"William C. Deets, Dean Williams Soldier for the Empire (STARWARS. DARK FORCES #1) (eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора

STAR WARS: DARK FORCES
Soldier for the Empire

BY

William C. Deets
Dean Williams



CHAPTER ONE

The relay that failed, and thereby saved Morgan Katarn'.s life, was an integral part of the pumping station that served the southeast quadrant of his homestead. Without the relay and the pump, his variform beans would wither and die. They, like the rest of the crops, needed the
water that Morgan's one-thousand-year-old tap tree brought to the surface via tubular roots, or "taps" that descended hundreds of feet to siphon water from the underlying aquifer - water that was shared with Morgan's crops via endless lengths of imported irrigation tubing.
The workshop was a spacious area in which Morgan spent nearly all his time, when he was home, that is - which was less than he would have liked. His responsibilities as an agro-mech craftsman took more hours away than was good for the farming he did on the side as did the resistance movement. In the workshop were cupboards where his spare parts were stored, countertops strewn with tools, and bins filled with printouts, schematics, and designs. Morgan circled the worktable to peer at one of six monitors. It provided a rotating 3-D view of the pump's inner workings. The lines that described the offending relay had changed from green to red and blinked on and off. Annoying - but easy to remedy.
Morgan made a note of the part number, opened a storage cabinet, found the matching box, and removed it. A puff of air touched the back of his neck and he heard Wee Gee's cooling fans. He turned and grinned. "Hey, old boy . . . how's that solar panel? All fixed? Good work."
Morgan had designed the droid himself. Since he was a self-taught roboticist, it hadn't been easy. Form had been allowed to follow function - and Wee Gee looked anything but
human. Though capable of assuming hundreds of configurations, Wee Gee always reverted to an inverted U shape. His right arm was three times more powerful than his left. It boasted no less than four articulated joints, and a C-shaped grasper. The left arm was less sturdy but was
mounted with a human-style hand that could use the tools carried on the utility belt cinched around Wee Gee's processor housing.
What Morgan called the drive assembly linked both sides of the droid together - and served as a platform for the vertical sensor pod that provided Wee Gee with the electronic equivalent of sight. Thanks to a repulsorlift engine salvaged from an Imperial speeder bike, and
steering jets adapted from a junked probe droid, the machine floated two meters off the ground. An oval-shaped lens tilted toward Morgan and the droid made a chirruping sound. The human
nodded in response.
"Sure, we'll tackle that in the morning. First things first, though . . . I've got to replace a part on pump four. You're in charge till I get back."
Wee Gee squeaked agreeably and plugged himself into one of the many data ports scattered around the complex. Once connected, the droid could monitor the entire farm from that single position.
The farmer considered a vehicle and decided against it. The walk would be good for both his spirits and his waistline. Morgan checked to ensure that his comlink was charged, grabbed the walking stick from a corner, and slipped through the door.
He took a breath of the crisp evening air and paused to watch Sullust rise. Morgan had friends there, many of whom belonged to the Alliance and were working towards the day when the New Order would be destroyed. That was no small task on a planet where the Emperor ruled through the vast SoroSuub Corporation. Still, where there's a will there's a way, and they would succeed, Morgan was certain.
Walking briskly so as to raise his heart rate to aerobic levels, the farmer struck out towards the southeast. Dry grass crackled beneath his boots, lume bugs danced before his face, and stars appeared in the sky. They reminded Morgan of his son Kyle - and the fact that he
would graduate soon.
The thought that financial necessity rather than free choice had played a major role in Kyle's decision to attend the Imperial Military Academy still filled Morgan with guilt. The Katarn's were from the Outer Rim, with limited financial resources, and the Academy had
represented Kyle's best chance for a good education.
Morgan frowned. Perhaps if he'd been a little more flexible, a little less focused on how money was made, there would be more of it. What would Kyle be like when he returned? Like the boy he'd said good-bye to? Or like the stormtroopers who swaggered through the spaceport? The stars were silent, the lume bugs danced, and there was no way to know.
The vengeance was not one of the Empire's larger Star Destroyers, nor was such a vessel required for the matter at hand. After all, why use a sword when a dagger would suffice? The thought pleased the mind that conceived it. The bridge was large and open. The crew stood in
semicircular trenches cut into the highly polished deck. The Dark Jedi known as Jerec stood above the command pit and stared at the moon that floated beyond.
What he saw was a great deal more complex than what those around him perceived. Jerec was tall arid thin to the point of emaciation. He kept his head shaved and black facial tattoos glowed on his brown skin. Empty eye sockets were hidden behind a band of black leather. His tunic, trousers, and boots were black. Jerec wore no insignia other than the symbols visible on his blood-red collar - and kept his Jedi abilities secret.
Such was the nature of the man, however, and the power he commanded, that no signs of authority were necessary. Jerec acted under orders from Emperor Palpatine himself and looked forward to the day when all would kneel before him, though he was careful to hide such ambitions behind a veneer of loyalty.
Captain Thrawn stood behind Jerec, slightly to his right. He was as tall as Jerec but the similarity ended there. Thrawn had shimmering blue-black hair, pale blue skin, and glowing red eyes, all of which testified to his alien origins and were rare in the Empire's xenophobic navy.
However, much as Palpatine might distrust other sentient species, he loved a winner, and Thrawn had collected more victories, medals, and promotions than most officers with twice his years of service. He stood with hands clasped behind his back and waited for his superior to speak. When the words came, Jerec's voice was soft, almost feminine. "The probe returned?"
"Yes, sir. There was no sign of a security breach. Surprise will be complete."
"The drop ship is ready?"
"Yes, sir. Loaded and ready."
"Excellent. You may begin."
"Yes, sir."
Thrawn had turned, and was about to leave, when Jerec spoke again. "One more thing . . ."
The officer turned at the sound. of Jerec's voice. "Sir?"
"I want Morgan Katarn alive."
Thrawn was well aware of what Jerec wanted but nodded dutifully and said, "Yes, sir," with exactly the same intonation he had used the first time the order had been issued. Besides being a brilliant tactician, and even better strategist, Thrawn had still another virtue, and that was his absolute lack of ego. Something of a necessity for an officer with alien origins in a military organization rife with patronage and politics.
Jerec, who wanted a great deal more than the next pathetic rank in another being's power structure, nodded and stalked away.
Thus dismissed, Thrawn tackled the business at hand. Orders had been given and he would carry them out.
Though roughly the same size as an Imperial assault shuttle, the Corellian built stock light freighter had less armament and still bore the scars accumulated while running supplies to Space Station Kwenn. Captured with a hold full of black-market technics, she'd been added to the rag-tag collection of ships the Empire used for clandestine missions. She was typical of vessels pressed into service by the Alliance. Painted with registration numbers identical to those worn by one of their commerce raiders, she made a believable stand-in for the real thing. Retro's fired as she matched velocities with Sulon and prepared to land.
Within her hull, in a cargo compartment that still stank of the hydroponic supplies she had carried, a team of Special Operations commandos prepared for combat. Their leader, a thirty-something first lieutenant named Brazack, watched with all-seeing eyes. He had earned his commission the hard way in a battle so bloody, every single one of his superiors had been killed. His subsequent promotion came in the wake of a mission that produced no less than four medals of valor - all awarded posthumously.