatch, and Corbin heard it 
magnetically seal with a metallic tang. 

	Solaris looked down at the chronometer. Ten minutes until launch. He began 
his meditation exercises. Focusing on the injustice in the galaxy. Humans 
degraded as slaves. Hunted down and killed like vermin by bounty hunters paid 
for by corrupt slugs. He reflected on Vader's story of how alien thinking 
corrupted the Jedi's thinking, weakened them, and then turned the galaxy against 
them. How they killed his master's family. 

	Vader was right. They are mere bugs. They are vermin. A disease and blight 
on the galaxy. And the Empire was the cure. I am the cure.

-- -- --

	"Borandi?" Han asked. "We've never been there before. What's the deal?"

	"We've gotten a new client, and I want my best supplying him. This could 
be big for me, Han." The fat Hutt smiled like only a Hutt can. "And it will be 
big for you, I guarantee it." 

	Chewbacca growled an interrogative. Han wanted to know to. "Yeah Jabba, 
how big?"

	The massive crimelord rubbed his pudgy little hands together. "Triple your 
normal rate." 

	Han was sorely tempted to let out a low whistle, but decided restraint 
would be a better option. "Well, I guess Chewie and I could certainly use the 
raise. How about it, pal?" Chewie inclined his head, then nodded his assent. Ok 
then, where do we load up the spice?"

	"I've already had my people crate it up for you and deliver it to your 
docking bay. Just let them in, and they will even help you load it."

	"Awfully nice of you," Han noticed, naturally suspicious of the Hutt's 
sudden outbreak of helpfulness.

	"As I said, Han my boy, this is a potentially large and very important 
client for me," Jabba explained, "we want to impress him. Time is off the 
essence."

	"Then if you will excuse me, oh exalted one, we need to be going." And 
with a exaggerated bow, he and Chewie walked out.

	His Wookie friend spoke in the peculiar hooting whine of his. "Yeah, well 
when is a Hutt not working one over on you? Besides, is there anything you, me, 
and the Falcon can't handle?"

	Chewie cuffed Han upside his head in a playful manner, and Han yelled in 
mock outrage. It was good to see him back in control. Chewie knew is partner 
like no one else, and could see the change, mainly in his eyes. They were clear 
and focused now; before they were clouded and hollow. Maybe things were going to 
be alright. Maybe the Hutts would be able to keep the Empire out of their space, 
and Han and he could stay out here, in their element, cruising the stars.

-- -- --

	Wedge was shaking as he read the screen.

	DEAR ZAPH, WE'RE SO GLAD YOU'RE COMING HOME.  YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHO ELSE 
IS COMING... YOU WILL BE SO SURPRISED!  WE'LL PICK YOU UP AT THE SPACEPORT.  YOU 
FORGOT TO TELL US WHAT TIME YOU'RE ARRIVING.  LET US KNOW SOON!  LOVE, MOM

	It's happening.  His mind scanned the note for it's underlying subtext.  
The Empire is moving against them, but he already knew that. They want to meet 
him at the spaceport, probably somewhere secluded. It was up to him to name the 
time and place.  Of course whatever time he mentioned would be exactly nine 
hours off of the real meeting time; all just another precaution to take.

	Wedge looked at his chronometer.  He only had twenty minutes before he was 
due on the bridge, and a crew rotation was going to happen anytime now.  He'd 
have to put off responding until they were on their way to Borandi. And there 
was so much to do!  He was going to have to desert his crew, hope to make 
contact... but first things first.

	Wedge got up from his bunk, and pulled on an overshirt.  He walked towards 
the bridge, full of purpose for the first time in as long as he could remember.

-- -- --

	Vader watched as the TIE Avengers were one by one lifted by launching 
claws to the middle of the hanger, where they were released to rapidly 
accelerate clear of the massive command ship's superstructure. Such a pity the 
young man was making such slow progress. He was strong in the force, Vader could 
feel it. But he had much weakness within him. He needed a none too gentle shove 
in the right direction.

	Actually, he reminded Vader much of himself in that regard. And it took 
being put in this infernal suit before he saw the light, he though ruefully. But 
he came through that experience stronger, more powerful, like a steel blade 
forged in the heat of a vibro-smith's fire. He survived. The only question now 
was whether young Solaris would survive the crucible he was about to undergo.

	The prospect was both thrilling and frightening. One the one extreme, with 
Corbin realizing his full potential at his side, not even the Emperor could 
stand before him. On the other end of the scale, a shining star like Corbin 
could not be hidden forever, and it was only a matter of time before the Emperor 
would ferret out the truth; that Vader had defied him, no matter how carefully 
he had guarded his intentions.

	And it all depended on whether Solaris would come through the fire 
stronger, or be consumed by it. But perhaps the Emperor was right, and he was 
merely repeating ancient Sith history by following his ambitions. Vader sighed. 
If that was to be his destiny, so be it. All that was left to do now was await 
the unfolding of his plan.

	The last of the Avengers streaked away from the Executor. It was time.

-- -- --

	High Commander Kurchon stood aboard the flagship of the Borandi Empire. It 
was a good ship, with a good crew. He looked out the vast bridge windows, 
staring at the stars, with their tiny points of cold light shining against the 
icy black of space. Kurchon shivered, and felt his fur ripple underneath his 
simple uniform as it stood on end. The chill he felt was not due to the bridge 
temperature, rather it was the result of Death himself breathing down his neck. 

	The Borandi were a brave race. They could even be considered a fierce one. 
For thousands of years the Borandi fought each other, becoming experts in the 
art of war. When they discovered the stars a millennium ago, they quickly sought 
out new conquests. Already sharpened from fighting each other, they quickly 
subjugated their neighbors, expanding the Borandi Empire from the confines of 
their homeworld to encompass several star systems. The Borandi system was too 
far out to attract much attention from the Old Republic, and the New Order also 
seemed content to ignore their existence. Until now.

	Perhaps the universe was sending the wrath of the bigoted Imperials 
against them as revenge for all of the civilizations they had preyed upon in 
their past. Regardless, Kurchon knew that he could not keep the Imperials at bay 
forever. He felt their chances were good to hold off the so called Death 
Squadron, but then what? Neutralizing that threat would likely take every ship 
and every man he had available. In leaders of his world's opinion, a massive 
show of strength in defeating the Empire's flagship would deter the Emperor from 
trying an invasion again. Kurchon knew better. While it is true that striking a 
wild animal on the nose might drive it off temporarily, it always comes back, 
with even more fury. But he had his orders, and his duty that he was honorbound 
to carry out, and so did the men serving underneath him. 

	It could come at anytime. Anytime, they would detect the tell tale 
hyperspace signatures as the Imperials exit hyperspace, most likely in the outer 
rim of the system. Yes, the outer rim, so they could get their bearings before 
they began the assault in earnest.  His navy would then redeploy for maximum 
effectiveness against them, and ready their ambush behind the third moon. After 
trading stellar levels of energy with his Imperial adversaries, his fleet would 
eventually fall back to Borandi, and make their final stand there.  

	Yes it would be a glorious battle, and it would all be heralded by a few 
hundred brief flashes of hyperspace radiation, and the klaxons would blare, and 
Kurchon's people would do what they were born to do: wage war.

	While the High Commander was pondering over this, he saw a flicker of 
movement out of the corner of his eye. Like most species with a predatory 
background, his brain's visual cortex was attracted to motion above all else. 
And so his primal instincts told him to turn and focus on the faint blur out in 
space before his conscious mind even had a chance to react. He was just in time 
to see a half meter wide black ball smash into the port bridge window, filling 
the bridge with a resounding crack.

	Kurchon, if he had a thousand years to consider the matter, would never 
have imagined that this was the way the battle would begin.

	"What the --?!" the first officer managed to get out before a comms 
officer fairly screamed. "Commander, incoming vessels, there are thirteen, no, 
45, no..." his jaw dropped.  "There-- there are hundreds of them!"

	The Commander barely had time to turn around to acknowledge the report 
when his tactical officer pointed out the bridge window and yelled "They're 
right on top of us!"  Kurchon then saw several bright flashes illuminate his 
first officer in rapid succession. Spinning back around, suddenly feeling quite 
out of control, he saw what looked like a fireworks display where his primary 
fighter squadrons had been, and three ominous triangular shapes bearing down on 
him.

	The battle for Borandi was all of five seconds old, and Kurchon was losing 
it.

------


Past Imperfect Chapter Six
"Snap right and come around for another pass before they can reform,"
Solaris told his wingmen.  "Save those missiles for when they get
their weapons and shields fully powered up. We're going to need them.
Break!"  

As one, the formation of twelve TIE Advanced Starfighters broke off
and each executed opposed hammerhead turns, blossoming out like the
opening of a deadly flower.  Nearing the apex of their turn, they
formed into a loose ball and raked their laser fire upon the enemy
fighters, who were still badly disorganized.  By necessity, the
Borandi fighters were in a loose formation, optimized to shut down any
one of a half dozen possible Imperial approach vectors. The problem
was, they expected them to approach from the outer limits of the
system, giving them plenty of time to redeploy for maximum
effectiveness.  

Solaris's squadron had blurred out of infinity just behind and above
them, and the enemy had in the first seconds of battle lost three
fighters to each attacking TIE in Corbin's wing.  Judging from the
fantastic lightshow outside his cockpit, his squad's success was being
duplicated by each of the four TIE/A  wings that had led the attack.  

Corbin lined up on one of the sleek enemy fighters that seemed to be
trying to form up with his companions, and stabbed the firing stud.
He didn't bother watching the intense green bolts of energy vaporize
his target; he knew instinctively that it was a kill.  Four of the
opposition had managed to form up and were starting to wheel about to
put up a fight.

Solaris's hand twitched, almost of its own accord, and the lead
fighter was an expanding fireball.  "Watch it Eight, they're coming
around for you," Solaris informed his wingmate. Sure enough, the three
remainders latched on the T/A's six and started blasting him. 

"I got tone... missile away," an excited pilot yelled into his mic.
Corbin watched as the yellow projectile streaked away from the TIE
Avenger-class's  light gray body towards the three enemy fighters.
The missile flew straight and true, and buried itself into the
right-most fighter's exhaust port.  The resulting explosion dispersed
the remaining two.  Solaris picked off one, and some squib from
another wing took the other.

"Nice kill, ten!" Eight spoke up. "I owe you one."

"There's plenty more to spread around," Corbin reminded them all.
"Let's keep focused."

--- --- ---

"An old fashioned butt whipping," One of the Comm-techs aboard the
Executor pronounced to his counterpart sitting at the terminal beside
him.  

"Yup, our boys are doing alright," the other agreed.  "'Course, what
do you expect from furballs?"

Vice Admiral Pedigo put his hand on one of their shoulders. "Ensign, I
will take it from here."

"Sir?"

"Lord Vader wishes to watch the battle's progress from these viewers.
He tends to get annoyed when the enlisted men insist on making running
commentary on the images."  Pedigo smiled.  "Of course, you're welcome
to stay if you'd like."  

Both men could hear the click-clicking of the Dread Lord's boots
approaching on the deck, and they quickly looked at each other.  That
invitation was no invitation at all.  "No, sir!"

"Dismissed then."  The Ensigns left hurriedly.

Vader completed his approach.  "Are we getting a clear signal?"

"Yes, my Lord.  One of the primary designated targets were their
sensor scramblers.  We managed to take out ninety percent of them on
the first pass.  We are experiencing minimal signal degradation,"
Pedigo informed Vader.

"Excellent.  How far away from the battle are we?"

"Precisely fourteen  light-years.  It will take no more than twelve
seconds to arrive at the battle scene from here."

"Col. Solaris's squadron?"

"Doing remarkably well, as you can see," Pedigo nodded towards the
monitor.  "Our destroyers are receiving adequate protection, although
the Devastator is sustaining minor damage from a rather ferocious by
the Borandi capital ships.  As can be expected," he added.  No one
figured the Borandi to just lay down and die.  "And Solaris's...
surprise will be coming shortly.  You can see we left out these wings
of fighters from the Colonels flight data.  They should be in prime
position to separate and destroy his entire squad."  He glanced
sideways at Vader.  "I do not see how Solaris can survive."

Vader appeared not to be paying attention.  He just stood there
staring at the screen, making his awful wheezing sounds.  Not knowing
what else to do, Pedigo took a half step away from Vader.

Vader continued to bore his eyes into the screen.  Wild flashes of
color from the various monitors played across his helmet.

--- --- ---

"Alright, people, shut up," Solaris commanded. "The easy part is
over."  Solaris surveyed the battle from his cockpit.  He noticed that
the Devastator had come out of hyperspace and was pounding on one of
the Borandi's opposing destroyers.  Avenger and Tyrant had come out
several kilometers behind the main enemy picket line, and was
currently knifing through the massive wall of ships, frigates and
corvettes in tow, blasting fighters and smaller capital ships.  Their
main target was the planet itself.  They were to bombard with their
heavy cannons several preprogrammed points where planetary Ion cannons
had been pinpointed. What could only be described as a cloud of
fighters poured from the two Destroyer's hangars.  Immediately, a
request for assistance light blinked on Corbin's HUD.

"Form on me," Solaris commanded. "We're going out two more clicks,
then breaking left to cover those guys trying to get out of their
cans. Go now!"

Solaris' wing whipped around, accelerating towards the nearest Star
Destroyer.  Corbin looked down at his combat display unit, and watched
as a few scattered friendlies blinked off the screen. The Borandi were
really starting to get their act together, and for the first time the
Imperials were taking some losses of their own.

A few dozen Borandi fighters were hanging around the belly of the
Judicator, picking off TIE fighters attempting to scramble out of the
hanger, while they easily evaded the scattered return fire the sparse
gun emplacements located on the ventral surface could offer.

"Alright,  these scum are over their hunting limit," Solaris announced
over his commlink.  "Let's shut them down.  Two through Six, follow
me, Seven, take the rest  of the wing and watch our backs."  

"Roger that, lead," Seven acknowledged. The six lead fighters bore
down on the enemy, eyes on their range indicators.  

"Weapons in range... Now!  Fire!" Solaris said briskly as he thumbed
his laser blasts.  The green bolts sizzled away from his space frame
and connected with a Borandi fighter a fraction of a second later.
Automatically he shifted targets, and another fighter burst into
flame. Rolling slightly to the left and letting off another burst,
another spacecraft turned to vapor.  His group was rapidly overtaking
the opposition, and most of his men had already pulled out of their
attack run, but Corbin locked on to one last more just twenty meters
in front of his craft. Instinctively he triggered off another burst,
and his TIE tore through the fireball that used to be a spacefighter.
On the way through the inferno, his TIE  nicked something solid; a
thick plate of armor.  Its mass and relative speed allowed it to rip
through the Advance's shields as easily as any mass driver cannon, and
tear a gash in Corbin's ball shaped cockpit with a metal rending
shriek.  Sparks flew from the top of the capsule, momentarily dazzling
his vision.  The force of the impact caused the end of the TIE to
start to spin underneath the craft, threatening to send Solaris
spinning out of control.  Grabbing the control yoke with both hands,
he struggled to counteract his craft's wild gyrations, until finally
he regained control over the battered fighter. 

"Lead, you alright?" the leader of his theta squad asked.  

"Yeah, just a little shook up."  He looked up and could see starlight
through the jagged incision on top of his craft. The cockpit was now
fully open to the vacuum of space. "I finally got that sunroof option
I requested."  

Theta lead chuckled as much in surprise as in humor.  'Iceman' wasn't
known for cracking wise on the comm-channel.  "Roger that, Colonel."

I let the ease of the assault go to my head.  Got way too close to
that last one. "Everyone with us?" Corbin asked his squad leads.

"Intact so far." Beta leader replied.

Something is wrong though.  Corbin frowned.  Now that his cockiness
had been put in place, he could feel a distinctly unpleasant sensation
in his gut.  Something like a cross between hunger pangs and
queasiness.  Whatever it was that was causing it, he was sure it
couldn't be good.

--- --- ---

Watching the displays, Vader could see it happen.  Like a tide rushing
it, several wings of angry and frightened aliens fighting for their
lives were closing in on Corbin's men.  Vader would have to think of a
way to reward that General Madine.  With the help of his fabulous
stealth sensors, he'd been able to plan the perfect attack.  Perfect
in an unconventional sense, but perfect nonetheless.

Vader could sense Pedigo's uneasiness about the situation.  But even
he couldn't grasp the full import of what was unfolding before their
eyes on the view screen.  Perhaps he assumed that Vader simply had it
in for Solaris and his men.  But that wasn't the case at all.  

Corbin was basically a good man, if a weak one.  And so had Vader
been, once.  Solaris had the same fears, ambitions, and desires as any
other person.  But the Force ran powerfully in him.  Vader could sense
his potential, like a coinsurer of fine wine could determine a
vintage's worth by the nuances of it's bouquet. 

Seducing one to the Dark Side was a fine art.  The foolish Jedi and
their superstitions thought it all too easy to succumb to it's
intoxicating power.  And indeed it was.  But the trick was to use the
power of the Dark Side without having it eat you alive. The
unharnessed power of the Dark Side could consume a person just as sure
as if they stood in the path of a supernova.  Or given enough control,
it could give them the power to rule the galaxy.  It just depended on
how, and when a person is turned.

It was much like breaking a horse.  Many of the characteristics of a
horse that make it so appealing as an engine of war are the very
things that make them unreliable and difficult to control.  You had to
strike just the right balance between fierceness and domestication .
Breaking one completely would make them skittish and docile.  Yet if a
trainer were too lax the beast would be just as likely to throw and
trample his master as he would be to ride roughshod over his enemies.

Corbin was about to be broken, in one way or another.  The battle
surrounding him had been carefully planned and orchestrated, like a
ballet of death and destruction centered upon the soul of one man.  If
things worked out right, Solaris would be his to mold in his own
image.  If things went poorly... Well, the battle would belong to the
Empire.  His Executor guaranteed that.  But Vader allowed himself to
hope...

--- --- ---

A few of the enemies noticed Solaris' limping Avenger and smelled
blood.  Four peeled off from their formation and started pounding on
the weakened shielding of the damaged TIE.  Solaris watched as his
shield indicator rapidly shifted from amber to red, and then black as
they failed completely.  He quickly through his fighter into a
corkscrew dive towards the deck of the nearest star destroyer.  He
deftly wove through the turbolaser fire, hoping to shake his pursuers.
He dove into Destroyer's midline trench, hoping to draw the attention
of some of the nimble anti-fighter turrets to his predicament.  

Two of the blips to his rear winked out as the fast-tracking
quadlasers found their mark.  Corbin shot out of the destroyers trench
, arcing away from the engines to avoid the powerful ion wash.  To his
horror, he realized that he had headed right into another swarm of
angry Borandi fighters.  

"Can I get some help here?" Corbin asked his wingmates, struggling to
sound collected over his comm.  He received static that sounded like
an attempt to answer, but he just couldn't pick out what the garbled
voice was trying to say.  Must have gotten a bit to close to those
engines... Corbin realized.

A few laser blasts splashed against the shields of his forward
cockpit, and then that protective layer of energy was gone too.
Corbin felt an icy dampness as sweat rolled down his back under his
uniform.  No shields front or top, and less than fifty percent rear.
Not good, he realized.  He pushed down his fear and kept ducking and
weaving, then punching his accelerators on full as he pushed his stick
forward, executing a sharp turn downwards that exposed his protected
belly to the attackers, before rolling out on a new course.  Most of
the Borandi stayed right with him.

Ok, if that's how you want to play it...  Corbin armed a concussion
missile, and selected the manual override button.  He set the
missiles' burn time to zero, and the fuse to one second.  

Corbin leveled off, then flipped up an activation switch on his
control stick.  He cut his throttle to zero, and felt the retro
thrusters kick in to rapidly slow his fighter.  SLAM! SLAM! The TIE
rocked as lasers impacted on the rear shields.  His index finger
triggered the missile. The TIE shuddered with a thud as the missile
was ejected from it's tube -- simultaneously he slammed the throttle
wide open and nudged his fighter up slightly.  Since the missile's
propulsion system was turned completely off, the missile was quickly
left behind, and the pilots tailing him were just slowing down to keep
on his tail as the ejected missile spun toward them and detonated.

Corbin allowed himself a momentary sense of elation as nearly all of
the tightly bunched fighters were swallowed up by the blast.  But the
elation turned to despair as he saw a half dozen speed out of the
fireball like angry hornets.  A sound like a steel brush dragged over
sheet metal echoed through his TIE as one of the Borandi blaster bolts
grazed his hull.  His main shield generators went dark on his screen,
proclaiming that the tattered remnants  of energy cocoon that
surrounded his fragile craft was finally gone.

Just as real fear was beginning to set in, a burst of static was
followed by several calls on his commlink.  

"Lead, where are you?!  We've lost most of the squadron... I've...
I've got three of them on my --" 

"Colonel, Theta squad is gone, sir!  This is Theta Ten, and I'm all
that's --"

The automated repair systems must have just now got his comm-system
back online.  And the news he was getting over it was not good;  it
seemed that the desperate battle he was facing was being replayed all
throughout his squadron -- his entire wing, from the sound of it.

His wing was being decimated.  The men he was entrusted to lead were
mostly gone.  These backwater alien scum were taking them out like
they were some kind of green rookies.  Corbin noticed flames licking
at the hull of one of the Destroyers -- he couldn't make out which one
from the distance.  They were spanking him and the Empire's best.
These hideous slavering dogs, in their space junk they called
starfighters. How could we be losing? His hull screamed again as
another bolt hit home.  He looked down at the status panels.  Down to
two lasers, no shields, iffy comms, shot through armor, and a barely
functioning repair computer.  He smiled viciously.  It's just like
back in my old TIE, he realized,  and this scum for damn sure aren't
X-Wings piloted by the Rebel's best.

He flipped his power regulators, dumping all of the shield power to
his engines, and extended his ion streaming dampeners for better
maneuverability at high speed.  These aliens were going to fry.  He
was going to avenge each and every one of his men personally.

Time seemed to slow, and there was a dull roar in his ears as he
jerked his TIE down and to the left.  A split second later, a crimson
bolt seared over his hull.  It didn't surprise him, he was kind of
used to luck like that.

Time and time again he evaded bolts at the last second, confounding
the skill of the pilots chasing him.  

A fighter coming from the main battle group charged him head on.  Not
even thinking, he tracked in on it and sent off three bolts of green
energy, that evaporated the opposing fighter's main engines, sending
the hapless alien into a straight spiral.  Corbin spun right as the
fighter missed him by less than a meter.  The pilot closest to
Corbin's tail had no time to react as the fighters met head on.  The
resultant debris cloud caused the remaining fighters to disperse
around the new hazard.  Corbin killed his main drive, and yanked the
rudder full right, causing the TIE to spin 180 degrees like a top.
All through the arch, his fighter spat bolts, knocking one, two, then
three Borandi out of the black sky of space.  Reactivating his ion
engines, he felt his inertia tear at him as he punched it toward the
nearest remaining fighters, his TIE skidding through the void like
some kind of drunken speeder bike racer.

His fighter quickly closed the gap between him and the enemy, and a
four second burst of laser fire finished him off. That left one still
on his tail.  The pest had been hosing him down with blaster fire
during the whole dogfight, with Corbin evading at the last second each
time, totally subconsciously.  Solaris's comm came alive again.

"I gotta get some help lead.  They are tearing us apart here, and
their bombers are doing a number on the Devastator!  We just can't get
them all, there are so many of them."

"Alpha squad, assist Beta while I mop up over here."  For several long
seconds there was nothing but silence.  "Alpha lead!  Respond."  Still
nothing.  The whole squad; twelve good men, all gone.  How had this
happened?  We should have slaughtered these clowns with the intel we
had. Then his thoughts darkened even further.  That idiot Ozzel!  If I
make it out of here alive, I'm taking him down.  It might be the last
thing I do, but I'm going to put a blaster bolt in his "O" ring with
my last conscious act...

"Beta, hold tight.  I'm coming to you."  Solaris pegged his throttle
and leveled off, heading to aid his comrades, when a hail of bolts
from his tail forced him to veer off course.

"Colonel, you better hurry, we're--" static filled the channel.

Corbin looked out at the distant destroyer, as brilliant blue flashes
highlighted its hull.  Torpedo after torpedo hit home; the nimble
Borandi bombers could easily evade the ISD's main guns.   It can't
take that kind of punishment for long, and Lord Vader didn't strike
Corbin as the forgiving type.  This whole mission is going straight
out the waste chute.  And his men were dying, and one of Vader's
destroyers was going to explode, all because he couldn't shake this
dirty furball off his back. His temper, already hot, started to rise,
and the dull roar in his ears became a howl.   He felt his anger boil,
and his hand spontaneously formed a fist.  He lashed out at his radar
panel,  striking out at the graphic triangle that was his visual
representation of his tormentor.  He screamed as his fist actually
went through the panel, exploding in flash of spark and flame.

The hail of bolts stopped, and he realized he was now alone.  All was
silent, and the roaring sound was replaced with a dull ache in his
head.  He blinked hard, and looked over his shoulder.  His tail was
gone. Looking harder, he realized that the fighter wasn't gone at all
-- it was simply shredded beyond recognition.  It was just pieces of
free floating shrapnel.  What hit it? But he was sure the radar screen
was clear before he destroyed it.  No friendlies, no enemies for that
matter.  

Then Vader's words came to him... release your anger, and you will
feel the power of the dark side...  Thinking back, remembering his
anger and frustration, the pressure that threatened to tear his skull
in two.  And then the remains of the fighter.  Did he really do that?

A bright flash brought him out of his ruminations, and he blinked
again to clear his head.  He headed once again towards the crippled
Destroyer, and this time no flea bitten sack scratcher was going to
get in his way.  The hairballs aren't going to know what hit them.
The low rumble began in his ears again as he smiled darkly behind his
mask.

-- -- --

Vader smirked behind his mask.  Corbin had passed the test.

"I don't believe it!"  Pedigo exclaimed.  "How did he survive?  How
did he destroy that last fighter?"

"It is of no consequence.  Prepare the ship for light speed.  One of
the Emperor's starships is endangered.  We are going to join the
battle."

Pedigo was still staring at the battle screen that was centered on
Corbin's lone TIE, his jaw hanging loose.  He watched as wave after
wave of fighters seemed to just blink out of existence at the mere
approach of Solaris.  Finally, the sound of the impatient hissing
inches off his ear brought him out of his daze, as he stared right
into the face of the Sithlord.  

"Y-yes milord," Pedigo managed, as he nodded to the navigational
coordinator.  "We are ready to depart at your command."

"Excellent.  I want to enter realspace as close to the Devastator as
possible, without endangering this ship or her crew.  Have all TIE
fighters scrambled as soon as we are out of hyperspace.  We must not
lose the Devastator.  Is that understood?"

"Yes, Lord Vader."  Pedigo motioned back toward the Chief navigator,
and hordes of technicians throughout the ship began to coordinate in
order to bring the mammoth ship's engines on line and charged for the
jump.

-- -- --

Corbin was a man possessed.  It was as if he had surrendered control
of his body to another entity, as his body felt numb and drenched with
sweat.  He arms seemed to move of their own accord as he slung his
fighter every which way, spitting death at every possible target of
opportunity.  He had no radar, and a moment of weakness allowed a beam
to glance his craft, robbing him of comms.  But he didn't care.  His
jaw was set, his eyes glaring forward through the scorched canopy of
his cockpit.  He wasn't Iceman anymore. He was Death Incarnate.

He had set upon the Devastator's attackers like an avenging angel,
decimating the ranks of bombers on his first pass.  But there were so
many of them, that the now flaming Destroyer seemed a lost cause.
Then an impossibly long streak of light blurred into existence right
in front of him.  He reflexively rolled away from it, then realized
with relief that it was the Executor.  Lord Vader was now taking
command of the battlefield.

The Executor immediately moved to hover over the Devastator, rolling
onto it's back to bring about it's full firepower upon the hostiles.
It's massive array of guns quickly silenced the opposing capital ships
that were desperately trying to put the Star Destroyer down.  All the
while, TIE fighters belched from it's primary hangers like a plague of
gnats sent from an angry god.  

It was clear to Corbin that while the Devastator would sustain heavy
damage and likely heavy casualties, it would survive the battle.  Even
with that realization, the tension would not leave his body.  Instead,
he turned his craft towards the Executor.  He had an appointment to
make with a certain admiral.

Coming into view of the docking bay he flashed his running lights,
letting the flight crew know his comms were down.  He received a few
flashes of light back in response, and the crippled TIE shuddered as
tractor beams latched on to him.  He was swiftly brought into the
cavernous interior, where the beams directed him to a magnetic claw
that received the tractor beam's handoff with a resounding clank.  The
claw tracked along the ceiling of the huge bay, carrying Corbin to the
proper dock for his craft. 

As the claw neared it's destination, he saw all the empty spaces where
his Wingmates should be.  We had iron clad intel.  We had superior
firepower. We had the Empire's best pilots.  And Ozzel STILL found
some way to screw it all up!  Corbin raged inside as his TIE was
gently touched down on the metal docking plates.  Corbin threw open
his hatch and fairly exploded out of his TIE.

Several members of the flight crew rushed over.  One of them,
obviously excited, came up to Solaris.  "We heard you took down six
wings all by yourself," then looking past Corbin to his TIE,
"Sithspew!  It looks like you tried to fly her through a black hole!"

Corbin took off his helmet as the man was talking.  The technician
fell silent, and the rest took a few steps back.  Corbin blew right
past them like a storm cell, and made a Bee line right toward the
lifts.

One tech turned to the others.  "Did you guys see his eyes?"

"How could you miss them?"

"Look's like he went nine rounds with a Rancor."

"Do you think his suit lost compression for a minute or something?"

The bewildered ‘ground' crew stared as the lift doors closed over
Corbin.

-- -- --

The bridge lift doors parted, and everyone turned to see Solaris fly
out the doors as if being launched from a cannon.

"Well, if it isn't the hero of the Battle of Borandi?" Pedigo asked
with a broad smile.  He was one of his men, after all, and he was
secretly proud, if bewildered, that he'd managed to survive the odds
they'd stacked against him.  But Corbin blew right passed the
Vice-Admiral, and Pedigo recoiled at the look on his face.

"Yes!  I hear you are to be congratulated with saving on of His
Majesty's starships!" Ozzel joined in with a big smile of his own,
oblivious to any danger.  He was standing by the far wall, going over
the battle's statistics with Lord Vader.

"YOU!" Solaris screamed as he caught sight of Ozzel.

"Col. Solaris?" the admiral said, caught off guard and no longer
smiling.  "Iâ€""

"YOU killed my men, and you almost killed ME!"

"What in the Emperor's name are you talking about?" Ozzel said, now
annoyed.  How dare this man speak to me like this? 

"You are too incompetent to live!" Corbin raged.

"Are you threatening me?" Ozzel asked incredulously.  "Guards!  Remove
Col. Solaris.  He's apparently rather worse off for his recent
experience."

Corbin felt the pressure in his head begin to build as he smirked.
"You can say that again."

His head throbbed, and he felt drunk with power.  He started to reach
for his sidearm.  He formed his hands into fists by his side, and then
quickly thrust them forward towards the direction of Admiral Ozzel.  

To the surprise of everyone on the deck, Ozzel was picked completely
off his feet, and hurled several meters against the nearest bulkhead.
He hit with a whoomph that knocked the wind out of him and left him
dazed.

Stormtroopers on the bridge, already on the move in response to the
Admiral's summons, now drew their blasters, quickly squeezing off a
few snap shots at Solaris.  But before the first bolt even left the
barrel, Darth Vader swung into action, his blade igniting as he
pivoted on his left foot.  He seemingly covered an impossible distance
in a split second, instantly stepping in the shots' path.  His sabre
swept through a huge arc in a blur, and the bolts sizzled off of his
crimson blade.  As he completed his arc, he reached out with his hand,
and both Stormtrooper's rifles were wrenched out of their grip, flying
off in random directions.  The Sithlord then stood at en guard
position with his blade held at the ready.  The ‘troopers were just
smart enough to know that was their cue to stand down.

If Corbin was even aware of the exchange, he showed no sign of it.
Visibly shaking with rage, his shoulders straining as if he was making
a supreme effort, he opened his fists, placing his palms toward Ozzel.
Then, Corbin seemed to violently push against an invisible wall in
front of him.  Instantly the room was filled with a sickening cracking
noise, and Ozzel, pinned against the wall, seemed to crumple.  

Corbin dropped his hands, his chest heaving, mouth twisted into a
grimace.  Ozzel, or what was left of him, fell from the wall and
tumbled to the floor, his limbs and torso at odd, unnatural angles.
He turned from the mess, and stalked off the bridge.  

"Lord Vader!" Vice Admiral Pedigo hissed.  "Is there perhaps a time
when you'd like to possibly let me know what  in the Emperor's name is
going on?"  Normally, no one would dare address Vader in such a
manner.  Then again, normally a Vice Admiral doesn't witness the
supernatural murder of a flag officer that somehow involved said Vice
Admiral altering the flight data for the murderer's TIE wing.

"Perhaps," murmured Vader, distracted.  "However, I will deal with
Colonel Solaris myself.  Is that clear, Admiral?" Vader asked,
emphasizing that last part.

Pedigo swallowed, and straightened his uniform.  "Y-yes, sir," he
managed.

"Good.  You have served me well.  Do not betray my confidence in you."
After staring Pedigo down for a few interminable moments to underline
his message, Vader turned and glided off the bridge.

Pedigo motioned at two of the black garbed security officers.  When
they approach, he motioned over to Ozzel's corpse.  "Would you see to
it that something is done with that.  This is the bridge of an
Imperial Starship."  The two saluted smartly and then went off to
remove the body.

Pedigo was a rather intelligent man, and his wheels began turning
immediately.  Something just went down, but he was damned if he could
tell quite what it was.  He had previously thought that Vader wanted
Solaris dead for some reason, but that was clearly wrong.  Ozzel ended
up being the dead man, and while treachery among the ranks is not
unheard of in the Navy, it was quite unprecedented for someone of
Corbin's rank to basically assassinate an Admiral, on the Admiral's
own bridge, and moreover walk away from it all still breathing.

"Admiral?"

Captain Piett had brought him out of his thoughts.  "Yes, Captain?"

"Our forces have neutralized the Borandi defenses.  The Devastator has
sustained heavy damage, but is in no immediate danger." He paused a
bit.  "We are ready to begin the next phase of the operation."

"Very well.  You may proceed with operation Base Delta Zero.  Deploy
the fleet for effect at your discretion."

"As you wish,"  Captain Piett turned to his Commander.  "We will be
partaking in the bombardment.  Deploy Fighter wings Alpha through Tau.
Set up a perimeter around the planet and moon.  Nothing is to be
allowed to escape.  Deploy the Avenger, Tyrant, and Vengeance in
standard bombard formation with two thousand kilometer spacing.  Once
all assets are in place, we will conduct the operation."

Pedigo turned away from the conversation. Piett knew what he was
doing, being a highly competent and decorated officer.  It was
actually a breech of protocol that Pedigo was promoted ahead of the
captain of the flagship.  However, Piett didn't seem to harbor
resentment over the possible slight.  Small wonder, seeing as what
happened to the previous occupant of the rank.

That reminded him of his earlier train of thought.  He frowned.
Obviously, whatever went on was between Corbin and Vader.  Ozzel was
just a pawn in some kind of wizard game the Sithlord was playing.
Lovely.

Pedigo could feel the slight tremor of the deck plates as the mighty
Executor began a lazy turn towards the lush green world of Borandi.
He caught site of two of the lesser Star Destroyers already in
position, turning onto their back to better bring to bear their heavy
cannons onto the planets surface.  Pedigo was actually looking forward
to the BDZ in a morbid kind of way.  Nothing like the death of
billions to put life's little problems into perspective.


Past Imperfect Chapter Seven

Walking down the familiar corridor that took him to his quarters,
Corbin's feet were filled with lead.  He felt very strange, as if his
consciousness was floating a foot or two above his physical head. 
Arriving at his door, he stopped, and leaning forward, placed his
forehead against the cool metal of the bulkhead for a moment.  Gods,
but his head hurt.  Felt like it was in some diabolical vice, with
some sadist hell bent on tightening it down.  Many ancient cultures
(and not a few recent ones) used vices as a form of torture, in an
attempt to wring confessions from victims. That thought brought a
grunt out of him.  "Fine," he said, to no one in particular.  "I give
up.  I'm a bad man.  A killer.  I confess."  But of course, that
brought no relief.  He palmed the door panel, and it hissed open for
him.

He staggered in, needing to splash some cold water on his face before
contemplating anything else.  Stumbling through the cramped quarters,
he flailed unsuccessfully in the dark for the light switch, before
bumbling through the entrance to his personal head.  Slapping the
light controls, he braced himself on the sink and took a look in the
mirror.  What he saw made him gasp.

His face was pale and drawn.  But what was most noticeable were his
eyes.  Both were bruised, and a blood vessel had broken in his right
eye, turning the whites into an angry red.  The combined effect served
to make him look much less than human, and more like an animal;
frightened and wounded.

His hands -- which were shaking, he noted -- worked the faucet
controls, spilling cool water into the basin.  He plunged his hands
into the sink several times, splashing the liquid on his face, letting
it run down, soaking the front of his uniform.  He straightened up,
and slowly opened his eyes, making sure that his face was still as he
imagined it.  Seeing that it was, he reached back and shut off the
light, leaving a dark silhouette visible in the mirror framed by the
doorway.

Walking out of the head, he pulled off his flight jacket, then peeled
off his dark gray t-shirt.  Falling back into his bed, he paused to
unlace and take off his boots before laying back and swinging his feet
into bed.

Thoughts began racing into his head.  I just killed an Admiral.  My
men are all dead.  I'm a wing commander with no wing to command.  I
killed an Admiral, with my mind.  My MIND.  I destroyed countless
enemy fighters.  How?

With his mind.  No, not just his mind.  The Force.  Just as Vader
promised, it was there in his time of need.  He was angry.  He hated
Ozzel for what he did, for what he was.  He hated the aliens.  Hated
that they killed his men, hated them for making him kill them.  He
hated his self.  What had he become?  I killed an admiral.  Oh, gods,
what am I now?   Each though crowded the one ahead of it, and came so
fast there wasn't time to reflect.  And oh, how his head hurt.

He sobbed.  "Why me?" he asked aloud.  

As if in answer, his door suddenly opened, and a figure black as night
stood in the doorframe.  Red and blue panels on his chest blinked
alternately.  But all the visual cues were irrelevant, as the
distinctive hissing sound announced who was there without Corbin even
having to turn his head.

"Are you here to kill me?" Solaris croaked, his eyes still closed.

Vader stepped forward, allowing the door to close behind him.  The
cabin was dark once again.  "If that were my intention, I could have
allowed the troops on the bridge to put  smoking holes where your
heart and lungs are now."

"Why did you protect me?" 

"As I've explained to you, I am a protector of the innocent."

"Innocent?  I killed an officer. A flag officer."

"Why did you kill him?"

"My men.  They all died.  We should have mopped the floor with those
fighters.  Our intelligence was flawless.  I was there.  I saw it. 
But, those fighters.  Three whole wings."  Corbin paused and collected
himself before going on.  "Three whole wings, out of nowhere.  Only
way that could have happened... Ozzel was stupid and ‘forgot' to tell
us they were there, and update our navicomps.  Or, Ozzel wanted me
dead because he didn't like me, and didn't mind slaughtering a few
dozen men to make sure I bought it.  The way things are in the Empire
sometimes, I'd buy either theory."

"How did that make you feel?" Vader probed.

"How did it make me feel?  What do you think?  I was furious.  I hated
him."

"What he did was a hateful thing," Vader pointed out.  "Hateful and
cowardly." Vader briefly felt uncomfortable, with the realization that
his own words were condemning him.  But Corbin was worth it.  The
grief and loss served a greater cause.

"Corbin," Vader continued.  "I've heard about the way you fought.  The
way you tried to defend your men.  Your actions possibly saved the
Devastator.  Over forty thousand men owe you their lives.  What let
you fight with that kind of power?"

Corbin's voice whispered. "The Force."

"How did it help you?"  Vader sounded skeptical.  "In our private
sessions, you cannot even lift a sheet of paper without supreme
effort.  Yet you shredded your enemies and executed that incompetent
Ozzel with hardly a thought.  How did you do it?"

"I was angry." Corbin admitted.

"You see now what I've tried to tell you.  Anger, hate.  They aren't
inherently evil, and can even be a force for good.  Because of your
anger, you saved one of the Emperor's ships, and avenged the blood of
your men."  He paused.  "No one will ever suffer because of Ozzel's
malice or incompetence any longer, will they?"

"No," Corbin said.  "But... my face.  My body.  How can something
good, a positive force, do this to me?"  Corbin turned his face to
Vader for the first time.  "You say I'm not evil, but I look the
part."

Vader sighed... or at least what passed for a sigh with him.  "Corbin,
you have learned many lessons today.  The power of anger and hate, and
the use they can be...  but you have also learned the costs of using
such power unfocused."  Vader formed a fist in the pale light.  "A
strong man can still break his hand smashing his enemy in the face if
he is untrained in the art of combat.  You can break your body and
your spirit if you do not control the Force."  Vader softly stepped
forward and placed his gloved hand on Corbin's forehead.   "Sleep." 
The command swiftly took effect, and Solaris's face went slack, and a
peace came over him.  The dark lord rarely used his vast powers to
heal anymore, and the feeling was almost unpleasant, leaving his arm
numb and tingling.  "Sleep, you have much to learn."

-- -- --

A loud growl startled Han Solo out of his sleep.  

"Wha--?" he mumbled as he shook his head.  "Where are we?"

His partner rumbled a location.  "Already?  How long have I been out?"
he asked as he swung his legs off the cockpit console and rubbed the
sleep out of his eyes."  The answer surprised him. "That long huh?" 
Almost a full night's sleep.  Something he hadn't been able to do in a
long, long time.  No bad dreams either.  Almost as if he could read
Han's mind, Chewie offered an explanation.

"I guess you could be right.  Laying off the drink a bit hasn't hurt
anything, that's for sure."  Shaking his head slightly to clear the
few remaining cobwebs, he reached for the hyperdrive engagement
levers.  "Ready for the return to realspace in three… two… one…"  The
surreal blue hyperspace tunnel resolved into a myriad of white
streaks, which in turn shrank to mere points of starlight.

The pair absorbed the sight before them for a few seconds.  Then
Chewie started roaring.  Han echoed his sentiment.  "Sh--"

-- -- --

"--it!" Wedge exclaimed as he sat at his navigation console, stunned.

"Wow," the comms officer added.  "Looks like the Imps are having a
barbeque."

The site was horrifying.  There was no other way to describe it.  What
used to be a blue and green orb capable of sustaining life was now
shrouded in black cloud, red fire, and thick smoke.  In many places
the cloud cover had an angry red glow; evidence of the fiery
destruction taking place on the ground below.  Green streaks of light
pierced the cover in places, causing massive explosions of light
powerful enough to temporarily overwhelm the black cloak that
enveloped the planet.

Following the green bolts to their source exposed the cause of the
destruction; an apparently tiny dark gray wedge shape bombarding the
surface below.  As they approached closer, it became clear that the
shape was monstrously huge, and there were other smaller vessels
helping out in the devastation.

"Captain," the comms officer spoke up again, "We are receiving a
transmission from the Imperial fleet."

"Let's hear it," the captain commanded.

A stern voice came over the bridge speakers. "All transport craft en
route to Borandi.  You are to divert to the moon base and receive
delivery instructions there.  Do not attempt to approach the planet. 
Repeat, do not attempt approach of the planet.  All transport craft en
route to Bor--" the message began to repeat itself.

"That's enough, Comms." The Captain waved his hand in the general
direction of the Communication console.  "Ok, you heard them, Roat. 
Make for that moon."

Wedge wasn't listening.  He kept thinking this can't be happening.  He
was counting on meeting up with a surviving cell of the Rebellion
here.  He had allowed his hopes to get up, to start planning how he
could strike back at the Empire.  But once again, the Empire was one
step ahead, dashing his hopes.

"ROAT!" the Captain practically screamed, making Wedge jump.  "If you
make me repeat my order one more time I'm going to space you!"

Wedge's fingers laid in a course to steer the transport toward the
moon.  "Sorry, Cap'n.  That's just..." Wedge fought hard to swallow
the lump in his throat.  "...some sight."

"Not our lookout.  Let's head for the moon, and get our money."

Maybe there is another Rebel cell on the moon... there wasn't enough
time to try to put out feelers via email, but maybe... Maybe it was
time to ditch this ship, spend some time checking around the moon for
some contacts.  Wedge tried to brighten.  What the heck, it couldn't
hurt to try...

-- -- --

"Forget it, Chewie.  You are not coming."  

He got a challenging roar for a response.

"I most certainly can make you stay!  What are you going to do if I
lock you in the Falcon?  You can't over-ride my security command, and
you can't claw your way out.  This baby's made of metal and armor
plating, not tree-bark you know."

Chewie really got worked up then.

"Oh, you want to run around, a condemned slave, on some moon with the
Imps right next door torching it's planet and goose-stepping all over
the place?  Don't you think they are going to be swarming this place
any minute?"  Han demanded.  "Forget it, I don't care what you say,
you are not coming!  I WILL lock you in here!"

Fifteen minutes later, Han Solo and Chewbacca made their way down the
streets of Singlite, the space port located on Borandi's moon.

Chewie gave a good natured growl and shoved Han on the shoulder.

"All I know is anyone that has time to re-wire the Falcon's security
system has way too much time on their hands," Han muttered.

"Just try to keep a low profile, OK?  Don't do anything stupid that's
going to draw attention to yourself.  There ain't a lot of troopers
around here now, but that's going to be changing real quick."

The pair continued walking to their rendezvous point.

-- -- --

Wedge watched as his shipmates screwed around in the bar they had
decided to blow most of their extra pay in.  Some were hitting on the
women, some were hitting on the robotic wait staff, and some were
drunk enough not to tell the difference between the two.  Wedge was in
no position to judge, as he was busy throwing back drinks like no
tomorrow as well.  He couldn't help but feel depressed about the
recent turn of events.  He'd allowed himself to look forward to
meeting up with a Rebel cell and getting back into the fight.  The low
that came after the high was something even vast quantities of alcohol
couldn't touch.

Not only was disappointment weighing on him, the destruction of this
world was another demonstration of how cruel the Empire could be.  And
here he was, helpless to stop it.  Without others to work with, any
resistance he could offer would be in vain.

Of course it didn't help that the devastation made for an
uncomfortable reminder of Yavin.

Before he know it, the barkeep was making last call, and Wedge
stumbled up to the bar with his glass.  The barkeep started to fill
it, but Wedge waved him off and grabbed the entire bottle instead,
slapping a credit down on the bar large enough to cover the whole
evening's excess.  He headed for the door, along with most of the
other patrons.

Outside, he looked up the street, at the way back to the ship.  Then
he looked down the other direction, trailing off into darkness -- the
road of uncertainty.  Looking up, he could see the smoking remains of
Borandi. Areas of the planet still glowed from the vicious assault it
withstood.  No life would re-appear on that lifeless hulk for
hundreds, if not thousands of years.  Wedge noticed that many of the
Borandi natives on the moon were looking up at their former home. 
Some with sadness, some with fear, but many others with hatred. Wedge
recognized the burning look in their eyes, having seen it many times
in the past, often in the mirror.  They were the ones that would
eventually join up with the Rebellion, and fight.  That is if the
Rebellion ever recovered.

Most of the humans on the moon, including the majority of his fellow
crew, avoided looking up altogether.  They avoided looking at the
ruined world the way you avoid looking at a beggar, as an easy way to
sidestep the curious mix of guilt, pity, and revulsion the sight of
one tends to bring.  So easy to just ignore them and pretend they
aren't there.

Wedge felt himself pulled towards the shadows.  Just slip away, lay
low, try to observe some Imperial patterns.  One day, he'd make
contact with some of the Rebels that survived.  Even if none did, this
place would be ripe for recruiting.

"Whoa, Roat!" he heard as a hand grabbed him and turned him around. 
"You might want to put that bottle down for awhile.  Ship's this way!"
his crewmate jerked his thumb in the direction of the spaceport.

Wedge took one last look at uncertainty.  "Yeah, maybe I'm a little
more sauced than I thought."  He started to turn around, following
them all back to the ship.  But then a scream pierced the night air,
and fate made the decision for him.

Heads everywhere turned to find the source of the sound.  There -- in
dead end ally --  Wedge could make out about a half-dozen
Stormtroopers hassling a Borandian couple.  One of them grabbed at the
female, provoking the male to take a swing at the trooper.  The alley
lit up in a bright red flash, and the wolfen male went down.  The
woman screamed again, this time the scream becoming a howl.

Wedge started to feel the hair on the back of his neck rise, the
primal response a mirror of  his own thoughts.  He tried to keep cool,
to tell himself this isn't the time or place, but in the next few
seconds it became clear that hassling the poor girl wasn't the only
thing on  her white-clad assailants' minds.

No, this was too much.  He couldn't stop the Death Star from
destroying Yavin, he couldn't keep them from burning this planet, but
he could stop this.

One of the merchant freighters tried to grab Wedge and hold him back,
catching on to what his friend was planning.  "Whoa, whoa, Roat, you
don't want a piece of this, trust me--"

Wedge knocked him away and drew his pistol.  "I can't just walk away! 
If I don't do something to stop this, what kind of man am I?  What
kind of man are you?"  Wedge didn't wait for a response, but started
marching over to the alley.

As he closed to within 20 meters, a trooper raised his head from the
action unfolding before him, and noticed the angry young man
approaching him with a pistol out.  He was the first to die.

A shot to the head and upper chest later, and wedge was tracking on
the next target.  He had another down before they really knew what was
happening.  As two more of the troopers caught on and drew their
blasters, Wedge dropped one more.  The other with his gun drawn
started returning fire, prompting Wedge to drop to one knee, firing
off three more shots that went high, then hitting the dirt and rolling
left.  The incoming fire splashed the dirt around him, missing right. 
As he completed two rolls, he came to rest on his belly and squeezed
off two more shots, these right on target.  The trooper fell.

Wedge sprung up, closing the remaining ten meters fast.  The two
remaining troopers were in varying stages of undress.  One had his
belt around his ankles, and had tripped during the start of the
action.  He was squirming around, trying to crawl to his weapon. 
Wedge closed and kicked it away, firing a shot point blank into the
trooper's un-helmed head.

That left one, kneeling over a small pile of lower body armor,
struggling to free his  blaster from its holder.  The task was awkward
with the gun belt off his body, the length of the weapon and angle of
the holster conspiring to slow his efforts.  Too slow, in fact, as
Wedge simply pushed the trooper over with his foot, and then placed
his boot square on the Stormtrooper's chest.  The man looked up with
fear, Wedge looked down in contempt.  Not even worth wasting words on,
Wedge thought, and he unloaded two or three shots into the soldier's
chest.

No, Wedge corrected himself.   Not a soldier, just a thug.

Wedge took a look around, the anger and adrenaline subsiding just a
bit, letting him think about things briefly. As expected all of his
"buddies" had scattered at the first blaster bolt.   He saw the
canine-looking woman, attractive in her way, but  -- DAMN! Wedge felt
dirty at the automatic thought, and dismissed it.  She was wide eyed
and catatonic, clearly traumatized by the preceding 15 seconds.  Wedge
heard some muffled voices, and realized it was coming from one of the
trooper's helmets.  He picked it up, turning it over, so he could
clearly hear what was being said.

"HL-452!  We're coming to your position.  Try to hold out a bit
longer.  HL-452!  Are you there?!" the voice said.  The Stormtroopers
got off a message to their HQ before Wedge had a chance to send them
off to become one with the Force.

He really hadn't thought this thing through.  Wedge scanned the ally,
and found that it wasn't quite a dead end.  A door led into a large
warehouse-type building.  Pointing his pistol at the lock, he blasted
it, then kicked the door in.  And just like that, Wedge was on the run
again.

-- -- --

Chewie ruffed a few words of relief to Han.  They were within 300
yards of the Falcon.

"Me too, pal," Han agreed.  "But the patrols are starting to get heavy
around here.  Lets pick up the pace a bit."  The transfer of funds and
cargo had gone smoothly enough.  Han could now collect his fee from
Jabba.  That meant Chewie and him would be pretty far ahead of the
game.  Combine this payoff with the money he got for that business
with the Death Star, and...

No.  He wasn't going to allow that train of thought.  The burnt ember
they were currently orbiting made that hard to do.  Things were
starting to get better for them.  Just need to get out of here.  Maybe
stop by Kashyyyk.  That would make Chewie happy.  How long had it been
since they'd seen Malla?  Yeah, that might be just the--

"Stop right there!" a voice commanded.

Ice water suddenly ran down Han's spine.  He turned slowly, to be
confronted by a stern faced Imperial officer and four Stormtroopers.

"Hey," Han began, trying to be smooth, "We're just on our way back to
our ship, you know, and--"

"What is your business here?" The Imp asked, eyeing Chewbacca
cautiously.

"Dropping off some supplies, for the troops."  Han managed a smile. 
"Anything for the Emperor."

"It's so nice to see such loyalty," was the sarcastic reply.  "The
exorbitant fees the Empire is paying has nothing to do with it, I'm
sure.  I must say it has been a long time since I've seen a Wookie off
Kashyyyk.  One that wasn't on a slaveship, anyway."  The officer
motioned to the 'troopers, who drew their weapons and deployed around
Han and Chewie.  "And this one isn't giving off a locator signal. 
Provision three of the Alien Identification Act states that any alien
in Imperial space must have a locator, or if theirs is not
functioning, submit a biological sample for identification upon
request."

"But, this isn't Imperial space... we were just--"

"Maybe you haven't looked around and taken noticed but this is very
much Imperial space now."  The officer summoned up as much menace as
he could against the seven foot Wookie as he ordered Han, "Tell your
Wookie to put his arm out. We're going to ID him."

Another Stormtrooper advanced on Chewbacca, with a little box in his
hand. Han knew it was a bioscanner, that could cross reference
Chewie's records back on Imperial City, and then the gig would be up. 
Chewie knew it too.

"NO!" Han started to yell as he started to go for his blaster.  Han
was quick, but the trooper behind him saw it coming, and was already
on his way to connect Han's head with his rifle butt.  The blow
brought him to his knees. His hand went limp and his trusty blaster
pistol clattered away.

Chewbacca had already thrown the nearest trooper 15 feet in a random
direction.  The trooper hadn't even hit ground before the one with the
bioscanner had it knocked from his hands.  Two huge Wookie paws lifted
him bodily in the air.

All in all, a good effort.  But with Han down, he didn't have a
chance.

A blaster bolt hit Chewbacca in the back, freezing him in place.  Then
another.  He dropped the trooper he held over his head, and slowly
turned.

A final bolt burned into his chest, sending the big Wookie down.  Han
knew he had let Chewie down for the last time.  "Chewie..." Han moaned
in pain.

Stunned, Han felt a boot to his neck as the trooper that had smashed
his head pushed him to the ground.  The only remaining trooper that
wasn't occupied with Han or recovering from a Wookie attack helped his
nearest squad mate to his feet.

Han could see, even with his face to the ground, the Imperial officer
walk over to the bioscanner and pick it up.  He then knelt by Chewie
and jabbed the business end into the motionless form.  "Let's see what
this hairball was afraid of, shall we?"

"Oh, this is simply too much.  Freed by an Imperial Officer," the
Officer glanced down at Han.  "Wait, don't tell me -- you are the
idiot mentioned in this report."  The officer quickly leaned bent down
and jabbed Han with the 'scanner.

"You ARE the idiot!"  The officer had a good laugh at that, and one of
the Stormtroopers that Chewie had throw kicked Han savagely in the
side.  "Just what were you thinking, sticking your neck out for this
smelly dim-witted tree-swinger?"  The Imperials tone, which had
started off mocking, turned serious.  "Stand him up."

The troopers grabbed Han and lifted him underneath the armpits.  Han's
head felt like it was going to be torn in two, the pain was so
intense.  He almost couldn't bring himself to do it, but he knew he
had to.  He looked over at Chewbacca.  To his shock, he noticed his
friend was still breathing, though barely.  The legendary Wookie
resilience on display once more.

"Chewie..." Han again managed to force out.

The officer, following Han's gaze, looked down at the Wookie.  "Ah
yes, he's still alive."  The officer stepped right up to Han's face. 
"I guess you and your disgusting boyfriend can spend the rest of your
lives together in an Imperial prison."

Han looked at the man, bitterness fighting rage for control of his
emotions.  Rage won out, as Han spat right into the officers face. 
Chewie would like that, Han thought.

The Imperial furiously pulled his sidearm, and -- after wiping off his
face -- shot Chewbacca.  Twice in the chest and finally a single shot
in the head.  There was no question that his friend was dead now. 
Before that fact registered, the officer slammed his fist into Han's
stomach, forcing the smuggler to sag to his knees.  He pulled Han's
face up level to his.

"I've got a better idea then prison.  Frankly, you are not worth the
effort it would take to file an official report and haul off. First,
we will teach our fallen comrade some manners."  The troopers moved
into to administer a beating.  "But make sure he lives through the
experience."  He directed his next words right to Han.  "Because I'm
leaving you here broken and battered like the worthless piece of meat
that you are.  I want you to remember this day for the rest of your
life, and regret every moment of it."  With that, he punched Han
straight in the face.  "Consider this payment for your 'services' to
the Empire."


That was the last thing Han heard.

-- -- -- 

Wedge made it out of the warehouse, running through the wide
loading/unloading door just as Stormtroopers started trickling through
the rear entrance.  Bolts of fire chased him through the door and into
the night.  Wedge sprinted for the nearest road, throwing himself
against a door frame for cover, as he frantically looked up and down
the street, trying to get his bearings.  He had to get to the
spaceport... find a way to get out of here, and fast.  Wedge ran up
the street, made a quick right, ran down that street, and cut left.

It seemed he'd lost the troopers, at least briefly.  "Sith!" he spat,
as he saw some patrol craft start to take to the air, search lights
sweeping the city.  Searching for a way out, he noticed a short alley
just down the street that looked like it would empty out into the
outlaying areas of the spaceport.

Wedge ran faster than he'd ever moved in his life, and was rewarded to
find that he had Wedge arrived at the first docking bay in the
spaceport.  Even better, the door was open, and spied a run down tramp
freighter housed within.  Getting closer he noticed there was a
ran-down smuggler to go with the ship itself.  Perfect.

The man was struggling to get a bulky bag up the gangplank, and was
moving pretty stiffly.  Almost like he was drunk, or maybe injured. 
Quickly, Wedge put a plan together.  Ok, go up, wave your blaster
around, jack the freighter, get off this rock, and impress upon the
captain of the vessel the importance of getting Wedge out of this
system.  Once that was done, he could think take time to come up with
a more detailed plan.

Wedge started walking up to the guy, trying to be nonchalant.  "Excuse
me!"  he shouted.

"Kriff off!"  was the reply.

"No really, I need to talk to you."  Wedge walked up to the man, who
still had his back turned to him, and pointed his blaster right at his
head.  Wedge worked the power re-cycling action with this thumb,
making the unmistakable whine of a high energy weapon at the ready. 
"Turn around, NOW!"

The guy gently laid down the bag, and slowly stood up.  "Hands on your
head, and no sudden moves, and you won't get hurt."  Wedge almost got
that last part out.

The man, who just seconds ago looked bent, old, and broken down, had
the fastest draw Wedge had ever seen.  The man's head weaved out of
Wedge's aim momentarily, and then before he knew it, a DL-44 blaster's
business end was pointed directly at his left eye socket.

"No sudden moves huh?"  The pilot hissed.  "Sorry about that one. 
What the hell is your problem?"

Wedge wasn't backing down.  "Nice draw, but you still haven't got
yourself out of anything.  I need a ship, and I've got nothing to
lose, so you're going to--"

"You think you're taking my ship?  You picked the wrong day to try
jacking me, because I've got nothing to lose either."

Wedge froze.  He remembered that voice.  Squinting, he realized he
recognized that face.  Even though it was swollen and bruised, he
could tell right away.  This was the smuggler that farm boy Luke
Skywalker had brought to Yavin.  "You bastard!"

"What?  You're the one hijacking ships, banthboy."

"You-- you were at Yavin!  You left us there to DIE!"  Wedge inched
closer to Han, bringing the barrel of his pistol almost in contact
with Han's head.  "You just took your money and you ran."

Realization was dawning on Han.  "I..." he began.

"You KNEW we needed every pilot we could get.  You knew what we were
up against!  You COWARD!"

"SHUT UP!" Han practically screamed.  "You don't know a THING about
me!  You don't know what I've been through, and the price I'VE PAID. 
So just shut up!"

" You want me to feel sorry for YOU?  Everyone I knew or cared about
DIED that day.  The last hope for freedom in the whole galaxy died
that day!"  Wedge was shaking as he continued, "And you want my PITY?"

"I LOST EVERYONE WHO I CARED ABOUT TOO!" 

"How? Contemplating suicide?  Go ahead, and do us both a favor."

Han threw his pistol to the ground, and dropped to his knees.  Before
Wedge could react, Han grabbed the bag and threw open its flap.

"That's--"

"My friend.  The only one I've got.  It was a helluva lot easier for
me to lose everyone than you, pal, but that's what's happened."  Han
sat there silent for a moment, looking at the Wookie and realizing the
truth of his words.

Wedge could see Han was trying to maintain a facade of anger and
indignation, but he could tell from his voice that he was close to
losing it.  "You know why he died?  Because he wanted to PROTECT me.
He's always trying to help me."  Han choked off a sob.  "Wanted to
help you too, back at Yavin."

Wedge looked at the broken man, and felt a flash of pity, starting to
understand a small part of what Han had been through.  Wedge had lost
far more.  Thousands of friends.  He could see their faces when he
closed his eyes most nights.  He'd lost the entire Rebellion in one
fell swoop, that he had dedicated his life to serving and fighting
for.  Wedge had indeed lost nearly everything except hope. Wedge
doubted the man kneeling before him had that much left.  Han looked up
and confirmed that thought, as he spoke very quietly.

"Go ahead and pull the trigger.  You know how hard it's been living
with Yavin on my conscience?  Knowing that I could have made a
difference, but didn't?  I haven't slept.  Couldn't sleep if I tried. 
Nothing takes my mind off of it, not for long.  Everything I've tried
just made it worse."  Han bowed his head again.  "You're right, do us
both a favor.  Pull it."

Wedge thought a moment.  He couldn't help it, he was still furious
with Han.  But still...

"No," Wedge said, lowering his gun.   "Actually, you'd be surprised. 
I know exactly what it feels like to think that what happened with
that Death Star is all your fault.  The question you have to ask
yourself, the question I ask myself everyday, is what are you going to
do about it?  What are you going to do to make it up to yourself, and
to your friends you've let down." Wedge extended his hand to the man. 
"I need off this planet, and so do you.  Then we can talk about what
we can do about making a difference."

Han looked back up, and took the offered hand.  He started to speak,
when a blaster bolt slammed into the bulkhead just behind him.

"Sith!" Wedge realized, "They finally tracked me down!"

Han dashed up, and rolled for his blaster.  Wedge was already picking
off the troopers storming into the hanger, and Han soon joined him.

"Quick, we can't leave Chewie behind.  Cover me!"  Han, newly
revitalized, grabbed the bag containing the lifeless Wookie and heaved
it up the rest of the gangplank.  Wedge, snapping off shots all the
way, was hot on his heels.

They sealed the hatch and ran to the cockpit.  Wedge looked out into
the Hanger to find a literal sea of Stormtroopers rushing the area.  A
few were packing PLX-2M missile launchers.

"I've already got a jump pre-calculated.  I've found over the years
its better to be safe than sorry, especially when I have a good idea
of where I'm going next."  Han worked a control panel as Wedge
strapped himself into the co-pilot seat.  A gun dropped out of the
belly of the freighter.  It started spewing death at the troopers
carrying the more formidable weaponry as Han quickly prepped for
flight.

"You think we'll make it out of here?" Wedge asked, doubtful.

"Just you wait," Han promised.  "This baby is full of surprises."



Past Imperfect Chapter Eight

Darth Vader was not pleased.

"If these men were not dead, I would kill them myself." Vader
proclaimed, surveying the scene.  Six stormtroopers were dead, a few
of them... out of uniform.  Vader was trying to bring justice to this
Force-forsaken part of the Galaxy.  Yet his men were engaging in sex
crimes, and for no purpose.  Vader's hands were not exactly clean when
it came to hurting, even torturing women.  Even human women, but only
when necessary to achieve a greater goal.  He did not enjoy it.  

"Yes, Lord Vader," a terrified commander agreed.

The Dark Lord turned on him, "They are the animals, not us!  Make it
clear to your men -- and all Imperial ground forces -- that anyone
found raping and pillaging will answer to me.  The Emperor's men will
be better than this, or they will die,   by my own hand if need be."

"I will make sure that is understood."

"Good," Vader said.  "Next, I want..." 

He felt something.  Very faint, almost imperceptible, even to one as
attuned to such tremors in the Force as he.  It was a very familiar
presence. One that he had felt recently.  Very recently.  No, it
couldn't be.  He had killed that one himself.  His head swiveled
around as he scanned the small landing pad he'd sat down on.

"Sir?" the Commander asked, puzzled as to why the Sith had trailed
off.

"Silence!" Vader hissed.  But it was too late. The feeling was gone,
just like that. Perhaps it was a ghost echo of the Force, but now
Vader would never know.  Enraged, he turned to the Imperial and
reached out with his hand.  The Commander grabbed at his throat, and
slowly started to lift off the ground.

"It is unfortunate that you distracted me.  I am most dis--" 

Without even thinking, Vader whirled around and dove to the ground.
Simultaneously, the Imperial in his Grip fell back on the permacrete.
He didn't even have a microsecond to reflect on his life being spared,
as a bolt of energy hit his chest and partially disintegrated him.
With a snap-hiss Vader ignited his lightsabre. Holding the sabre at
the ready, he warily side stepped and reaching out with the Force.

He felt nothing.  His reflexes and precognition had saved him, barely,
but he didn't detect any malice or aggression directed at him in the
surrounding.  Very strange.

-- -- --

Nearly three kilometers away, a lone figure surveyed the action
through a high-resolution sniper scope.  She didn't really expect him
to die, but she had to try anyway. She literally had nothing better to
do.

She knew that outright physical confrontation with the Sithlord would
be suicide.  Apparently long-range engagements were futile as well.
So what did that leave?  Poison? Sabotage?  No telling if either would
have the desired effect.  Force-users were such difficult targets. 

Peering through the scope again, she saw her target motioning to his
troops.  No doubt telling them to fan out and attempt to find the
source of the attacks.

Just for confirmation, she decided to take aim and squeeze the trigger
again.  Putting the crosshair just above and to the left of that
glowing chest panel, she took the shot. Predictably, Vader deflected,
and now her position was clearly revealed. At least a dozen
stormtroopers' heads swiveled to look in her direction.   It never
occurred to her to sigh with resignation, or frustration.
Nevertheless, it was time to pack up and get moving.

Working quickly, She broke the weapon down to small pieces that fit
into a very compact case.  Stripping off her outer black suit, she
threw it on the ground and hit a button on her wrist-mounted computer.
This activated a chemical reaction in the fabric, and the discarded
outfit flashed into a fine dust, which blew away.  Less than ten
seconds after she took the last shot, she was moving out of the target
zone and to her ship.  She was fast, and she was good, and she was
confident that she would elude her pursuers.

Underneath her black garb, she had worn a simple, though fashionable,
outfit.  The case containing her weapon fit under her tunic, but she
was unlikely to be searched or detained anyway, as her ship was very
nearby.  If she was, she could handle herself, because she was
programmed by the very best to do just that.

-- -- --

Wedge couldn't get away from his attackers.  The black robed fiends
kept coming.  They had him cornered, and as one, they drew lightsabres
and advanced on him.  Desperately seeking a way out, he looked to his
side, and found that Han was there with him.  Both were helpless.

But someone fell out of the sky in front of them.  Wedge watched,
amazed as lightning shot from the newcomer's head and leapt to Wedge's
attackers.  The bolts traveled from skull to skull, bringing the evil
ones to their knees as the screamed in pain.

I told you that you would find help.  You've identified the first of
your allies, but there are many others.  They will look to you to
unite them, and much will depend on you.  

"Who are you?" 

You will have to overcome your own mistrust and suspicions, and it
won't be easy for you.  But you must see your course through.  You
will be the one who sets things right.

"Who are you?" Wedge again demanded.

Just a friend.  Remember, trust your feelings.

Wedge woke with a start.  He was onboard Han's ship, the Falcon, lying
on one of the crash couches back in the main hold.

These crazy dreams.  They didn't occur all that often, but when the
did, they were very intense.  

Wedge decided to head up to the cockpit, and check on their progress.
Han sat at the controls, monitoring the indicators and occasionally
flipping a switch or turning a dial, making some minor corrections.

So far, Wedge and Han didn't speak much.  There was still a lot of
awkwardness between them.  Wedge still had his hostility to overcome,
and Han had his shame and guilt, which he was never very good at
dealing with.  

But Wedge felt that Han had changed in one important aspect.  The
Empire had pushed him past the breaking point.  He would do anything
to get back at them.  And that, more than anything else, allowed Wedge
to trust Han not to abandon or betray him.  Han was now committed, and
he knew Wedge had the knowledge and tools they needed to fight the
Empire.  Wedge was just about to give a demonstration of this fact.

"We're getting close to the coordinates you gave.  We're pretty far
off the beaten path here, ya know.  No planets or outposts for
light-years around."

"That's the point.  You'll see soon enough."

"Sooner than you think.  Preparing to drop out of hyper space... now."

Han pulled back on the hyperspace actuators, and the Falcon snapped
back to realspace.

"Ok, what are we looking for?"

Wedge slid into the copilots seat beside Han and called up the sensor
suite.  He pointed to the screen and indicated a spot in the middle of
the void. "Right there."

Han steered the ship over and accelerated.  In a few minutes he could
just make out a steadily growing speck.  It soon resolved itself into
a little triangular-like structure.  Closer still, it looked more like
a "Y", with a hexagonal shape at the end of each arm, and a fat bulb
in the middle.

"The Alliance has, or had, hundreds of these facilities, scattered all
over deep space.  Maybe even thousands." Wedge explained.  "They each
contain 2 or 3 X-wings, some provisions, housing space,
communications, spare parts and weapons for the ships... everything
you'd need to raise a little hell in the Empire."

"Sounds like it."

"The idea was you'd launch a few hit and run attacks from a base, and
when the Empire would inevitably track you down, you bug out and leave
them an empty base."

"But come on, three X-Wings?"

"You're not thinking like a Rebel," Wedge began.  Even though Han had
been around the block at least a couple of times, when it came to this
subject, Wedge was the teacher and Han the student.  "Its not like we
launched raids against Star Destroyers, not even frigates much.  We
hit the Empire where they weren't.  Hit supply ships.  Lightly
defended bases.  It was a win/win for us, as it forced the Empire to
commit ships everywhere or risk losing valuable assets, and when they
didn't, we bloodied them."

"Damned of a way to fight a war," Han said, ever the skeptic.  

"Yeah, well, anything else is suicide, and it works.  Now that you're
part of an army of two, you'll have to get used to it."

Han could tell Wedge was getting irritated with Han's negativity, so
he steered the discussion back to the topic at hand.  "So how'd you
know about this one, anyway?"

Wedge tapped his head.  "Every rebel pilot that is in the chain of
command has the locations of at least a hundred of these babies
hypnotically implanted into him.  The way the implantation process
works is that I can only recall one at a time.  If this one had been
destroyed, I'd have experienced a new memory of the next location.
Kind of like when you forget where your keycard is and all of a sudden
BAM! you remember?  That's what it feels like.  Anyway, this method
makes it awfully hard to compromise us via the usual means."  By this
of course he meant torture.  "The empire is always working on ways to
fool captured rebels' subconscious into thinking bases were
neutralized, so they could extract the next location, and repeat the
process... If these locations were known the Empire could take them
down in a hurry."

"The Rebellion was a lot more sophisticated than I'd give them credit
for."

"Yeah, we aren't quite the idiots that Imperial Broadcasts tried to
make us out to be."

"Still, can't the Imps just sweep everywhere, find them all that way?"

"There is a heck of a lot of space in the galaxy.  Plus, the stations
are designed to resist detection when powered down, and where possible
we try to use 'natural cover' like black holes, nebula, anything to
hinder a scan."

They were right on top of the installation in question.  Han
maneuvered the Falcon under the small station, aligning the ship's top
access hatch with the airlock tube descending from the central bulb of
the facility.  He heard the tube magnetically clamp down on his hatch
with a loud clang.

"Like I said, these things are pretty hard to find.  We should be safe
staying here to rest up a bit and make plans."

They made their way to the hatch and climbed up it.  "I don't get it,"
Han said.  "Why haven't you made your way out to one of these babies
before?"

"How could I? I didn't have any money for my own ship, and I couldn't
very well lead a whole freighter crew out here.  Besides, one man in
an x-wing does not a rebellion make."

"But an 'army of two' does?"

Wedge smiled.  "Its a good start."

Wedge opened the outer hatch on the station, and pulled himself
inside.  It smelled musty and stale, and was very cold.

"We need to get the environmental and power systems out of standby.
We'll have to be careful to keep her as low powered as possible, so we
can avoid detection."

"Hey, don't get too carried away setting this thing up.  We've got
other business to attend to that can't wait."

Wedge nodded. "Right, I haven't forgotten.  We'll just check to make
sure things here are alright, and then we'll get moving."  Han still
hadn't made final arrangements for his friend.  He planned on taking
him back home to Kashyyyk.  That was a dangerous plan, but Wedge
respected Han's sense of loyalty in the matter.

"Good."  Han was dreading the trip, both for the finality of it all,
and having to explain things to Malla.  How to even begin?  But he
owed it to his friend, and if it meant putting his life on the line,
so be it.  Han wandered around the room, absently looking at the
different gauges and readouts.  "You think there are others like you
finding these things and powering them up?"

"Maybe," Wedge allowed.  He was flipping a few switches, Han noted
that he was apparently satisfied with the results he was getting.
"When we get things up and running, I'll try sending out some feelers
and see what turns up."

"You might be surprised."

"I don't know.  A lot of the high-ranking pilots and officers were at
Yavin.  I'm sure some of the local cells are still active, but we
don't have good ways to get in touch with them and network."

"That compartmentalization again?"

"Yeah.  You can't crack under pressure and betray those up stream and
reveal overall Rebel strategy if you don't know it.  But that policy
is coming back to bite us now."  Wedge blew out some breath in
frustration.  "We planned for almost everything, but such a
decapitation was something no one really thought possible."  His hand
went to the back of his neck, squeezing it to loosen up his muscles.
"Its a long road ahead."

Han nodded.  "I just hope we're heading in the right direction."

-- -- --

"That's odd," the technician said.

He'd been impressed with the power and sophistication of the sensor
gear the Executor employed ever since he was assigned to the ship. It
was easily the match of any planetary-based installation, and rivaled
the power and sensitivity of the deep space sensor arrays scattered
along the outer rims of the galaxy.  

"What's that?" another asked, bored.  The Borandi operation was in
cleanup, and they were preparing the next phase of their assault.
Somewhere in this ship pilots and ground pounders, admirals and
generals were planning and training for the next hit.

"I don't know.  Some sort of gravity based...  thing."

"What?"

"Its some local disturbance in space 7 light years from here, and its
gravitational in nature."

"So, its some sort of... localized gravitic disturbance in the fabric
of space-time?" the tech asked, testing the words in his mouth.

"Good as description as any, I guess." the first tech shrugged.
"Anyway, I don't think its logged in the database.  It could be a new
manifestation."

That was unusual.  Most anomalies big enough to be noticed at all had
been cataloged for millennia.  "Ah, probably just a wormhole."

"Yeah, that's what I initially thought, but look at these readings."

"Whoa!  That's different!"

"Yeah, not so subtly either."

"So, we inform the watch officer?"

"Definitely."

-- -- --

She had lifted off the planet hours before, and was safely in
hyperspace.  Before her attempt to kill Vader, she hadn't totally
believed in the paranormal abilities supposedly granted him by a
mystical force.  But there seemed to be no rational explanation for
the way he had avoided death.  That was good enough evidence for her.

Her mandate included killing both Vader and Palpatine.  She went after
Vader first, figuring he'd be the easier target to get to.  Upon
learning that Vader was going to be aboard the Executor at war, she
thought she had suffered a setback.  She had thought he'd be
practically untouchable on board that monstrosity.  But still, she
gambled he'd be more accessible than the Emperor.  She was right.  He
had surprised her by personally taking command of the ground situation
on Borandi, which gave her the opening.

But the opening had not been enough.  It should have been, but it
wasn't.

Her late master believed in this Force, and believed that Vader and
the Emperor could supposedly wield it to great effect.  He also
believed it had its limits.  Surely Vader could not go so far as read
minds, or Xizor would have been executed long before.  Perhaps the
Emperor could.

She wasn't sure.  She needed information.  Information on the Force
was hard to come by these days, but her programming demanded she get
it.  So she would.

-- -- --

Vader sat in his meditation chamber.  It was thoughtful of his master
to have this constructed in his quarters.  A place he could delve into
the Force without the distraction of his armor and life support
devices that controlled and regulated most of his human functions.  In
here, though, he could breathe and function as the complete man he
once was.

And he had much to think about.  The encounter on Borandi, while
puzzling, was merely an annoyance.  He could not feel the presence of
his attacker, which told him that the assailant was a droid.  It was
the only possibility, since an sentient being would have betrayed its
hostile intentions.  Vader refused to believe that anyone could so
thoroughly block the force.  A droid then, definitely.

War droids were tightly regulated, and it was doubtful any of the
Borandi had access to them.  They had the motive, but not the means.
Aside from the Imperial Army, Intelligence, or certain high profile
criminal organizations, no one had access to them.

Vader considered the possibility of a homemade job.  Vader had the
technical skills to pull it off, but it was a little known fact that
the Sithlord was a genius when it came to engineering and technology.
The skill and expense required to create an assasinbot was out of
reach for most of the galaxy's inhabitants.  Someone in the military
or an upper echelon criminal outfit then.  

Vader had his share of enemies.  Any of the surviving members of the
rebellion would leap at the chance to kill him.  But there was no way
the riff-raff could pull off an automated assassin, especially since
their deathblow at Yavin.

Within the Empire many feared him, but Vader would have easily picked
up on the treachery of anyone with enough power and authority to have
the gall to try something like this.  The Emperor himself?  If the
Emperor suspected that he'd taken an apprentice... well, Vader would
be in serious danger.  But this wasn't Palpatine's style.  He'd simply
recall him back to Coruscant and do it himself. Strong as Vader was,
he wasn't remotely powerful enough to oppose the Emperor alone.  Not
yet, anyway.  The point was if the Emperor wanted him dead, he would
be dead, and there was precious little he could do to prevent it.  It
wasn't worth considering as a possibility.

So that left the criminal elements.  Black Sun?  Vader couldn't allow
himself to believe that.  Killing Xizor didn't cripple them one bit,
and his successor was probably grateful to the Emperor for killing
him.

Surely not the Hutts, whose pride and arrogance made them think they
were too important in the grand scheme of things for the Empire to
ever turn against them.

Very puzzling, indeed.

A blinking red light in his chamber brought Vader out of his
contemplations.  After Vader had executed the first three officers who
interrupted his meditations, he didn't think he'd ever be disturbed
again.  It went without saying that any interruption had better be
important.

Vader toggled a switch that begun the depressurization process.  The
two halves of the chamber split open slowly with a hiss, and the chair
Vader sat upon rotated around, even as his Helmet was placed upon his
head by a robotic arm.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Astrogation has detected something unusual in a nearby system.  It is
something we haven't quite ever seen before."

This wasn't starting off well.  "And?"

"Its a worm hole, your lordship, but the strength is something that is
qui--urk..." the Lieutenant was suddenly struggling for breath.

"You interrupted me to report on astronomic trivia?  Wormholes haven't
been interesting, let alone useful since the days of Xim the Despot."

"Power... might... extra.... galactic..." the hapless Imperial tried
justifying the interruption.

Extra galactic?  The mention of this resonated with Vader.  Something
in the force was telling him this might be important.  Important
enough to release the Lieutenant to finish his report.  The officer
fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

"Tell me more about this, quickly.  Before I change my mind."

The Imperial, still red faced and gasping, nevertheless finished his
report in double time.

"Very well.  You did the right thing in coming to me.  I will see to
it that you are rewarded."

The shaken officer got off his hands and knees and finally managed to
stand.  He was happy to escape with his life, never mind the reward.
He stood at attention.

"Dismissed," said Vader, waving the officer away.  Turning around, he
activated a view screen that patched him into his bridge.  "Admiral
Pedigo.  The watch officer has reported an unusual space disturbance
in nearby space.  Are our assets secured from the Borandi operation?"

"Of course, Lord Vader.  We are finalizing our next target now.  I was
just about to brief you on--"

"I want to investigate this finding.  Change course to bring us within
close proximity.  No one besides your command crew is to know anything
of this.  Do you understand?"

Pedigo was once again puzzled, but he was no fool.  "Of course, my
lord."

"Good.  Do not fail me in this, Admiral.  Notify me before we make the
jump.  I want to be on the bridge when we arrive."

-- -- --

Corbin sat once again in the darkness of his room, meditating.  Before
him were several small black weights, polished until they resembled
black glass.  They were also impossibly heavy.  Corbin had been unable
to lift so much as one of them with his physical body, no matter how
he strained.  Yet he could still remember the day Vader carried them
effortlessly into his room.   They were some sort of Sith exercise
equipment.  Vader expected him to be lifting them with ease in short
order.  As Vader had said, size -- and weight -- mattered not to the
Force.  

Vader had excused him from the pre-invasion planning, in fact, he had
been excused from all combat operations until further notice.  Solaris
had nothing to do except increase his mastery of the Force.

Vader wanted him to learn control.  He was surprisingly sympathetic to
Corbin's feelings after the... incident.  The Sithlord had dropped
none too subtle hints that the reason he was trapped in his life
preserving armor was because he was too young and impetuous to control
himself at critical times during the Jedi insurrection.  Corbin
figured himself lucky that so far he had escaped with scars only to
his psyche.

Vader was a contradiction.  He was on the one hand brutal and cruel,
but to Corbin he was just and merciful.  And everything he did, no
matter how evil, always seemed to be for the good.  He killed inept
officers, but how many enlisted men did he save by culling the herd?
He laid waste to entire planets, but all in the name of protecting
humanity.  He called on the powers of anger and hate, but...

He always seemed to make sense of the contradictions.  But why was
Vader taking so much interest in me?  Vader had to be using him.  But
why?  What could he possibly offer him?  Vader had more power, both
material and otherwise, than Solaris could possibly ever obtain.  Yet,
he'd taken him under his wing.  For what purpose?

All good questions.  But now he had to clear his mind.  Perhaps the
force would help him answer them.  With concentration, the weights
slowly started to rise off the floor, stacking one upon the other...