Soldier for the Empire (6 page)

Kyle's thoughts were elsewhere, however, focused as they were on the back in front of him, and the absolute necessity of staying in step. Especially since graduation from Cliffside involved one final test, a tradition that had emerged with the Empire itself, and had resulted in more than thirty-six deaths.

The test started with a turn to the right, and the long march around the west end of the quad, past the grandstand at the foot of the hospital stairs, past the platform on which General Mohc and a cluster of senior officers stood, past the imposing administration building and the bronze mantigrues that guarded its doors, and straight for the five- hundred-foot drop from which the academy had taken its unofficial name.

It was a challenge that the cadets had faced countless times during the last four years - and successfully - except for one critical fact. True to tradition, and with safety in mind, they had never faced the abyss itself. During drills, while practicing for this critical moment, a bright yellow line had been used to represent the edge of the dropoff, and like most of his fellow cadets, Kyle could remember what it felt like to stumble, trip, or fall over that symbolic cliff.

The difference was that the consequence for those mistakes consisted of a tongue-lashing followed by fifty pushups, whereas for the real thing, a poorly phrased order, a lack of teamwork, or a moment of lost concentration could result in death.

The cadets had spent untold hours arguing over the matter of placement and the relative risks attendant to each position. Each column consisted of four men abreast. Thanks to his medium height, and position in the alphabet, Kyle had been assigned to the sixth rank on the right flank.

While most of his peers felt that this position was not as risky as a slot in the first rank, any placement on the right flank was iffy, as they would skirt the edge of the cliff after the column arrived at the southeast corner of the parade ground and wheeled left.

This was judgment Kyle knew to be true since he had gone to the trouble to research the matter three months before and discovered that of the thirty six cadets who had fallen to their deaths, fully sixteen had marched on the right flank.

Nathan Donar, who, for reasons transparent to everyone except his toadies, had been given the temporary rank of Cadet Company Commander, marched next to the inside flank and would make the critical call.

Kyle watched the administration building pass through the corner of his eye, quickly followed by the engineering complex, and knew the turn was coming up. Three previous companies had completed the evolution successfully, or so he assumed, but what if Donar made a mistake? What if his voice froze, like what's-his-name - Stor's - had three years previously? The entire front rank had marched off the edge as straight as you please, and the whole bunch of them would have followed if Stor hadn't croaked the word "halt," and reformed the company. The fact that he subsequently took the plunge solo was regarded as unfortunate but fitting. It was held up as an illustration of courage, obedience, and responsibility.

Was it all those things? Or was it just plain stupidity? Kyle had never been able to make up his mind.

Kyle, who thought he had mastered his fear on the asteroid, felt liquid lead trickle into the pit of his stomach and swallowed the lump in his throat.

Donar, conscious of the fact that his mother and father were watching from the grandstand, and that he had an almost overwhelming urge to pee, did his best to penetrate the glare. The trick was to issue the order at exactly the right moment so that the column wheeled, the right flank skimmed the edge of the abyss, and the crowd, their eyes glued to the video provided by hovering camera droids, received the expected thrill.

To aid in the task, and thereby ensure his success, Donar had taken the rather sensible precaution of placing a small self-adhesive disk at the precise point where the turn should begin. This was not in keeping with the Academy's traditions, perhaps. But it was consistent with his father's oft-repeated advice, "Only suckers take chances." Words to live by. The only trouble was that he couldn't see the marker. Was it there? And hidden by the glare? Or had some well-intentioned maintenance droid removed it during the night?

There was no way to know, which meant the Cadet Commander had to do it the hard way. He gulped, forced himself to wait for what he judged to be the last possible moment, and gave the order. "Company! Left turn, march!"

Kyle heard the order, felt the men on his left go into the turn, and took slightly longer steps. The abyss beckoned, came closer, then stabilized. He sensed that a third of his foot was over the edge each time it hit the pavement. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the next order came. "Company! Left turn, march!"

Nothing had ever felt so good as the moment when the company wheeled left and started down the quad's north side. By the time they had completed their circuit and taken up their position in front of the VIP platform, the rest of the cadets had "walked the edge" without casualties.

The fear associated with the abyss quickly turned to boredom as the Commandant introduced the first in a long list of guest speakers, the last of whom was General Mohc. He had a bulldog face, barrel chest, and relatively short frame. He at least was a real soldier and worthy of their attention. His speech was short and to the point.

"The Emperor spent more than a half-million credits to feed, house, and educate each one of you over the past four years. Not because he thought it would be the nice thing to do or because he likes military parades, but because he wants you to defend the Empire. An Empire which has been attacked from within.

"That's your job. To find the rot, cut it out, and restore order. Not the chaos that flows from a thousand voices demanding a thousand different things, but the consistency that flows from a single, well-conceived plan. The best plan. The right plan. The Emperor's plan. Thank you. And congratulations on your accomplishment."

The next part of the ceremony was extremely important to some of the cadets - those in the top ten percent of the class - and less so to everyone else. In spite of the fact that Kyle had worked hard to make the Commandant's honor roll, he felt ambivalent about being recognized for it. It was as if the mission, and the killing that had been part of it, made everything else seem meaningless.

The Commandant read a list of names and accomplishments over the PA system, while General Mohc, together with a man in a black robe, made their way through the ranks. Though he was not permitted to turn his head from the eyes-forward position, Kyle had excellent peripheral vision, arid used it to monitor their progress.

Mohc looked like what he was, an officer who followed orders, no matter how unpleasant they might be. No, it was the other man who held Kyle's eye, who sent a chill down his spine. Why? What was it about the figure in black that he found so frightening? He wasn't sure. The cadet, already at attention, stiffened even more as the men approached. Kyle heard his name boom over the public address system, accepted the honor baton that Mohc handed him, and was surprised to hear his name for a second time. "And, in recognition for his valor, and bravery in the face of the enemy, the Emperor hereby presents Second Lieutenant Kyle Katarn with the Medal of Valor, as well as the Empire's heartfelt gratitude."

In spite of the noonday sun, Kyle felt the air grow chilly as the other man stepped forward. A hood hung in folds around the hard angles of his face. A narrow strip of black leather obscured the place where his eyes should have been. A tracery of black tattoos swirled away from the corners of his downturned mouth. His voice was as soft as the flutter of bird's wings, yet loud enough to be heard.

"My name is Jerec. Greetings, Kyle Katarn. You have accomplished a great deal for one so young. Recognition is sweet, is it not? However, remember that recognition is a gift given by those who have power to those who don't. This is but the first step. Climb the ladder swiftly, join those who possess power, and claim what is yours. I will be waiting."

Hands touched his chest, the medal clicked against the magnetic bar sewn into the front of his uniform, and Kyle staggered as power surged through his nervous system. Not from Jerec, but from some place deep within, as if it had been hidden there all along.

For one brief moment Kyle "saw" the entire parade ground as if from above, including the Emperor's statue, the ranks of cadets, a wind-driven food wrapper, and a column of insects foraging for food.

Kyle "heard" the PA, the beating of his own heart, and a tiny almost infinitesimal "click" as the second hand on General Mohc's analog style chrono advanced to the next position. Kyle "felt" the power of Jerec's mind, understood the extent of his all-consuming hunger, and knew nothing would be allowed to stand between this man and what he wanted. Then Jerec stepped back, the connection snapped, and Kyle was left swaying as if in the wind, his nerves crackling as the final ergs of energy discharged through them.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a haze as Kyle tried to understand what had happened. Why would Jerec say the things he had? Were the words meant to be polite? Or was the invitation genuine? Did it mean what he thought it might? That he could rise to a position similar to Jerec's? And would he want such a thing even if it were possible?

The ceremony ended as it always had, with three cheers for the Emperor, caps tossed into the air, and mass pandemonium as the class was dismissed. Meek Odom appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Kyle around the waist, and lifted him off the ground. Other cadets, eager to see and touch his medal, crowded around. Then, their curiosity satisfied, they headed for the stands where friends and family waited, or back to the dorms, where, assuming they'd been invited, they would prepare for the usual rounds of dinners, dances, and parties. Kyle, like the rest of the rimmers in the class, had been snubbed.

Odom, sensitive to his friend's predicament, threw an arm over his shoulders. "Time to go, Mope face, assuming you're willing to consort with peasants, what with your medal and all. Who's the guy in black anyway? A snappy dresser he ain't."

Kyle had to laugh in spite of himself. "Beats me - called himself Jerec for whatever that's worth. Some kind of government official or something."

Odom shrugged. "Whatever. My parents have invited you to dinner. Something about meeting a hero. As though my assault on a deserted weapons factory had no value whatsoever. The nerve of these people!"

Kyle dragged his friend to a halt. "Cut the phobium, Meek. Your parents don't want me. They want you. As well they should. I'll take a rain check."

Odom had a square face, dark, nearly black skin, and a perpetual grin. "Negative on that, O decorated one. Are you coming peaceably? Or shall I drag you?"

Kyle looked, saw the determination in his friend's eyes, and smiled. "Will your sister be there?"

Odom laughed. "Be careful what you ask for, Katarn - you might just get it!"

The evening went well. Unlike so many of the Empire's wealthier families, the Odoms had no ties to the Emperor, and were genuinely nice. Meek's mother ran a small but successful import-export business, and his father was a celebrated architect. They, and their stunning daughter, were splendid hosts and the evening passed with surprising speed.

Finally, so full of good food that Kyle thought he might burst, the cadets returned to the dorm. What with the lifting of their curfew, and the MPs ignoring anything short of total mayhem, there were the predictable number of drunks both pleasant and less so.

The young men dodged the worst of the crazies and made it to their room without major mishap. Kyle had rid himself of his mess jacket, and removed most of his shirt studs, when he noticed that a message icon had appeared in the upper left-hand corner of his computer screen. It blinked with annoying regularity. He almost delayed reading it till morning, certain that it was one of the "Dear Cadet" bulletins that the Commandant loved to issue, but noticed Meek's screen was blank.

Curious, Kyle dropped into his chair, entered his access code, and waited for the message to appear. The words "Receipt Sent" appeared first, followed by the message itself.

"The Emperor regrets to inform you that your father, Morgan Katarn, was killed during a Rebel raid. No further information is available at this time. If you wish to speak with a therapist one will be made available upon request. To apply for compassionate leave select `Cadet Initiated Administrative Requests' from the main menu and press `enter.' Choose 'Compassionate Leave,' provide the appropriate information, and attach this message."

Kyle read the words three times before they acquired meaning. Then, sure that the whole thing was part of a cruel hoax perpetrated by one or more of his classmates, he looked for the authentication code that should appear across the bottom of the screen. Tears sprang to his eyes when he saw it. Morgan Katarn, his father, mentor, and best friend, was dead. Killed by the Rebels. Why? Why would they want to kill Morgan Katarn? Especially in light of the fact that his father was sympathetic to the Rebel cause, too sympathetic in Kyle's opinion, and had only reluctantly approved his application to the Academy. It didn't make sense. But nothing about war did, including the fact that he had survived while the rest of his team were killed.

Kyle remembered the Comm Center, the Rebels standing with their hands in the air, and knew he had committed a grievous error. Hong had been right. He should have given the order, should have killed every single one of them, should have left a room full of bodies. For the team, for his father, for himself.

Kyle stood, left a note on Meck's nightstand, and headed for the Office of Cadet Affairs. He'd be there when it opened. Maybe they'd have more information, maybe they'd make sense of it, or maybe it was a horrible misunderstanding. Yes, an error that could and would be resolved.

It was cold on the grinder. Moonlight caressed Palpatine's statue and threw darkness across the quad. Kyle, his thoughts as black as space itself, followed.