Unprisoned

2001 short story by Andrew Dick

Five years after Episode IV – A New Hope

One

Yate Livillian found that he couldn’t sleep again. Rising from his narrow cot, he crossed the cold stone floor to the window and, standing on tiptoe, peered out. A wild storm was raging outside tonight, the worst Livillian had seen since he arrived four months ago. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine the rocks a hundred metres below, jagged black teeth tearing at the storm-whipped sea. He wished he could climb through the window and hurl himself down on those rocks, but it was not to be. As far as Yate Livillian could tell, that was the whole point of Preszar Prison: to make the inmates wish for death, and deny their wishes. Such was the Empire’s revenge.

He had been a Stormtrooper corporal, and had gunned down six of his colleagues. The prosecutor had demanded the death penalty, but Livillian’s counsel had argued temporary insanity, and the sentence handed down had been life imprisonment. But the judge had not been kind in his choice of prison: Preszar was where the Empire sent those who were never to be seen again. A bleak, cold place that never saw sunlight. The guards were changed every six months to stop them going mad, but even new guards knew how to dish out the most savage of beatings. The Empire saw to that, too.

The former Stormtrooper lay back down on the cot, pulled the meagre blankets about his body, and tried once more to sleep.

Two

The prison guard jumped out of his chair in fright as a heavy hand banged on the steel door. Despite the storm, he’d been almost asleep. As he walked over to the door, his fright gave way to puzzlement. Who would be here at this time of night? And how did they get here? He’d heard no shuttle land, and only a madman would have crossed the narrow stone causeway that connected the mainland to the rocky island the prison was built on.

Nevertheless, he thumbed on the security holocam. Outside stood a tall human male, looking directly into the camera. The guard thought the man’s face was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He pressed the switch for the microphone.

   “Who’s there?” asked the guard.

The man held an ID card up to the holocam. The picture was slightly fuzzy, but the guard recognised the name, and the rank. Fumbling with his keys, he opened the inner door, and then the outer one. The rain rushed through the door, soaking the front of his uniform. When he wiped the water out of his eyes, he realised that the door was closed once more and that the man – no, the officer – was standing in front of him. The officer was absolutely drenched, and the guard realised that the newcomer had crossed the causeway.

   “Thank you.” said the officer. “I’m here to see one of your prisoners.”

   “Sir?” asked the guard uncertainly. He was sure it was against regulations, but the man in front of him had Vice-Admiral’s rank cylinders. He also had a reputation as a hard man, who had recently gone up against the tough slaver gangs of Cefis and crushed them. It was even rumoured he had served under the late, great Darth Vader. It did not help the careers, or even health, of prison guards to refuse such men their requests.

   “I realise that this visit is unusual, but may I speak with him? His name is Corporal Livillian.” continued the Vice-Admiral.

Taken aback by the officer’s politeness, the guard could only nod.

Three

Yate Livillian was finally asleep, and the nightmares had come again. For a year they had visited him, ever since that day in the hills above Baltassar City. Pasted by the Imperial forces in the cities and on the plains, the last of the Rebels had taken to the foothills of the Phinourn Mountains. As standard, the Imperials had sent the Stormtroopers into the hills to finish the job.

Livillian’s patrol had stumbled into a Rebel cell, and had lost one member to Rebel rifle fire. Livillian himself had been wounded and incapacitated. The retreating Rebels managed to evade the Stormtroopers, who had taken their frustrations out on the nearest village. The wounded corporal, clutching his bleeding leg, had lain on the slope above the village and listened. He’d listened to the screams as the villagers were tortured, raped, murdered. Livillian had lain helplessly on the ground sobbing, praying to a long-forgotten deity to stop the horrors going on down below. And then he passed out.

Three weeks later, a freshly healed Livillian had gone out on patrol again and calmly assassinated every last one of the guilty men. In a deadly game of hide-and-seek in a forest, the corporal’s sharp shooting skills had accounted for all of them, but not before one got a message back to the barracks. More Stormtroopers had come and captured him, beating him senseless.

For the next few days Livillian’s superiors argued over what to do with him. There were constant whispers of the Deyer Massacre of five years previous, in which fifteen Imperial troops and officers were slain in one evening in an already-conquered city. Local rumour insisted that it was an Imperial officer who had taken an attack of conscience and had shot any colleagues he found committing war crimes. There was a huge investigation and many careers were ruined, but the culprit was never found and it was finally blamed on the Rebels.

With this in mind, the local Governor had decreed that Livillian be put on trial. There would be no rumours on Baltassar. The trial had taken only two days, and no mention was made of the dead Stormtroopers’ crimes.

Four

   “Livillian!” shouted the guard, dragging the sleeping man from the bed. The prisoner reflexively curled himself into a ball as the guard aimed a kick at his head.

   “That will be all.” said the officer quietly. “Wait at your desk.” The guard shuffled out without a word, and disappeared. Livillian eyed the officer very warily. “Please, sit.” the officer gestured to the bed, and Livillian sat down on it.

The Vice-Admiral paced to the opposite wall and crossed his arms. For a long moment he stared at the prisoner, before speaking.

   “You are Corporal Yate Livillian?” he asked. “Convicted for the Phinourn Incident?”

   “Yes, sir.” confirmed the prisoner.

   “I am Vice-Admiral Serno Arolsen.” the officer introduced himself.

   “I’ve heard of you, sir.” replied Livillian.

   “Much of it exaggerated, I’m sure.” said Arolsen dismissively. “I have come here to offer you a job, Corporal.”

   “What?” Livillian refused to believe his ears.

   “The correct response is ‘excuse me, sir?’ not ‘what?’” said the officer almost conversationally. “I’ll say it again, I have come to offer you a job. I have need of a sharpshooter.”

   “But sir, there are thousands of-“

   “Are you questioning me, Corporal?” interrupted Arolsen.

   “No, sir.”

   “Good. It’s not a complicated decision. Yes or no?”

   “Uh… yes?”

   “There, now what was so damned difficult about that?” said the Vice-Admiral, throwing a waterproof bag onto the cell floor. “That bag contains warm clothing. Get dressed. You’ve got two minutes.” the officer stepped just outside the cell.

Livillian scrambled into the clothing. Arolsen might have come to put him before a firing squad, or send him on a suicide mission, but whatever it was, it had to be better than Preszar Prison.

Five

The salt spray stung Livillian’s eyes as he edged cautiously across the slick stone causeway to the mainland. He looked down to the rocks below to see the white breakers smashing against the rocks, and found that he had no desire whatsoever to jump down there. He hurried to catch up with Arolsen as the other man stepped onto the mainland.

He promised himself that from now on, nothing would surprise him about his new boss. Not after the way the guard had docilely agreed to Livillian’s release, allowing Arolsen to remove Livillian’s records and with them all trace that the Corporal had ever been there. Not after seeing the man stride briskly across this narrow strip of stone in high winds and crashing waves.

   “So tell me, Corporal Livillian.” shouted Arolsen above the wind. “Do you have any regrets?”

   “About what?” shouted Livillian in return.

   “The Phinourn Incident, of course.” called the officer as Livillian caught up with him. As they pushed on through the rain, he could make out the outline of what appeared to be a sturdy, enclosed landspeeder.

   “No.” said Livillian after some thought.

Arolsen just nodded.

   “I apologise for not getting here sooner, Corporal. You must have suffered a great deal.”

Livillian frowned. What the hell was this guy on about, getting here sooner?

   “Yes, sir.” he replied. “I was accused of just about anything you could think of: being a Rebel sympathiser, a Jedi, you name it. Someone even suggested I was guilty of the Deyer Massacre.”

Arolsen barked a short laugh.

   “I know you’re not guilty of the Deyer Massacre, Corporal.” he said as they reached the landspeeder. “Get in.” he ordered.

   “Know? How?”

Arolsen turned to look at Livillian.

   “Because it was me.” he replied.