| abstract
| - Standing in the open hatch of his Chariot command speeder, Imperial Army officer Eyla Scozentuvic of the 6545th Armored Division’s 79th Battalion switched his datapad tactical map from three-dimensional to topographical mode. He glanced up to consult the broken landscape through his electrobinoculars. No sign of Rebel forces, although they were plainly nearing the fighting. As his tank column approached the battlefield, survivors from the broken 9302nd Infantry Division were met with greater frequency. Completely exhausted, uniforms ragged and equipment missing, they trudged along, a mass of green- and grey-clad Humans, sparing only relieved glances at the Scozentuvic’s passing 79th. Followed some klicks behind by the temporarily subordinate 68th and 112th repulsorlift battalions, Scozentuvic forged onward. Survivors could wait. Battles could not. His orders were clear: find and rescue the 439th Airborne Division. Rescue, that was, if it still existed, a notion beginning to look increasingly unlikely as new Intel came in. Clearly, their frontline units were in far worse shape than even orbital surveillance revealed. Four years ago this would have been unthinkable. Four years ago the Rebels, now styling themselves as the New Republic, had no army of which to speak. Four years ago hundreds of systems would not have deserted to the Rebels, bringing with them the very vehicles, weapons, and equipment manufactured to fight rebellion, not supply it. Four years ago the Moffs, Generals, and Admirals would have stood together. Four years ago the Emperor still lived. At their commander’s signal, a simple upraised arm and clenched fist, the entire column of nearly one hundred tanks and armored speeders slowed to a halt. The Juggernaut Scozentuvic had eschewed as command post in favor of the more nimble Chariot took the longest and was the loudest, excluding the AT-AA. Studying the surroundings, the commander mused. True, the lightly wooded hills were not particularly suited for sheltering enemy troops, but he had been shouted at by enough Clone Wars veterans to never presume safety. After all, the Emperor himself had been safe, too, at least until the Rebels killed him. Besides, the Rebels were augmented by forces of the defector General Dzod. An axiom from his training rose to mind: For every problem a solution must be found. It is the commander’s duty to see that the objectives of the mission are obtained. He is personally responsible should the mission fail. If the objective is of importance, he is to succeed regardless of the method needed to obtain success. It is the commander’s duty to see that success is obtained in accordance with the directives of the New Order. Admittedly, this situation of Dzod’s mass defection presented unique problems. But Scozentuvic would solve them to the best of his ability. Standing orders simplified things, especially the order that all captured defectors be summarily executed. Distasteful, yes, but so was war. Fully five local days ago, the 9302nd had come under heavy artillery barrage from Dzod and his Rebel allies. Two days later they were overrun, losing their headquarters and most of their HQ staff, including loyalist General Junania. Although possessing firepower unequaled by Rebel units of comparable size, Imperial infantry divisions were unequipped to face armored assault by their own kind. Only the timely arrival of the 439th Airborne had save them from total destruction. Nevertheless, the Empire’s troops were still failing, so concern had grown, leading to Scozentuvic’s deployment. He was not alone—another two divisions were being sent to shore up the impending breach. It was, the Imperial officer could not help but think, a waste of men and materiel. Not the battle, but the whole defense of the planet. Isard had been mistaken to believe a rock like Prenticcio was worth the trouble. The inhabitants hated them, supplies had to be delivered under guard of an entire Navy task force, and frankly there was no strategic significance to the planet. Now, of course, Coruscant was captured and Isard was gone, but the Empire did not withdraw its troops. In fact, Scozentuvic shared a growing suspicion with his compatriots that Army Command had actually forgotten it was waging the campaign. Though what did he know? Wars killed, they maimed and mutilated. Orphans and widows were made, lives were destroyed. At least the Empire fought to end war, to establish peace and order. Naturally, Scozentuvic did not approve everything the Empire did. Alderaan, for example, gnawed at his conscience, as it did at the conscience of every good Imperial. But as a child of the Clone Wars he believed in the New Order. Movement away to the southeast caught his attention. A cluster of Imperials trailing behind a battered open-top speeder truck that itself was packed demoralized soldiers. How had they passed his recon squads without notice? Wait, there was the answer. One of his picket walkers was further behind them. Curious. It had not already returned to its squad. Scozentuvic signaled his column to continue moving. He momentarily disengaged his Chariot and a hoverscout for escort to intercept the picket walker, which was itself signaling a priority code. Apparently, the newcomers were, or had been, part of a battalion command staff. “Captain Kojani Oija reporting, sir,” saluted one of the soldiers, a middle-aged man with bleary eyes and stubble obscuring the thin moustache military regulations indulgently allowed. He was visibly as weary as the other survivors yet encountered, swaying a little as he spoke. “Executive officer, 201st Battalion, 9302nd Infantry. We were wiped out by a Rebel thrust a day ago. I still don’t know where are all our boys.” Scozentuvic saluted briefly. “Colonel Eyla Scozentuvic, 79th Battalion, 6545th Armor. Commanding the relief force.” Oija’s face twitched slightly at the revelation. “Sorry, sir, didn’t know. Thanks for bailing us out, sir. Whatever you need just ask.” Scozentuvic looked him over and concluded the man was in no condition to rejoin the battle. “Right now just information. Where’s your CO?” Oija gestured to the speeder truck. “Major Firendo. In there. He’s hurt pretty bad. Got caught in an explosion. We stopped the bleeding and patched him up with synthflesh and bacta patches, but we don’t think he’ll make it.” “I’m sorry to hear it,” said Scozentuvic perfunctorily. Oija glanced again at the speeder, then he shrugged disinterestedly. “We’re not. He’s a fool. We’ll be better off without him.” “So you’re acting commander now, Captain?” Another unsoldierly shrug from the man too tired to play the part. “Yes sir, for what it’s worth. Two-hundred-first Battalion doesn’t really exist anymore. We’re scattered all over, Vader-knows-where, and we’ve lost all our heavy equipment.” “You still want to fight?” “Frankly, sir, no.” “What, in your opinion, would Major...Firendo, was it?” “Yes sir, Frirendo.” “What would he want? Honesty, Captain. I want honesty.” “He’d...tell us to regroup and counterattack.” “What would you do?” “We just need to regroup. We need to reorganize as a proper unit, sir. We’re not fit for anything else yet. We probably should try and find a comm post and do it from there.” Scozentuvic smiled grimly. “That’s why you’re a better officer than Firendo, Captain. That’s why you’re going to do exactly what you said.” He ordered his staff to assign the major a repulsor scout, and to attach an aide to the party. Oija’s begrimed face hesitantly brightened. “Yes sir. What about my major?” “We’ll send him to a med base, and if he’s as inept as you say, we’ll beg the Emperor’s ghost to keep him there a long, long time.” The captain shook his head “Begging your pardon, sir, he may be a kriffing fool, but he‘s our kriffing fool. We‘d rather take him along with us.” Suddenly, Scozentuvic’s headset crackled quietly and the voice of his communications officer murmured into his ear. “Sir, they’re lying. Our latest report on 201st Battalion confirms Major Firendo and Captain Oija killed-in-action. Eyewitness confirmation. They're probably hostile recon.” Scozentuvic accepted the news impassively, although realization flooded his mind, bringing his body to full alert. Dzod’s men. “No, I’m sorry, Captain,” he said to the false-Oija, “but if Firendo is in as poor condition as you say, then I’m afraid I must order him to a medical facility immediately.” Ersatz-Oija hesitated, his mind doubtless racing. “Colonel, I must protest,” he began. Then realizing his ruse was failing he took a desperate gambit. “Take ‘em out, boys! They’re on to us!” Instantly, the demoralized and exhausted soldiers aboard the speeder truck transformed into alert combatants, seizing blasters that lay hidden, while those on the ground scattered for cover. Ersatz-Oija snatched a grenade from within his jacket and leaped onto Scozentuvic’s Chariot with a snarl. The Imperial colonel punched his attacker squarely in the face, his gauntleted fist smashing the defector’s nose in with a spray of blood. The man crumpled backward with a gurgle, presumably from the blood flooding his nasal cavity. As he sought to regain an upright posture, a blaster bolt from the Chariot’s belly gun shot him in the head, destroying much of his face and sending his helmet spinning away. Although the defectors fought bravely, they did not last more than a few moments. Their courage, Scozentuvic knew sourly, was really no more than resignation to the fact they were already dead men. When the slaughter finished, the speeder truck and the captured picket walker were a smoking piles of metal littered around with charred corpses. The wounded defectors were killed where they lay according to orders. Their dead eyes stared back at him from faces frozen in death’s slack-jawed expression of stupidity, as if asking him, Why? Because you’re traitors, the Imperial colonel thought angrily, more so at his own disgust than at the dead men. It didn’t have to end like this. You were Imperial soldiers. You were sworn to preserve peace. Instead you spawned war. Why did you do it? Finally, he dismissed the troubled thought and returned to his Chariot. “Alright, let’s get back to the column,” he ordered. Seven hours later, on a hillside on Prenticcio’s southern continent, several klicks short of the savaged 439th Airborne, Colonel Eyla Scozentuvic of the 6545th Armored Division’s 79th Battalion never again had to anguish over loyalty to the New Order. He was as dead as the defectors he had killed, corpse charred and his eyes staring blankly skyward from his head that lay severed three meters away. Around him smoked the burnt-out wreckage of his armored column, destroyed by Rebel bombers. Somewhere in another system a database recorded another commander who had failed his duty—failed because a dead soldier masquerading as one Captain Oiji had succeeded.
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