The acrid smell of scorched earth and spilled blood still hung heavy in the air of Sector 3, a grim testament to the brutality that had unfolded. The plaza was a scene of controlled chaos, Imperial troopers moving with grim efficiency to clear the debris and secure the area. Nine stood with his squad, the silence among them more deafening than any blaster fire. The weight of the massacre pressed down on him, a physical ache in his chest that no amount of filtered air could alleviate. His armor, still bearing the marks of the recent conflict – a smear of dark grime here, a faint scorch mark there – felt heavier than usual. The faces of his squadmates, hidden behind their standard issue Stormtrooper helmets, were unreadable, but the tension in their posture, the rigidity of their movements, spoke volumes. They were soldiers, trained to suppress emotion, to follow orders without question, but even the most hardened among them must have felt the chilling impact of what had transpired.
Not far from the plaza, in the hastily erected command center, a structure of reinforced durasteel panels and flickering data screens, two Imperial officers spoke in hushed tones. The air inside was thick with the scent of recycled oxygen and the low hum of electronic equipment. "The reports are coming in," one said, a pale man with a nervous tic that caused his left eyelid to flutter incessantly. He clutched a datapad in his hand, his knuckles white. "Liphtu II is a powder keg. This incident... it's only going to make things worse. The mining population was already on the verge, and this... this could push them over."
The other officer, a grizzled veteran with a scar across his eyebrow that gave him a perpetually stern look, leaned back in his chair, the worn leather creaking softly. He took a long drag from a thin, electronic cigar, the tip glowing a faint blue. "We need to contain this. The Emperor cannot afford any more bad press, not after the Death Star and Alderaan. The whispers are already spreading across the Outer Rim like a virus. We'll spin it as a swift Imperial response to a terrorist attack. Blame the rebels, bury the civilian casualties. Make examples of a few agitators, and the rest will fall in line."
"But the miners... they're not fools," the pale officer protested, his voice a little higher now. "Information has a way of leaking out, even in the Outer Rim. There are sympathizers, clandestine communication channels. They'll know the truth."
"Then we ensure it doesn't," the veteran said, his voice hard and devoid of any empathy. He exhaled a plume of blue smoke. "Increased patrols, tighter security perimeters, severe consequences for anyone caught spreading dissent or questioning Imperial authority. Fear is a powerful tool, Lieutenant. A far more effective tool than placation." He gest looked at the pale officer, his eyes cold and calculating. "Make sure the official reports are scrubbed clean. No mention of excessive force, no acknowledgment of civilian casualties. This was a legitimate military operation against known rebel elements. End of story."
Nine and his squad were ordered to the Imperial Interrogation Center, a stark, utilitarian building on the outskirts of the settlement. The structure was made of grey, featureless duracrete, its only distinguishing features being the heavily reinforced door and the small, barred windows high up on the walls. The air inside was cold and sterile, a sharp contrast to the dust and heat outside. The corridors echoed with the muffled sounds of questioning, of pain, and of the heavy boots of guards on patrol. The scent of disinfectant mingled with something metallic, something that Nine recognized from his training simulations – the coppery smell of blood.
As they arrived, Zank was approached by a higher-ranking officer, a man with a paunch and a receding hairline, who adjusted the collar of his uniform with a nervous gesture. "Blade Squad, Zank, JM-909," the officer barked, his voice a little too loud in the quiet corridor. "You two are assigned to guard duty for the interrogation of the captured rebel. The official in charge is... thorough. Very thorough. Ensure no interruptions. No one goes in, no one comes out, until he's finished."
Nine exchanged a glance with Zank, though the masked face of his squad leader revealed nothing. Zank simply gave a curt nod, his deep-set eyes meeting the officer's for a brief moment before turning away. They were led to a small, heavily secured room. The door was made of thick, blast-proof metal, and a small viewport allowed them to see inside.
Inside, an interrogation official, a man with a gaunt face, thinning grey hair, and cold, reptilian eyes, stood over a bound figure. The figure was a miner, his face bruised and swollen, his clothes torn and stained with sweat and dirt. He was strapped to a chair, his wrists and ankles secured with heavy restraints. Despite the brutal treatment, there was a flicker of defiance in his eyes, a spark of resistance that even the brutal surroundings could not extinguish. On a metal table beside the official lay an array of tools, their surfaces gleaming dully under the harsh fluorescent light.
"So, you admit to coordinating the attack?" the official's voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried a chilling intensity that sent a shiver down Nine's spine. It was the voice of someone who enjoyed inflicting pain, who relished the breaking of spirits.
The miner spat on the floor, a weak, defiant gesture. "We fought for our lives. For our homes. You took everything from us."
"Don't play the victim," the official said, his hand gripping a tool on the table – a wicked-looking instrument with a sharp, curved point. "We know you're not just a simple miner. We have intercepted communications. You are part of something larger. Something organized. Tell us who you're working for. Is it the Alliance?"
Nine stood by the door, his blaster held at the ready, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. The screams from Sector 3 still echoed in his ears, a phantom symphony of pain and terror. The image of the boy with the explosives flashed before his eyes, a stark reminder of the innocent lives caught in the crossfire. Was this man a terrorist, a cold-blooded killer, or a desperate soul fighting against an oppressive regime? The official narrative painted a clear picture – rebels, terrorists, enemies of the Empire.
Zank stood silently beside him, an unmoving statue of Imperial resolve. His masked face was a blank canvas, revealing nothing of the thoughts or emotions, if any, that stirred within him. Nine wondered what lay behind that scarred mask. Was it just a covering for a terrible wound, or did it also serve as a shield for a soul hardened by years of war and brutality? Did Zank feel anything as he stood there, guarding a scene of torture? Or had he been so completely molded by the Empire that he was incapable of empathy?
The interrogation continued, a grueling exchange of questions and defiant silence. The official's methods were indeed thorough, and Nine had to clench his jaw, his knuckles white inside his gloves, to suppress a reaction to the sounds of pain that emanated from the bound miner. Each whimper, each gasp, was a blow to Nine's already fragile conscience. He had witnessed brutality before, had even inflicted it himself in the heat of battle, but this… this felt different. This was cold, calculated cruelty, designed to break a man's will, to extract information through suffering.
Finally, under immense pressure, the miner broke. His voice was hoarse, his words a mix of pain and resignation, each syllable an admission of defeat. "It wasn't... it wasn't just us. There's a fleet... a parallel fleet. They contacted us. Promised us support. Said they wanted to expose the Empire's weakness. To show the galaxy what happens on worlds like Liphtu II. To create a scandal that would turn the Outer Rim against the Emperor."
The official's eyes narrowed, a flicker of intense interest replacing the cold cruelty. "A parallel fleet? To the Rebel Alliance? Who commands it? Where is it based?"
"They have their own agenda. They planned this. The massacre... it was meant to happen. To create a scandal. To turn the Outer Rim against the Empire. They used us. They promised us freedom, but they just wanted to make a point. To show the galaxy how the Empire crushes dissent, how it sacrifices innocent lives to maintain control."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The revelation was a shock, even to the hardened Imperial official. This wasn't just a local uprising, a desperate act by a downtrodden population; it was a calculated act of sabotage, designed to erode the Empire's already wavering support in the Outer Rim territories.