Star Wars - The Stele Chronicles

by Rusel DeMaria

  He headed at full speed away from the crippled shuttle craft. The two X-wings followed. They were remarkably fast, and kept pace with him. They shot at him constantly, but they were just too far away for accuracy. He began to double back toward the shuttle and saw that the Y-wings were returning to the attack. Just then, the Star Destroyer reappeared at minimum safe distance from the planet.

  If he could just keep the enemy busy for a few more minutes, he was sure that help would arrive.

  This thought was confirmed when the radio came back to life. “This is Vee Two X-ray calling TIE/In Four Oh Vee Niner. Do you read?”

  Maarek wasn’t used to military call signs. “If that’s me you’re calling, I’m here,” he answered. “Get someone here—fast!”

  “Help is on the way, TIE/In Four Oh Vee Niner. Hang in, there.”

  He couldn’t make the interceptor move faster and the X-wings were getting closer. It would be a shame to get shot down now, with help so close. He started to corkscrew to throw off their aim—he had seen pilots do it in adventure holos. His idea was good, but in execution it left something to be desired. He lost control momentarily and found himself spinning and disoriented. Trying to get back on course, he overcompensated and found himself heading directly for the planet. His scanners showed the X-wings still in pursuit—much closer now.

  Something hit the interceptor. He felt a jolt, like a strong punch in the back, then the sensors went dead. There was no time for more maneuvering, so he headed into the sludge. He had heard that flying in atmosphere was hard and that no starfighter pilot liked it, but he knew atmospheric flight and he was gambling that the X-wing pilots didn’t.

  The TIE/In began to shudder and pitch as it hit the wall of gas and a thick mist immediately obscured his vision. He fought the interceptor, leveling out so as not to dive directly down into the planet’s gravity well. His plan was to dip into the upper atmosphere and follow a shallow parabolic vector, re-emerging once again in the vacuum. He hoped this would shake the X-wings.

  It was like fighting an enraged bantha, and he had no way to know if he was really pulling out of the atmosphere or about to become a fireball on the surface of the planet. He tried to keep his bearings, but without sensors or visual clues, he had to rely on hope and luck.

  A part of him, calm despite the crisis, realized that he had already pushed luck to the limit. With no formal training, he had just gone up against four enemy fighters and he was still alive! Had he used up all the luck he was allowed?

  The answer was no. The mist surrounding the interceptor suddenly thinned and, with a last bone-jarring bump, burst out of the sludge and back into vacuum. There was no sign of the X-wings. For that matter, there was no sign of the Star Destroyer!

  “Great,” he said to himself. “Now what do I do?”

  “Head back home, Stele,” said a new voice on the comlink. “The excitement’s over. Come around on vector One Two Eight Alpha.”

  “Sorry, sir. Sensors are out and I’m no navigator,” Maarek said.

  There was laughter in his headset. “Just turn right and follow the planet around. You’ll find us. Or we’ll find you.”

  The next few hours were a blur of activity. As soon as he got within range, the Star Destroyer hauled him in with a tractor beam—an ignominious ending to the most exciting adventure of his life. He was beamed into an unfamiliar hangar where a detachment of stormtroopers waited. As soon as he exited the ship, an officer told him to follow and led him from the hangar to a small room nearby. Then the officer and the stormtroopers left him alone in the room.

  He sat at a small table. There were two chairs in the room and he picked the one that faced the doorway. He waited. And waited. “I’m in trouble,” he thought. “But what did I do wrong?”

  He sat for a long time, hours perhaps, before the door irised and emitted two stormtroopers in white and black armor. The troopers had their blasters drawn, but Maarek’s eyes were focused on the man who followed them. He recognized the man immediately. It was Admiral Mordon! He looked tired.

  The Admiral sat stiff and straight in the remaining chair, facing Maarek, silent, staring, his eyes blazing blue like an ion furnace, Maarek looked down at his hands resting on the table. The knuckles were white.

  “You were lucky,” Mordon said. His voice was quiet, just as Maarek had suspected it would be, and the medals on the man’s chest rose and fell evenly with his breathing.

  Maarek slowly raised his eyes, but could not quite meet Mordon’s stare. “I know, sir. I hope —”

  Mordon interrupted. “You were also very brave.”

  Something skipped inside Maarek’s chest. That wasn’t a reprimand. It was a compliment.

  Mordon continued. “We had secured the area. I was on the way to inspect the planet with a minimal escort when the Rebels struck. If you hadn’t delayed them…”

  Maarek said nothing. He was too stunned. I saved the admiral.

  “…where did you learn to handle an interceptor like that, son?” Maarek snapped out of his daze just in time to catch Mordon’s question.

  “In Repairs, sir,” he choked. Was that going to get him into trouble?

  But the admiral raised an eyebrow. “Repairs…” He seemed to ruminate over the word a moment, as if it had lost its usual meaning. Then he asked, “You like it in Repairs, Stele?”

  “It’s all right,” Maarek replied carefully. “We get to take care of the babies.”

  Again, Mordon raised an eyebrow. “Babies?”

  “You know, sir. The pilots. They just hop into the cockpit and fly around in space while we have to break our hands twisting metal back in place or burn ourselves on hot sparks from the laser torches…”

  Maarek stopped, worried that he had stepped over the line, but Mordon just laughed out loud. “Is that what you think a pilot’s life is like, son?”

  Maarek said nothing.

  Suddenly, Mordon stood up. “I bet you’d like to be one of the babies, wouldn’t you, Mr. Stele?” he asked, leaning over the table and staring down at Maarek, who suddenly noticed something under one of his fingernails.

  “Come see me in six months,” Mordon said as he turned toward the doorway. “Let me know how you’re doing.”

  Then he was gone, and Maarek was alone again. But not for long.

  The Imperial Navy

  Maarek was “invited” to join the Imperial Navy and told he was going to be trained as a fighter pilot. He had to wait a few days; then, after a jump he was escorted to an old freighter/transport. He spent a short, uncomfortable day aboard the freighter and arrived safely at a planetside Imperial base. During the whole trip nobody spoke to him. When he arrived at the base, he received some rations and was told to wait again. After a while, a small detachment of stormtroopers arrived with a pack of young men and women in tow. Then the troopers marched them to another freighter/transport. Or maybe it was the same one. Maarek couldn’t tell. When everybody was stowed in, the leader spoke.

  “You are on your way to Imperial basic training. As of this moment, you are Imperial soldiers, even though you look like scared dinkos and smell worse. You will sit still, keep quiet, and do nothing until you receive further orders.”

  It was a long and quiet trip, shivering in the cargo hold under the watchful eyes of the stormtroopers. They must have looked more like prisoners than elite Imperial recruits. Maarek fought off his concerns. He figured that it was all part of the game. No matter how good you were, they had to break you first, then build you up again. It was part of the weeding out process. If you broke too easily, then you wouldn’t hold up under the pressures of combat, and were a danger to those who depended on you. If you wouldn’t break at all, you were too independent and prideful, and could never be trusted completely. It was a fine line that every recruit would walk over the next six months.

  The ship lurched out of hyperspace and everyone slid slightly on the deck as dynamic braking took hold. Suddenly, the stoic figures of the stormtroopers sprang to
life, leaping through the huddled cadets, kicking those unlucky enough to be prone and shouting at the top of their lungs.

  “On your feet, you mass of gravel maggots, or you won’t live long enough to even begin basic training.”

  Maarek was fast enough to avoid a boot slung in his direction, and sprang up with a rush of adrenaline in his veins and scanned the room for the next challenge. He didn’t have to wait long. As the stormtroopers herded them into some semblance of ranks, the forward airlock of the cargo hold slid open with a menacing hiss. There, with all eyes in the room upon him, stood a man-like form, backlit, dark, and larger than life.

  He was clad in trooper armor, but the reddish light behind him cast an eerie glow, and an Imperial crest on the right breastplate literally screamed out the man’s importance. As troopers moved to flank the man, Maarek noticed with some displeasure that the newcomer was more than a head taller than anyone in the room. Two massive hands reached upward and twisted the helmet release gingerly, belying the ease with which they could just have easily snapped a man’s neck. The helmet rose and was tucked casually under a massive left arm. Some unlucky soul behind Maarek gasped and received a rifle butt to the side of the knee for the indiscretion. He writhed on the floor now, but had gained enough sense not to cry out.

  Doubtless, others had stifled similar exclamations upon witnessing the scarred visage that glowered at them through one intense eye, its partner a memory behind crudely stitched skin. Maarek wanted to look away, but found it difficult. It probably wouldn’t have been wise anyway.

  “I am Senior Master Sergeant Jona T. Stark,” it said, “but you will call me Sergeant, or Sir. You have no names other than those I choose to give you. You have no lives other than those I bestow upon you. You have no choice other than to obey. The Emperor is your life. I am his Voice. I will find the Warriors amongst you and guide them to the glory of the Empire. More importantly, I will find the unworthy, I will hold their hearts in my hand, and I will crush them.”

  And so it began…

  Basic Training

  The first day was a marvel of activity, chaos, and eventual order, They were processed, tested, marched, fed (a little), tested some more, divided into groups, and, finally, assigned quarters. Already several recruits that Maarek had noticed in the transport were missing, presumably sent back where they came from.

  Maarek had no idea what his subjective time was, but the base time was late when he was finally able to collapse onto his hard, small bunk in a drafty barracks. Each recruit had been given a small holo and told. “Absorb this and be ready to regurgitate it tomorrow.” And so he sat up, grabbed the holo and activated it.

  Imperial Navy—Orientation

  Excerpted from: Class 070536 Indoc Guide W5-754F-C2.15

  For Official Use Only

  Chain of Command

  Flight Cadet

  Flight Officer

  Lieutenant

  Captain

  Commander

  Colonel

  General

  * Vice Admiral

  * Admiral

  * Grand Admiral Major

  * ranks unattainable in TIE Fighter.

  You are in training to become a pilot in the Imperial Navy. This is your opportunity to excel in the service of the Emperor. These are the ranks you may achieve, should you prove yourself worthy.

  Medals and Ranks

  You may earn certain emblems of recognition for service to the Empire. These medals are added to your permanent record and may be viewed in your personal datapad at any time.

  Training Completion Certifications

  Upon completion of four levels of any training course, each pilot will receive his general certificate. Seals for satisfactory training for each spacecraft are added to the general certificate upon completion of additional courses.

  Combat Training Medallions

  Upon completion of two missions in the historical simulator for each craft, a pilot receives a bronze combat training emblem for that craft. Completion of a third mission upgrades the medallion to silver. When all four missions are completed, the pilot is awarded a gold medallion.

  Theater of Operations Service Medals

  For completion of service to the Empire in battle, a pilot may receive service medals with additional stars and bars for battles within a particular theater of operations.

  Back to the Vengeance

  Over the next several weeks, he was tested, drilled in military procedure, put through basic physical training, and tested again. He had no idea where he was. Nobody ever said. And he learned soon enough not to ask. He learned a lot more as well, and to all outward appearances became a fully indoctrinated soldier of the Empire. He kept his own counsel, however, and endured until the ordeal was over.

  When his basic training was done, he was picked up again, this time in a troop shuttle, and taken to an outpost on a forlorn-looking asteroid where he spent a few hours in a backwater depot chewing on rations and discussing matters of no importance with the lone agent in charge. He was the only recruit who had been left on that particular outpost. Eventually another shuttle arrived and took him to rendezvous with the Vengeance along with a few strangers.

  In all, he had been away from the Vengeance for a little more than two months. Nothing much had changed.

  Except that he was no longer quartered in the civilian area of the ship.

  “Orders are posted on the holo screen up on the wall,” announced the non-com when he debarked the shuttle. Maarek read his housing assignment. It was on Deck 3 and the map showed it to be near the main TIE fighter hangar. Pilot’s quarters, he thought with a growing sense of awe and nervousness.

  He had learned during basic training not to ask questions. This concept did not come easily to him, and several times he had been put on extra duty for opening his mouth. It’s not easy to lose a lifelong habit in just a few weeks, but Maarek did learn to restrain himself, to bide his time, and to pick his friends and confidants with care.

  One drawback to his new restraint was that he got thoroughly lost looking for his assigned quarters where a simple question or two might have gotten him there more quickly. At any rate, he found his way, but not before barging into areas where he was clearly not welcome, where officers and enlisted men looked up from what they were doing and glared. But nobody asked him what he was doing or offered any help, and Maarek went on his way as quickly as he could.

  His new room was a haven of privacy after weeks in the training barracks and an hour or so lost on the massive Star Destroyer. There was a single cot in the room, and he lay down on it as soon as he arrived.

  Moments later, someone came to the door and signalled.

  “Come in,” Maarek said tentatively.

  It was Pargo. He stood there beaming stupidly, and Maarek almost burst out laughing. His friend was decked out in a crisp new naval uniform. He saluted.

  Maarek returned the salute half-heartedly, sick already of the formality of the military life, “What’s the big smile for?” he asked.

  Pargo walked into the room and leaned against a built-in desk. “Good to see you, too,” he said offhandedly. Clearly he was dying to tell Maarek something. He looked like the ice creature that had eaten the tauntaun,