Tell the Truth, Kaist/Chapter One

Chapter One

"Eskhar is the handful of systems wherein some colonies of Novans, always a fratricidal and turbulent nation, are wont to reside. After the Emperor died at Endor and the ensuing civil war, they proclaimed independence. Their mistake was to continue with Imperial identity and ideology, which naturally has placed them at war with the New Republic. Eskhar survives largely because Coruscant treats the war largely as a police action."

- HNN Current Affairs file

From the moment she set foot to the ground HoloNet News journalist Nadali Kaist felt as though she had entered another dimension. It was as if time itself was turned back or she beheld before her a forgotten pocket wherein the Galactic Empire never fell. All around her armored soldiers and servicemen milled about the spaceport. Passenger and cargo shuttles roared skyward or were loaded and unloaded onto landing pads. Elsewhere scores of combat walkers awaited dispersal. It was a vision of power, yet on closer examination the illusion was revealed for what it was. Troops marched with less pride. Uniforms were worn ragged. Shuttles were dilapidated. Even the walkers, armored fist of the Imperial war machine, were older models, some dating from the Clone Wars.

“Miss Kaist?”

Nadali turned toward the speaker, a youngish Novan with a lieutenant’s insignia sewn on his jacket. His Basic, the galactic trade language, halting and careful. He was ill-shaven and his face had a guarded look to it, something common among Remnant soldiers and civilians alike.

A siege mentality, the journalist realized, the conviction that the universe is out to get you, and that peace is never permanent.

“That’s me,” she admitted. “And you are?”

“Lieutenant Enrich Ferrin, adjunct to Colonel Jordun Ardel. I’m supposed to bring you to Headquarters. May I see your papers?”

Nadali drew a crumpled packet from her pocket and delivered it to Ferrin. She watched him unfold the laminated sheets, which he scanned for a moment before returning them.

“You’re fine,” he announced. “Follow me please.”

Together Nadali and Ferrin progressed through the crowd and towards an awaiting landspeeder. Along the way, Nadali sought to catch a few shots on her little camera headpiece. It was a serviceable piece, not ideal, but it was her only camera not still stored deep in her pack.

When the lieutenant noticed he shrugged. “Stop when we reach the speeder,” he said blandly.

The speeder in question was an aging SoroSuub XP-38, and upon arrival, Nadali obediently switched off her camera, tucking it into her vest pocket. Remnant footage was not particularly rare, but factoring in censorship she was doomed to have little enough material to work with. It was wise to protect it.

Ferrin gestured with one hand. “Get in, we’re late,” he said.

Nadali obliged.

The drive to Imperial HQ was mostly silent, for the lieutenant was not talkative. “Tell the truth,” he said. “Tell the truth, and tell them to leave us alone.” Nadali could get little else from him. His was, she noted, the prevailing attitude among Remnant states: ''“So our Emperor was an evil Jedi wizard and you killed him. Good for you, now go away.”''

However, the New Republic would not, could not go away. Bastion, lair of the last legitimate Imperials, had made peace, and New Republic leaders considered the Bastion Accords binding to all the scattered regimes of Imperial origin. Demilitarization, freedom of secession, and freedom of space for uninhibited commerce were nonnegotiable. Most of the less-than-legitimate Remnant reluctantly agreed, but the Imperial Dominion of Eskhar and its dozen-or-so puppet state allies refused. Of course, renewed war resulted, and a hundred million were dead.

One thing the journalist knew for sure was this was life-or-death for the Imperial Dominion. New Republic politicians would not deal with an unrepentantly Imperial regime, and Eskhar knew it. Manipulative propaganda ensured most of their 11 billion Novans supported the war.

So the fighting continued, and for the galaxy it passed virtually unnoticed. The galactic public was either indifferent or even ignorant of it. Space was a vast, vast place, after all.

The speeder lurched to a halt, engines whining into silence. “We’re here,” Ferrin said.

Nadali emerged and looked around disappointed rising. Imperial HQ was an unimposing network of squat prefabricated buildings and permacrete compounds that resided among the commandeered buildings of the metropolis. Yes, bunkers, trenches, and fences were present, but a planetary headquarters should be more imposing. Perhaps its bulk lay underground, she consoled herself. Imperials were masters of the unseen when they wished to be, and forgotten installations were still being found Rimward from the Core.

Ferrin spoke again: “We wait here.”

“We wait here for...” prompted Nadali. No answer forth came. “You aren’t helpful,” she accused.

“You aren’t Imperial,” countered Ferrin.

Bait them, Nadali, bait them, a colleague had advised. These Imperials, Bastion or otherwise, are an anxious lot and can’t stand to pass up a chance for self-justification. Nadali took a gamble and it paid off. “So who then will hear?”

The suspicion that morphed the lieutenant’s face was unmistakable. “What?”

''And down comes his shield. Score one for the HNN woman.'' Nadali felt a glow of immature pleasure unfit for a woman age thirty-one. “So who then will hear?” she repeated. “Plainly, you hope I’ll become a voice of justification for Eskhar. But if, because I’m not Imperial, I am not told things, not made to understand, then how can I tell others? How can I make them understand?”

“Your manipulation is noted.” Ferrin’s words, although dismissive, held less conviction than before.

“Is it? Or am I just telling the truth?”

Ferrin brow furrowed, he opened his mouth and shut it again. Then he swore in a distinctly Eskharan blend of outland and Novan terminology.

Score two for the HNN woman.

“Fine,” he growled at last. “Here’s some advice&mdash;or a warning. You’re in the Dominion now, don’t forget that. This is our home. Out here you, not we, are the enemy. Forget everything you think you know about us. And especially don’t think we hate you. We don’t. We don’t care about you. We hate the New Republic.”

Nadali tipped her head in polite acknowledgment. The lieutenant’s brief tirade was confirmation to say the least.

Time passed: half an hour, then another half. Finally, a distinctive sound met their ears, the slowly undulating squeal of metal joints incapable of sufficient lubrication. Nadali swung around to see three open-seat patrol walkers, some kind of model of AT-RT, approaching in patrol formation. The Imperial Dominion loved its fighting vehicles&mdash;bipeds, quadrupeds, speeders and tanks&mdash;and with all the theatrics characteristic of the New Order exploited their intimidation factor. None in their right mind, said Eskhar’s logic, dared impress their complaints against a determined state with such an arsenal. Except, apparently, the New Republic.

Ferrin left her with the walkers, whose riders directed her to a service bunker. This, in turn, led to an underground tram station. Once past the perimeter, Nadali was delivered to a pair of Army conscripts, grey-clad soldiers forming the bulk of Eskhar’s troops. They hustled her through the remaining checkpoints and into the base itself.

As the last door clanged shut and the unsubtle IM4 droid tailing them floated back to its post, one of the conscripts nodded at Nadali’s backpack. “You can turn on those cameras if you want,” he said.

Nadali reached to fetch her headpiece but stopped herself. “Is that official permission?” she asked. “I’m here for a special news report, not jail time.”

Tapping the side of his helmet, the conscript replied, “Comlink.”

Nadali twisted her lip, deliberately allowing mild irritation to flit across her face. Her visit was nominally secret; however, since her arrival, Eskhar behaved nigh as if she were contaminated. Whichever bureau managed her time here, it seemed to delight in avoiding direct contact, in handling her from afar. Conspiratorial members of her profession might consider this symptomatic of nefariousness. But for Nadali criminal duplicity as explanation of Imperial behavior was sorely outdated. Far more likely it was habitual paranoia. She retrieved her headpiece and switched it on.

“Ma’am?”

Nadali glanced to where the second conscript trod beside her. Like Ferrin, Basic came hesitantly to him, and he retained a thick Novan accent. But that he spoke to her at all was curious. “It’s alright, I speak Novan,” she said in that language. “What can I do for you soldiers?”

The two conscripts brushed past a tramping column of Navy troops, and if they were surprised at her bilingualism, it did not show. “You’re going to the 739th Army, yes?”

“Well, if I am, this is the first I’ve heard of it,” Nadali replied smiling. Seven hundred thirty-ninth, who are they? “I thought I’m still a secret. Or is my visit publicized now?”

Clearly hers was not the expected answer because the two conscripts shared a long look. Then the second glanced away, pretending to straighten the strap from which his blaster rifle hung. “Well, if you are, he didn’t do it. Just remember that.”

Bemused, Nadali nodded. ''Didn’t do it? Didn’t do what?'' “I’ll remember,” she promised.

The first conscript broke the awkward silence that followed. “We’re here,” he said, thumbing a code into a door panel.

The receptionist flinched, surprised, as the door opened. “Can I help you?”

The conscripts tossed an datachip onto the desk. “Journalist Kaist is here to see Colonel Ardel. She’s late so hurry it up.”

“Right, just a moment...”

The two cryptic men nodded to Nadali before leaving. “Good luck, writer.” It was said with the least venom she had yet heard.

&mdash; &mdash; &mdash;

Colonel Jordun Ardel, Propaganda Department, was a survivor, a fact that bled off him like water from a tap tree. It manifested itself in everything about him, from his lean, practically gaunt, physique to his severe face hinting of perpetual exhaustion. His scarred brow was an injury leaving him blind in one eye. He greeted Nadali standing. “Miss Kaist,” he said smiling. “Welcome to Fort Tornal. Welcome to the Empire&mdash;leastwise our portion of it.”

Returning the smile, Nadali thanked him. Then deciding nothing would be gained by further niceties she broke the diplomatic farce. “Of course, I know I’m not welcome, and if you consider me so, then you’re probably the only one. Let’s be frank, you Imperials are xenophobic and that’s that. There’s no reason to hide it.”

Ardel’s smile tightened considerably, otherwise his demeanor remained unchanged. “Yes, I am sure we must seem... inhospitable. You must understand though. Eskhar is an old Novan region, and home to many Imperials your government’s policies have displaced, I might add. You will find your rebellion, however successful, much unloved here.”

“We’re the New Republic now,” corrected Nadali.

At that mention the Novan’s smile faded a little. “I suppose you are. But shall we be seated? There are a number of things we must settle...”

After that the meeting went well, at least as far as Nadali could discern. There were veritable sheaves of papers to sign but otherwise Ardel, on behalf of his government, exuded a semblance of cooperation. Nadali was relieved to learn she was still to embed with a combat formation, not be shunted behind the lines as she had feared. It was this astonishing factor, combined with desires to confront the public with its blindness to full-scale war waged on its behalf, which first drew her to the Imperial Dominion’s unprecedented proposal. However, one condition was mandatory: she was not to reveal she was from the New Republic. “We cannot ensure your safety otherwise,” was the ominous explanation.

“You will,” Ardel continued, “be joining our 739th Army, 48th Stormtrooper Corps, 1658th Division, 404th Regiment.”

Nadali’s physical composure abruptly shattered. Ardel must have noticed it because he stopped and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Nadali lied shaking her head. You’re going to the 739th Army, yes? The 739th Army meant nothing to her, but the 1658th!

In the past two decades since the spectacular defeat at Endor, the constant crises-of-the-month presented as equivalent to real threats like Thrawn or Palpatine’s clones had jaded citizens of the New Republic. Especially now the Empire had made peace, nothing foreign mattered to them anymore, especially unimportant being a self-deluding pseudo-Imperial state with dreams of grandeur. Normally, Nadali would have agreed, but in this case the pseudo-Imperial state was guilty of something there was no excuse to ignore: the devastation of Eurlak II.

It had been a catastrophe of primordial proportions, claiming upwards of 20 billion lives. And a rogue 1658th Division, Husark’s Butcher Battalions, had instigated it. But the 1658th should not be in service with Eskhar. It should not be in service with anyone! It had been annihilated!

Ardel continued to watch her. “You have heard of them,” he said. It was not a question.

He stood up and led Nadali to another room where a black-clad soldier awaited. Although still reeling, Nadali maintained enough control to scrutinize the man. He stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back. He was relatively short, possessing a lean and hardened physique. His skin was browner than the Novan norm. Cropped black hair presided over a face from which peered green-flecked eyes above an aquiline nose. He looked in his forties, but given some Novans’ enviable longevity he could easily have been sixty. His poise, his bearing, was military enough. Yet what could only be described as his presence was different.

A trained soldier but somehow not a warrior. Nadali reminded herself that his expression might have been friendlier had their meeting been under different circumstances. Also, his neatly trimmed beard mocked regulations.

The colonel waved a hand at him. “This is Major Rulph Obrikien of the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps. He commands 404th Regiment.”

“Major?” asked Nadali. “There’s no colonel commanding?”

The major’s voice managed to be almost accusatory. “Colonels die, too, ma’am.”

Unbidden the conscript’s monition flashed through the journalist’s mind: ''He didn’t do it. Just remember that.''

&mdash; &mdash; &mdash;

Jordun Ardel sat alone in his office. Rulph Obrikien and Nadali Kaist were gone. So was Ardel’s facade. His breathing was slow and shallow, occasionally stopping altogether to be renewed long moments later by deep inhalations as his body reminded him that respiration was necessary. Elbows atop his desk, he lowered his head into his hands.

During his forty years as an Imperial officer he had dealt with all kinds: Imperial, Rebel-now-New-Republic, soldier, civilian, criminal, politician. Only the period directly after the Emperor’s murder had been as difficult as now. Here was a chance to rectify things, if only this Kaist was the kind of woman they all hoped. Nothing remained hidden forever, a fact both frightening and comforting. Confronting this was difficult, and sometimes only his oath of allegiance prevented his suicide. Imperials, at least real Imperials, took oaths seriously. Very seriously.

After a while of such rumination, Ardel switched on his intercom. “Desk, this is Colonel Ardel. I will be taking a call on a secure channel. Do not interrupt me until otherwise told. Oh, yes, have Lieutenant Ferrin handle the records department snarl, and tell Captain Tesciku that the forms Dugan needs were sent.”

“Yes, sir,” replied whoever manned the desk.

Standing up, Ardel went to his office door. He locked it. Returning to his desk he took a comlink from a drawer, on which he summoned a subspace tranceiver signal, a blue light proclaiming success.

“Ardel,” demanded the comlink, “is that you?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Ardel. “You wished contact when the pleasantries were done.” He grimaced at the absurdities secret communications required.

''“I asked for contact, not live subspace transmission! Don’t you realize how reckless this is?”''

“Governor, I know, but there is a slight wrinkle I thought you should know. The pleasantries were repackaged.”

“How do you mean?”

Ardel took a breath. “Governor, the regiment... she joined 404th Regiment.”

There was a silence from the radio, and when the gubernatorial voice spoke again, it was somber. ''“Spast! Listen to me, Jordun, matters are getting complicated over here. The others are still split, but now Wettigin is interfering. There is no knowing what he knows.”''

“Governor, when you say us... don’t include me. I am done. Don’t tell me what happens. I don’t want to know.”

“There are only two sides, Jordun.”

Ardel sighed resignedly. “Yes, Chiroba, there are. But I don’t like this at all. You shouldn’t have become involved. Neither of us should have become involved.”