DARK FORCES

　Jan entered the lock with a Mon Calamari pilot and a pair of maintenance droids. None felt the need to communicate, and they passed the time by watching the status board. The wait was relatively short, thanks to the fact that the hangar deck was pressurized.
　A tone warbled its way from sub- to ultrasonic, an indicator light glowed green, and for those equipped to see it, an infrared blob appeared as well.
　The hatch opened and everyone stepped out. In spite of the fact that Jan enjoyed the often awe-inspiring views available from the Star's many observation ports, the hangar deck was her favorite part of the ship. Not the hangar bay itself, but the endlessly fascinating ships parked therein.
　Most were relatively small and belonged to passengers who preferred the liner's comfort to a long, monotonous trip aboard their own ships. That being the case, the Rebel agent saw all manner of vessels, including a work-worn lighter, a converted pinnace, numerous shuttles, and a barge equipped for long-distance cruising.
　It was a joy to walk among them, to touch atmosphere-scorched metal, inhale the smell of ozone, and exchange greetings with sentients who, like herself, enjoyed the kinesthetic feedback received while turning, pulling, bending, welding, connecting, bolting, and snapping parts into place.
　Jan knew that her enjoyment of such things, like her ability to dance, was a gift from her parents. And while others might see them as two separate talents, she knew they stemmed from the same impulse, a need to translate thoughts to motion. All of which had something to do with the fact that the agent had little to no interest in stationary machines.
　Jan passed under a blunt-nosed bow, took note of a badly bent landing skid, and stopped in front of the aptly named Truly Sorry. Once classified as a speedster, the ship had outlived that description and was anything but fast. Beggars can't be choosers, however, not if they work for the credit-strapped Alliance, and the Sorry had been assigned to her. Until this mission was completed, that is. Then Jan would lobby for something better. Assuming the miserable pile of junk didn't kill her in the meantime.
　Jan punched a string of numbers into the key pad located next to the belly hatch, winced as the badly worn actuator stuttered, and waited for the ramp to touch the lubricant-stained deck.
　Her tools, the best money could buy, were stored in a high-quality self-propelled box located in the ship's tiny cargo compartment. She whistled, waited for the storage unit to trundle down the ramp, and thumbed the print lock. The lid whirred open, a tier of drawers popped free, and a power cable slithered toward an outlet.
　The first and potentially most dangerous maintenance problem lay in the ship's hyperspace motivator, which had a tendency to produce false propulsion readings. That was a serious malady in light of the fact that the formula used to calculate hyperspace jumps required precise information regarding the ship's speed.
　To access the motivator and run the necessary checks, Jan would have to free a belly plate, disconnect the wiring harness, and remove the lower half of the motivator housing. It was a long and not very stimulating job.
　More than two hours passed before Jan backed the last bolt out of the motivator housing and heard it clatter on the deck. The agent realized her mistake the moment the casing dropped into her hands. The Sorry's ancient metal-heavy housing weighed in excess of a hundred kilos. She should have used a hydraulic floor jack or, failing that, summoned a maintenance droid. The unit sagged, she struggled to support it, and wondered what to do.
　She could holler for help. But it was unlikely that anyone would hear over the chatter of power tools and the beep, beep, beep of passing auto carts. Or, and this seemed more likely, she could jump out of the way and allow the housing to hit the deck.
　Chances were that everything would be fine. But what if the casing developed a hair-thin crack? Or took a dent she couldn't pound out? The odds of finding a replacement aboard the Star were not good. All because she hadn't asked for help, a tendency her mother had first noticed when she was four years old.
　The voice startled her. "That looks heavy. Can I lend a hand?"
　Unable to speak, and shaking from the strain, Jan nodded her head. At least half the weight seemed to disappear as Kyle Katarn added his strength to the effart and they lowered the casing to the floor. "Should have used a floor jack, or called for a maintenance droid," he said maddeningly. "You could have hurt yourself."
　Jan bit off the retort that threatened to launch itself from her lips. "Yeah - good thing you stopped by."
　Kyle nodded absently. "Nice set of tools you have there. Must have cost a bundle. Need any help?" He looked hopeful and a little bit lost.
　Jan wanted to say "No," wanted to chase Kyle away, but took pity on him instead. "Sure. Let's see if the Academy taught you anything useful. I'll work on the wiring harness - you tackle the diagnostics."
　Kyle nodded. "Mind if I use your tools?"
　"No, but thanks for asking."
　The following hour passed in companionable silence. Though busy with her own tasks, Jan watched Kyle out of the corner of her eye. She was impressed by his knowledge and the surety of his hands. He knew his way around a hyperdrive and treated her tools with respect. Finally, after wiping his hands on an oily rag, Kyle delivered his diagnosis. "The sensor package is shot - and the power breaker needs adjusting."
　Jan had arrived at the same conclusion. "Good, especially in light of the fact that the sensor package is one of the few things we have a replacement for. Back in a minute."
　Jan was halfwray to the ramp when Kyle spoke. "Jan..."
　"Yeah?"
　"I want to join. I want to do the kind of work you do."
　She looked at him, saw the commitment in his eyes, and nodded. "I don't have the authority to recruit agents, Kyle. But I know the people who do. We're scheduled to part company with the Star two days from now, assuming our repairs hold. You're welcome to come along."
　Kyle nodded solemnly. "Count me in."
　"Good," Jan said. "Help boost that motivator housing into place, and you fly first class."
　Kyle laughed.
　Neither noticed the tiny caterpillarlike microdroid that crawled along the top surface of a support strut, or heard the high-frequency transmission it sent.
　The cabin was almost dark and more than half filled with trophies, including an assassin droid's head, a con woman's four-barreled hold-out blaster, a spy's bionic arm, a bank robber's satchel, and much, much more.
　Each trophy was precious to the cabin's sole occupant, and would occupy special niches in the home he would excavate one day. But that was then - and this was now. His name was Slyder, and he listened to the Rebels with the same attention a banker lavishes on her head accountant. Human languages and diction were tricky at times, and mistakes could be fatal. Not that any part of his profession was especially safe.
　Like many Rodians, Slyder was a bounty hunter. And a very successful one. No thanks to his tracking skills, which were mediocre at best, or his expertise with weapons, which was average, but because of the way he did his job.
　Most of Slyder's peers, Rodians and other species alike, practiced their profession in the same time-honored manner: Wait for someone or something to post a reward, pursue the being in question, and kill or capture the quarry. This was a strategy that Slyder regarded as reactive, dangerous, and work-intensive.
　His approach, which was unique to him so far as he knew, was to identify subjects that should have a price on their heads, identify the client willing to pay for his services, and then consummate the deal. By doing so he eliminated most, if not all, of the competition and maintained greater control over the enterprise. The Star, and the sentients she carried, made an ideal hunting ground, and saved the time and energy involved in running all over the Empire. Which explained why Slyder had lived in the same cabin for the past three years.
　And which also explained his interest in Jan Ors, Kyle Katarn, Rosco Ross, and Ris Waller. The Empire, which maintained a long list of real and fancied enemies, was one of Slyder's best customers, and there was nothing they liked better, or paid more for, than Rebel agents.
　Slyder grabbed a tube of pol pollen, popped the cork, and inhaled the substance through his snoutlike nose. The stimulant, which had consumed more and more of his income of late, boosted his ability to reason. Or so it seemed whenever he took it. There were three Rebel agents, each profitable in their own right, plus a droid, which might or might not have value, and a fledgling officer, who for reasons not apparent, was ready to desert. A profitable trip indeed.
　Not only that, but an Imperial official happened to be on board, which not only created the perfect market for his goods, but bypassed the need to negotiate with petty officialdom. Slyder found the thought so good, so pleasing, that he rewarded himself with another dose of pollen.

Dark Forces
Soldier for the Empire
P. - P.

　The Donar suite was large and spacious. Stasis-fresh flowers, compliments of old man Haj, filled every available vase. A case of wine accompanied by a note from the Bonadan ambassador sat unopened in a corner. Crates of Caridian glassware, secured against an unexpected loss of gravity, sat against the inner bulkhead. Carefully selected pieces of Empire-style furniture sat in front of a large but mostly empty viewport.
　All the members of the Donar family, each lost in their own world, were silent except for the occasional cough or rustle of fabric. The Governor had lost far too many credits to Lando Calrissian, and Madame Donar was angry. That being the case, he struggled to find a reason, any reason to avoid her. Especially given the fact that the ring she had given him on their twentieth wedding anniversary was gracing Lando Calrissian's hand rather than his. Had she noticed? And if she hadn't, should he attempt to win the keepsake back? No matter how hard he stared at the computer screen, it was blank.
　The Governor looked up as the family protocold roid entered the room. He wore a black cutaway coat ahd made a noise similar to that of a man clearing his throat. Donar was thankful for the diversion. "Yes? What is it?"
　"A visitor, sir... His name is Slyder - he regrets the intrusion - but insists on seeing you."
　Madame Donar sat in a corner, pretending to work on her embroidery, while Nathan Donar, one leg hanging over the arm of his chair, looked up from a sports printout.
　Governor Donar, aware of their interest, waved his approval. "Yes, yes, show the gentleman in."
　The protocol droid bowed and backed away. Slyder, who wished the lights were dimmer, entered, searched for the Governor, and found him. He hated the fat human on sight - and wished there was a bounty on his head. "Greetings, Excellency. Stories of your wisdom, generosity, and strength are more numerous than the stars."
　The Rodian's naturally foul body odor, overlaid by the scent of his cologne, penetrated every corner of the room. Nathan smirked, his mother covered her nose, and Donar looked annoyed. He made no attempt to rise, nor did he invite the alien to sit.
　"May I be of assistance, citizen Slyder? A matter of some urgency, I believe?"
　Slyder touched hand to forehead in what Donar assumed was a gesture of respect. It conveyed just the opposite. "Your Excellency steals the words straight from my snout. I, like many members of my species, make a living as a bounty hunter. Not from a desire to accumulate credits, but out of our love for the Empire."
　"Yes, of course," the Governor said impatiently. "So what are you selling?"
　Slyder touched his forehead once again. "Your Excellency cuts to the very heart of the matter. There are at least three Rebel agents aboard this ship, plus a droid who may or may not carry valuable data. And an Imperial officer who seems ready to desert."
　The Governor came to his feet. His computer clattered to the floor. "An officer? Rebels? Who? Where?"
　Slyder made his way to the entertainment center and held a holocube up to the light. "May I?"
　Donar nodded and the cube went in. Light swirled and a series ot three-dimensional images appeared. Slyder allowed key scenes to play themselves out and made no attempt to narrate the action. There were snatches of clearly seditious conversation between the woman and her companions, a glimpse of the droid she kept hidden in her cabin, plus two conversations with Katarn. The exchange in the cafeteria seemed innocent enough, but the subsequent encounter was something else again.
　Nathan didn't know what to believe. Was Kyle guilty of treasonous conduct? Or the victim of a pretty face? The holo disappeared and Nathan looked at his father. The governor was livid. "Damn their miserable lies! Did you see that? Sending trollops to corrupt our officers! We'll arrest the lot of them and put an end to this outrage!"
　Slyder dry-washed his hands, nodded sanctimoniously, and remembered the officer's Medal of Valor. It would look good in his trophy case.

Dark Forces
Soldier for the Empire
P. - P.

　Kyle burst out of the lock, ran across the deck, and spotted Rosco.He held a blaster carbine cradled in his arms and looked ready to use it.
　"Has Jan arrived?"
　"Not yet."
　"How 'bout Waller?"
　The Reb jerked his thumb up towards the cockpit. "Manning the turret."
　"Okay - I'll crank her up - you cover Jan and A-Cee."
　Rosco frowned. "Who died and made you Emperor?"
　"Can you fly this thing?"
　Rosco shook his head. "Nah, Jan's the pilot."
　"Well, I can."
　"Glad to hear it, Admiral, but how you gonna open those doors?"
　Kyle looked at the massiv epressure doors, wondered how he had missed such an obvious problem, and tried to sound confident. "You cover Jan. I'll handle the rest."
　Kyle made his way up the ramp, turned towards the cockpit, and passed through the lounge. Waller dropped out of the overhead turret, saw Kyle's thumbs-up, and returned to his post.
　Jan had allowed Kyle to initialize the ship's systems after the repairs were made and the access code was fresh in his mind. He entered the numbers, watched the control panel flicker to life, and grabbed a headset. "Truly Sorry to Hangar Control."
　The woman was bored. "Control here - go."
　"Request permission to depart hangar bay five minutes from now."
　The controller's voice was stern. "Not funny, Sorry. Departure requests must be filed at least thirty standard hours prior to takeoff. Permission denied."
　Kyle checked to ensure that Rosco was clear, fed power to the repulsors, and danced the ship out onto the taxiway. He hadn't flown a ship like the Sorry before, and she wobbled like a trooper on leave. The response came quickly.
　"Control to Sorry! Return to your slot, power down, and lower your ramp."
　Kyle tried to look in every direction at once as he spoke into the boom comm. "No can do, Control. Open the doors - or I'll open them for you."
　"You don't pack enough punch," the woman countered grimly. "Return to your slot before someone gets hurt."
　Kyle checked his weapon selector switches, discovered that he didn't pack enough punch, and chose a different approach instead. "Hey, Waller. See that shuttle on the far side of the bay? The one with the SoroSuub logo? Work it over."
　Bolts of energy burped across the bay, hit the other ship's starboard wing, and sheared part of it off.
　A klaxon sounded. Warning lights flashed. The PA system came on.
　"This is an emergency. Clear the hangar deck. I repeat, clear the hangar deck. Standby for depressurization. This is..."
　Sentients dropped their tools and ran, waddled, and, in at least one case, oozed towards the nearest lock. Kyle fought to hold the ship stationary. "Where's Jan?"
　Rosco spoke into the headset he wore. "No need to panic, Admiral - she's on the way!"
　Kyle saw a lock open, saw Jan start his way, and wondered about A-Cee. The Rebel agent was about halfway to the ship by the time the lock opened again and a posse spilled onto the deck. There was a Rodian in the lead, followed by Nathan Donar, and a mixed bag of Imperial military personnel. They opened fire and Rosco returned it.
　Jan picked up speed, Waller fired the turret gun, and four of her pursuers fell. The rest scattered. Kyle saw Nathan duck into one of the secondary locks and felt relieved. They hadn't been friends, not in the real sense anyway, but he wished the officer no harm.

Dark Forces
Soldier for the Empire
P. - P.

　Jan watched the Truly Sorry fade in and out of focus while it lurched up and down. Her breath came in painful gasps, her heart beat faster than it should, and lead filled her legs. She realized that the bleating noise meant something, that the air was getting thin, and she was about to die. Jan threw herself forward, stumbled, and fell. The steel felt cold beneath her cheek.
　Kyle saw Jan fall, guessed the nature of the problem, and moved the ship in that direction. "Rosco? Can you help?"
　Rosco, who had taken the precaution of slipping an emergency oxygen mask over his face, was already in motion. Kyle saw him, fought to slow the ship, and struggled to focus. The ramp was halfway open, which meant air was being sucked out of the Sorry's cabin. Kyle fumbled for a mask, found it, and pulled oxygen into his lungs.
　Rosco bent, scooped the girl into his arms, and turned. A stray piece of paper whipped past his face as the doors parted and air rushed into space.He had a minute, maybe less, to reach the ship's interior. It was that or wait for the ensuing vacuum to turn him inside out. But what about the ship? Was it there? Or had the kid left them to die?
　Rosco turned, found the Sorry looming over him, and saw the ramp touch the deck. The Rebel took five steps, felt the ramp under his boots, and gave thanks as hydraulics lifted both of them into the ship. Not bad for a wet-behind-the-ears kid...
　Kyle swung the speedster around, saw space suits heading for one of the ships, and wondered if he should fire on them. The Sorry shuddered as a concussion grenade exploded near her stern and he thought better of it.
　The doors were half way open by now. Kyle aimed for the evergrowing rectangle of blackness, applied more thrust, and ignored the controller's threats. Then, with surprising suddenness, they were free. Stars wheeled as he put the ship into a turn, and added thrust. A voice came from next to his ear. "Thanks, Kyle. It looks like I owe you all over again."
　Kyle grinned as Jan dropped into the copilot's position. She was pale but determined. "You're thinking of Rosco."
　Jan nodded. "Him too. How's our tail?"
　"Companys coming," Waller answered laconically. "One so far."
　"Let's see what kind of legs they have," Jan said grimly, and pushed the sublight drive control to max. Kyle saw a distant spark of light grow a tiny bit brighter, and felt the hull vibrate. He frowned. How much could the Sorry take? "What about a hyperspace jump?" Kyle inquired. "We could lose them in a hurry."
　"Yes, we could," Jan agreed, her fingers moving over the controls. "If the navcomp knew our coordinates. You didn't happen to load our position, did you?"
　Kyle felt blood rush to his face. "The thought never crossed my mind."
　Jan turned and her expression softened. "Don't worry. The navcomp will detect whatever beacons happen to be in the area, and if that fails, run star scans till it finds a match. That'll tell us where we are."
　"Which is in deep trouble," Waller added calmly. "They're gaining."

Dark Forces
Soldier for the Empire
P. - P.

　Slyder, who owned a small but heavily armed vessel of his own, had allowed the humans to provide the transportation. A logical choice considering the fact that the Governor's yacht was larger, faster, and better armed than his vessel. At least it had seemed logical, before he came aboard, found himself relegated to the status of observer, and realized how incompetent the humans were. The vast majority of the posse were officers, most of whom were giving orders, none of whom were following them. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, there was the Governor himself, constantly throwing his weight around, setting the wrong priorities.
　The droid was an excellent example. Rather than leave it aboard the Star, and deal with it later, the Governor had brought it along. And now, when his attention should be on the speedster, Donar had focused on the droid. The machine was spread-eagled on a table while a much-abused technician sweated over it. Cables ran from a patch panel to its CPU, power supply, and subprocessor wiring harness. "I think Ihave it, sir - just one more connection."
　The Governor, robes rustling, moved in for a closer look. Nathan did likewise. Slyder, who saw the whole exercise as a colossal waste of time, hung back.
　The technician connected a cable, flipped a switch, and waited for some sort of reaction. A-Cee opened his eyes and tried to sit. Nothing happened. Here membered the chase, the programmed equivalent of pain, followed by darkness. He blinked as a trio of humans stared down at him. One of them wore a uniform.
　A-Cee feit a subroutine kick in, heard the words, and knew his fate: "I am a bomb. Unauthorized access, manipulation, or interference with me or my programming, data storage modules, or other systems will result in the detonation of four point two kilos of plitex nine explosive..."
　There was a frantic, desperate attempt to deactivate the droid and stop the countdown. But Slyder knew there wasn't enough time. All his plans, all the years of work, had turned to dust. The humans were worse than incompetent, they were irretrievably stupid, and deserved to die. Slyder drew his weapon, shot as many of them as he could, and waited for the inevitable. The trophies would go to his mother.

Dark Forces
Soldier for the Empire
P. - P.