Star Wars - FanFiction - The Glitter and the Glory

by Jason Clarke

  "What is the extent of their defenses?" Tarkin asked the tactical officer as Han angled the Ghorman to allow its lower weapon banks a clear shot at the planet surface.

  "They have fighters to match ours," the tactical officer, Trawets, told Tarkin. "And they appear to have a few energy shields around their major cities; nothing that could damage this ship."

  "Excellent," Tarkin replied. "Proceed with the invasion."

  His job more or less or at this point, Han watched as the TIE fighters engaged the smaller, more maneuverable vessels of the H'Zonalmi. Unfortunately, the native craft were piloted by a far less disciplined military than the Empire employed, and short work was made of the arrow-shaped, sleek enemy starfighters. Once the first few initial waves of defense were destroyed, the heavy TIE bombers entered the atmosphere, escorted by a few TIE scouts who cleared the way of any stragglers. The bombers kept as much out of the gravity well as the could, and Han watched as the first few bombs fell from the large ships and created bright flashes of light on the auburn surface of the planet.

  Thousands of people just died, Han thought. Perished in the fire of the Empire. And why? Because they resisted...because they didn't wish to become another supplier for the Imperial war machine. Han had long ago recognized just what the Empire stood for...and yet, he knew it could do so much for him, give him more wealth, recognition and power than he could imagine...

  "Grand Moff..." Trawets suddenly said uncertainly.

  "What is it, Commander?" Tarkin asked distractedly.

  "There is a major energy buildup directly below us on the planet, sir...it appears they may be charging up some sort of weapon?"

  The great white brow of the Grand Moff furrowed deeply. "What do you mean, Commander?"

  "Sir...it looks like they're going to fire an ion cannon!"

  Han knew what that meant...an ion blast would destabilize many of the Ghorman's systems, at best delaying the mission for some time. And at worst...at worst, the planet could fire some type of thermonuclear weapon or other such missile, and destroy the entire ship...

  "Evasive maneuvers!" Tarkin barked at Han.

  Startled into action, Han glanced at the tactical screen on his console to find the location of the cannon. It was dead center below the ship, and it almost certainly could rotate to accommodate a change in position. He would have to find a better way... A burst of inspiration hit him, and seconds before the cannon fired Han executed a series of commands on his console that altered only the Destroyer's position relative to the planet. The Ghorman angled itself, becoming a thinner target for the ion blast. Expecting a wider range, the ion blast flashed harmlessly past the main viewer, flying off into space even as Han maneuvered the Ghorman back into its original position.

  "Sir," Trawets said, his voice wavering, "Our bombers have isolated and destroyed the ion cannon."

  "Too little, too late, Commander Trawets," Tarkin said in a cold voice, laden with anger seething just below the surface. "This is a grievous error, I'm afraid."

  "But sir--"

  "Enough. I cannot tolerate this lack of efficiency. You are hereby demoted to lieutenant and assigned to engineering. Perhaps there you will learn a skill that you can perform well."

  Trawets was speechless. He stood dumbfounded for a few moments, his jaw hanging loosely on its hinges.

  Tarkin's brow furrowed again. "Get off my bridge!" he shouted at the former tactical officer. Trawets quickly sped toward the lift, terrified. The remaining crew were silent. No one wished to draw the attention of the angered Grand Moff. Han swallowed and watched his console diligently, noting that the TIE bombers had decimated five cities already.

  "Lieutenant Solo," Tarkin said slowly, walking toward the piloting console.

  "Yes, sir?" Han asked diligently, rising to his feet and saluting his commander.

  "At ease, lieutenant. You have performed well, Han, marvelously well. I am quite pleased with this display of skill. Truly, I was accurate in marking you as the best pilot in your class."

  "Thank you, sir," was all Han could muster. Praise from the Grand Moff was praise, indeed. Only the Emperor himself, or perhaps Darth Vader, could bestow a more reputable commendation.

  "Thus, I hereby promote you to Commander Solo. Excellent work, Commander." And with that, the Grand Moff turned and walked off his bridge, telling the captain to continue the invasion and that he would be in his quarters were he needed.

  Now, it was Han's turn to be speechless. Once Tarkin was gone, the entire bridge crew now stared at Han. Somewhat self-conscious, he allowed a small grin to escape his lips...and then the bridge crew erupted in applause, a rare thing on a Star Destroyer.

  "Er, thanks," Han said, saluting the captain before turning and taking his place at the pilot seat again. The captain patted his shoulder in approval as Han resumed his duties.

  * * * *

  Seven hours later, once the inhabitants of H'Zonalm were completely under Imperial control and the provincial governors were being set up within their new governments, Commander Han Solo left the bridge and returned to his quarters, elated with his new position and exhausted with the long day. He entered his quarters to a surprising site. Fenrell was sitting on Han's bunk, his face flustered and damp with tears.

  "What--what happened?" was all Han could muster as he quickly stepped into the room, the doors swishing shut behind him.

  "It's...it's Dorgan..." Fenrell managed through a choking sob.

  "What? What happened to Dorgan?" Han demanded as Fenrell continued to cry.

  "We were...we were in the middle of the sabacc game...and Tarkin walked in. Tarkin himself! He looked right at...at Dorgan, and told him that they had been watching him as of late. They...Tarkin told him that the Empire knew what he had been saying, that he'd had...had loose lips, I guess. Damn, Slick, it must have been that thing about Tarkin's ambitions!"

  "Well, what happened next?"

  "Tarkin...Tarkin accused Dorgan of treason and...and sentenced him to death, right there. Death by vacuum! Then they took him away, and they ejected him, Slick! Right into space. It was four hours ago. They made me watch...so that I wouldn't talk about what he'd said. It was horrible! I saw him clutching his throat...he couldn't breathe...and then he just went limp, and floated away..."

  Han was horrified. To think, right after Tarkin had promoted him, he'd gone to Han's quarters, accused Dorgan of treason, and sent him to his death! Ever since his promotion, Han had been trying to justify the Empire to his mind, to see reason in the death and madness it propagated. But this act made him see that, for better or for worse, the Empire could never be what Han wished it was.

  Fenrell was wiping the tears from his eyes.

  "It was his own damn fault," he muttered. "I told Dorgan his big mouth would get him into trouble some day. Always going around, gossiping about what he heard from Tarkin. Stupid fool! He...he got what he deserved..."

  Han was silent. He didn't particularly agree with Fenrell's statement, and knew that his fellow officer didn't really believe it...he was simply trying to justify his friend's death in his own mind. But Han couldn't do that. He knew he would have to look at his career, at the Empire, at what he did each and every day. A profound sense of guilt began to form in his conscience, guilt that he was a participant in such a cold and cruel organization...and something in Han Solo began to change. The guilt, the incredible crushing wish for the atonement of the foul deeds he had been a part of or witnessed, began to gnaw at his very soul. This feeling would later fuel Han's wild and haphazard future, making him do unpredictable and sometimes near-suicidal acts that would cause many to believe he had some sort of death wish...which perhaps he had. Though he would be reborn in the fires of the Rebellion, the guilt which tortured him for such crimes as the conquest of H'Zonalm III would be a weight that Han would never quite free himself from.

  Even as this new feeling began to grow in Han, Fenrell had hardened himself against it, as so many officers of the Empire did, and turned his
mind to other matters. He was desensitized; he was an automaton now, a tool of the Empire.

  "So, Slick," he said with an attempt at cheerfulness, "where to next?"

  Han shook himself from his reverie. "Um, some place called, uh, Despayre, I think," he replied. "In the Horuz system. Some sort of labor camp or penal colony or something."

  "Oh yeah...I just heard about that," Fenrell said. "That's where the Empire's building some big 'secret weapon' or something. They must be using the penal colony for laborers."

  "What kind of criminals are they?" Han asked, trying to follow his friend's example by ignoring Dorgan's death.

  "Wookiees," Fenrell said with disgust. "I hear they've got lots of Wookiees there."

  "Wookiees?" Han said with disdain, though not nearly as much as Fenrell's voice had contained. "Damn, those things smell. Big hairy things, right?"

  "Yeah," Fenrell replied. "I hate Wookiees. I hope they're beating them to a pulp there."

  Again, Han found he couldn't reply because he didn't agree. He knew that if he witnessed any extreme cruelty to the inmates of Despayre, he'd have to rethink his career for certain.

  * * * *

  Alone once more in his quarters, Wilhulf Tarkin pondered the deeds he had performed in the last day. The execution of Lieutenant Dorgan had been an unfortunate affair, but one Tarkin had found necessary; the officer had known far too much about the Grand Moff's private plans and ambitions. It would have been a mistake to allow the boy to continue delving in such gossip. However, nothing could prevent the small twinge of guilt that touched Tarkin's soul at the slaying of one so young, so inexperienced in life. But that was the Empire, just as the conquest of the slowly turning auburn planet below was. Tarkin had been performing his duties, though personal as they may seem externally; Tarkin's future goals would be beneficial for the Empire, of that he had no doubt. Thus, Tarkin justified the death of Lieutenant Dorgan as an essential measure for the good of the Empire.

  For a moment, Tarkin's mind wandered to the excellent new pilot, Han. The young man would be an excellent addition to Tarkin's small, tight-knit group of supporters...or conspirators, as some might call them. Tarkin would invite Han to be one of the pilots of the Death Star upon its completion, and until then he would always keep the officer with him as his personal pilot. Power and prestige would come to the man; and Tarkin's power would strengthen as well. Ackbar suddenly entered, pushing another lunch cart. It was time for dinner. Pushing away the mosaic of thoughts that swirled in his mind, Tarkin gave the alien a cold, lipless smile and welcomed his meal.

  PART II

  EIGHT YEARS LATER

  THE MODO SYSTEM, NEAR MODO III

  The Millennium Falcon screamed away from the surface of the blue-green planet below, its engines glowing with white flame as it made its escape. In the out-rigger cockpit, Captain Han Solo and his "first mate," a Wookiee named Chewbacca, were frantically trying to prepare for a jump to hyperspace.

  "No! Keep going!" Han shouted in response to a cy from the Wookiee. "They won't be able to scramble their patrol ships to this side of the planet in time..."

  Han knew that if he could just get the damned navicomputer to accept the course, they would be home free. Unfortunately the navicomputer, while quite advanced for its time, was still a little slow due to the droid logic circuits embedded in the computer core.

  Chewbacca bellowed again, and this time Han stood up and took notice.

  "Star Destroyers?" he exclaimed. "Star Destroyers? Where?"

  The smuggler stared out the cockpit window and, sure enough, two gargantuan Imperial Star Destroyers loomed in the distance, slowly powering toward Modo III behind them.

  "Wonderful," Han said. Chewbacca wuffled a question at him.

  "No, we can't change course," he replied. "Those Destroyers won't bother us, I don't think...they seem preoccupied with another ship, or something..." Han's brow furrowed as he stared at the small tactical screen. "Looks like some sort of starliner or something...the Imperials have a tractor beam on it, and they're drawing it in..."

  Chewbacca growled again.

  "Yeah, you're right, it's probably Rebellion stuff, none of our business..."

  Han shook his head. His intuition was gnawing at him, hinting at something. Something about one of those Star Destroyers...

  "Chewie, can you get a fix on their transponder signals?" he asked, forgetting about the navicomputer for a moment. As he turned to stare out the cockpit again, the tactical screen lit with small blips approaching from the far side of the planet below. Chewbacca played with the console a moment, trying to find the correct frequency. Though they usually stuck to the standard frequencies, certain Imperial ships, particularly those with special or powerful commanders, sometimes changed them...

  Chewbacca finally isolated the frequency of the first Star Destroyer. It was called the Conquest; Han had never heard of it.

  "What about the other one?"

  Alarms suddenly blared across the Falcon, and Chewie howled in surprise as Han checked the tactical screen.

  "Patrol ships," he explained as a laser blast rocked the freighter. "Damn. The navicomputer hasn't got the course set yet...I'll have to out-maneuver them."

  Chewbacca growled a response, but Han shook his head and said,

  "No, you keep working on that transponder. I want to know who that other ship is."

  The Falcon spun into a dive, plunging away from the meager patrol fighters and executing a spiral maneuver that led them toward the two Star Destroyers.

  Chewbacca again howled in alarm; but Han replied,

  "Don't worry, Chewie! I know what I'm doing...those patrol ships won't follow us near those Destroyers..."

  Now cognizant of Han's plan, the patrol ships began to pelt the Falcon with laser blasts. In response, Han again sent his freighter into a complicated maneuver, leaving the patrol vessels to simply give up their pursuit. The Empire would deal with the suicidal smugglers.

  The two Star Destroyers now filled the view of the entire cockpit. They loomed like floating mountains, peaked by the round antennae-like shield generators. A Han banked the Falcon and brought it under the second Star Destroyer, the one they had yet to identify and had now nearly brought the starliner under its full control, the com panel crackled to life.

  "Imperial Star Destroyer Conquest to unidentified freighter. You are interfering in Imperial business. Please identify yourselves and leave the area before we are forced to capture and board you."

  "I'd like to see you try," Han muttered under his breath as Chewbacca returned to his attempt to isolate the other vessel's transponder. "Ah, copy that, Conquest," Han said, activating the transceiver. "This is Captain Crank Glesin, of the freighter Triple Threat. We were about to jump to hyperspace when we had a malfunction. We're just fixing it now." Even as he spoke, the navicomputer beeped to inform Han that the course had been set.

  There was a long pause from the other ship. Han waited, tense, wondering if the Imperials had noticed the patrol ships' pursuit of the Falcon, or worse yet, were communicating with Modo III and asking about the situation. Besides that, he hadn't used the pseudonym of Crank Glesin and his Triple Threat in a long time, and he had no idea if the name would still be in the Imperials' massive list of personas. Han was greatly relieved when the Imperial voice came back on and said,

  "Copy that, Triple Threat. Do you require assistance?"

  "No, that's all right," Han replied with relief. "It was a minor problem with the maneuvering thrusters. We'll be out of your way in no time."

  "Understood, Triple Threat. Please leave the sector as soon as possible."

  With pleasure, Han thought. "Understood, Conquest. Sol--I mean, Glesin out."

  * * * *

  On the bridge of the Ghorman, Captain Stem Fenrell frowned at the com panel.

  "Something's not right here," he muttered to himself.

  "Captain?" a cold, stern voiced asked behind him. "Is there a problem?"

  Fenrell t
urned to face his superior. "Not exactly, Grand Moff," he replied. "It's just...there's something about that vessel, sir. The voice of the captain sounded...vaguely familiar to me."

  Tarkin cast a glance at the com panel screen. "Crank Glesin? Do you know this man?"

  "No, sir...he's a small time smuggler, or so his file states. But I don't trust him, sir...and I think this may be a false name."

  Tarkin considered the matter with a look of nonchalance. "Would you like to capture him for questioning?" he asked.