Project Boussh: Commandingly To Their Souls He Spoke
by Majick

Stormtrooper Lieutenant 2912, the squad leader, sighed as he reviewed once
more his mission parameters.
"An unknown number of hostiles have entered the ship at numerous insertion
points. Track and take down, dead or alive."
The loss of contact with Team Three had brought 2912 and his own Team Seven
down to this darkened area of the main hangar corridor. He didn't make the
decisions. If he did, he wouldn't have sent his team down to take out an
enemy force capable of defeating the Admonitor's best stormtrooper team.
They'd found Team Three's bodies five minutes earlier. One of them had been
lacking a head on its shoulders, though the way the head had been placed on
the still chest had at least reduced search time.
The others had been injured. Those better off had talked of silent shapes
moving through the darkness, and a black clad presence behind them, throwing
lightning. He'd been prepared to dismiss the idea, but for his memories of
life in the Imperial Palace fifteen years before, when he was still a fresh
faced Lieutenant. That day when the first of the Rebel leaders had been
brought before Emperor Palpatine... 2912 still shuddered at the thought.
So, he knew that black clad men could throw lightning, and the cauterised
wound burnt through the leg of one of the troopers seemed to lend the idea
more credence. Still, if someone with the Emperor's powers were aboard the
Admonitor, 2912 very much doubted that they would have noticed anything at
all amiss. He'd been on duty the night the Emperor had lowered the Lusankya
into the very bedrock of Coruscant as well. He'd fought against the 'Rebel
cells' that had existed in that area, had participated in the wholesale
destruction of people and property. He'd worried at the time that it hadn't
affected him.
He'd worried still more a month later, when the Lusankya was buried, and
no-one else seemed to remember the preceding months.
That kind of power could only have come from the Emperor.
2912 felt his joints creak as he rose from his crouch beside the last of
Team Three. It happened more often these days, he knew. His fortieth
birthday wasn't so far away, might even already have gone. He wondered
sometimes how old he was, exactly, but dismissed the thought. It would have
been nice if he could have remembered his exact birthday, however. He
wondered as well when it was that he'd first forgotten.
He shook his head slightly, and signalled his eight troops to form up on
him. Then the lights around them failed.
Looking up into the gloom, he knew that the infiltrators had somehow
sabotaged the lighting for this section. Switching his helmet lenses over to
infra-red vision, he led his troops away from the scene of battle. The soft
moans of the wounded men followed him.

The faintest twinge. Like a cool breath on hot skin. He twitched, and
focussed his lenses still tighter. There. A faint heat signature, on the
other side of a storeroom bulkhead. Small, faint, but there. And not human.
Trooper 3417 passed silently by, having picked up on his commanding officer's
hand signal. A good man, 3417, and the probable successor to him should he
at some point prove unfit for further command.
Perhaps today he would prove himself unfit.

The first 3417 knew of anything was a searing pain in his shoulder. He
looked down, with difficulty, to see a glowing violet-yellow light
protruding several inches from the shell of his armour. Then the darkness
claimed him.

2912 tried to draw his pistol, only to find a strong, rough skinned hand
holding it in place in its holster. He felt his head pushed forward as a
circle of cold metal pushed against the base of his skull. His hand fell
away from the butt of the pistol, and he sighed.
Daring to look ahead, he saw 3417 lying motionless on the floor, and a
figure in jet black clothing, from hooded head on downwards, standing over
him. He took in the figure's height, stance, clothing, and most of all the
long pipe in its hand, and hissed between clenched teeth.
"Jedi," he spat.
The figure turned its head towards the Lieutenant. It paced slowly towards
him, and made a slight gesture at someone behind him. 2912 felt the gun pull
slowly away from the base of his skull, and sighed slightly.
"You call me a Jedi, but you're wrong. I am in charge of fifteen angry
Noghri, though. That's almost as good."
"You carry a lightsabre," 2912 spat. The black clad man looked at it as
though seeing it for the first time.
"Good point, but not really valid. Suffice to say I inherited it."
"Fifteen Noghri?" 2912 asked, his mind catching up with his ears.
"Yep. Hence sending squads of nine against us will not be of much use."
"So you might think," 2912 said, reaching for all the confidence he could.
"But you don't know what our capabilities are."
The black clad man pulled the hood away from his face. 2912 stared
defiantly into the green eyes of his adversary, the effect blunted slightly
by the faceplate of his helmet. The green eyes seemed to burrow into him,
piercing the plasteel lenses as easily as any blaster bolt would.
"Why not tell me..."
"Lieutenant," mewled one of the Noghri. The voice made 2912 start slightly.
"Well, Lieutenant, I think you should tell me exactly what these
'capabilities' of yours are. I'm most intrigued now."
2912 sighed. After twenty years of life as a stormtrooper, he knew when the
odds weren't in his favour. Now, with fifteen Noghri and this
preternaturally calm leader of theirs, he knew the odds, the deck, the
dealer and the casino were stacked against him.
"How are my men?" he asked, suddenly weary with defeat.
"Alive," the black clad man replied.
"And how did you avoid our infra-red scans?"
"Freon gel in my body armour. The Noghri just hid in the air vents. No-one
ever looks there."
"You'll fight the royal guard. The Admiral will have no choice but to send
them after you. Good as you and your men are, he'll have to engage you. And
you'll die. No-one fights the Royal Guardsmen and survives. If I almost
detected you, they will detect you. And you'll die before you realise
they're there."
"The royal guard wears red, right?" Black-clad didn't look particularly
bothered by the threat.
"Yes, so?"
"Should be easy to see red against the grey and black you Imperials use as
background. You know," he added contemplatively. "I could do wonders in here
with some paint and an army of decorators. Wonders..." His voice trailed
off, and he looked dreamily around the corridor for a few seconds. Then he
snapped to, and looked at 2912.
"We'll just unload your weapons, and be on our way. I shouldn't think any
of you are too keen to go into unarmed combat with the Noghri, are you?"
2912 knew his men were shaking their heads. The thought didn't thrill him,
either, especially as Black-clad hadn't mentioned disarming the Noghri
beforehand. Of course, to disarm a Noghri, you generally had to kill him.
A Noghri appeared at the side of black-clad, his bandoleer now sporting a
number of Imperial issue rifle power-packs. 2912 dared to hope, when he saw
that only seven packs were present. Didn't any of them know about the spare
each man carried?
Black-clad himself pulled the pistol from 2912's holster, and disarmed it.
Staring deep into 2912's eyes, he tossed the power pack to the Noghri who
clipped it to his bandoleer. Re-holstering the weapon, Black-clad raised his
hood, tossed 2912 a jaunty salute, and turned to walk away. As he moved off,
the Noghri formed up on him. When the last was away, He heard the sounds of
Imperial rifles being loaded. He drew his own pistol, and slotted a spare
power pack into place. Sighting on the nearest Noghri, he pulled the
trigger.
Sleeping gas spewed from the weapon, bypassing his helmet's filters, and
inducing an instant sense of sleepiness in his body. Dropping to the floor,
he realised the rest of the squad had been affected too. His last conscious
thought was that Black-clad and his team might have some chance against the
Guardsmen after all.