-BOY-

One tiny event can send your universe into a tailspin.

War does not make boys into men. War makes men dead.


BEEP...BEEP...BEEP...BEEPBEEPBEEP

The young man rolled over in bed and swatted at the offending noise. On the third swing, he managed to slap the snooze button on the small clock.

"Sonuva...already oh-five-hundred?" he said tiredly, blearily looking at the device. He sighed and rolled out of bed, making sure to hit the machine's off button, first. A minute later, the room's doorway to the refresher opened, shut; the sound of running water could be heard.

A few short minutes later, and the young man emerged again, toweling off his head and neck. He moved over to his dresser and pulled a precisely folded t-shirt out of the drawer, the fading words depicting a popular holo-flick blazoned across it. A sweatshirt was removed from the closet, this one with the sharp, clear letters of "STC ROTC" stitched across the back.

The young man opened the door to his room and tiptoed down the stairs, pausing for a moment in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, a couple protein bars, and his Limmie bag. He nudged open the door with the toe of his beat-up sneakers and stepped into the brisk early-morning weather.

"Heya, Gare!" came a soft shout from the front of the suburban house's lawn. "Over here, mate!"

Garryll Gates grinned at his best friend and walked across the dew-sprinkled grass. "Mornin', Conrad."

He tossed his Limmie bag into the back seat of the speeder, hearing it slap against a copy of itself, only in red instead of blue. Garryll pulled hard at the sticky handle of the old speeder's passenger-side door, and managed to get it open, once again, after only a couple yanks. He slid into the seat and slammed the offending door shut.

"Protein bar, Con?" Garryll asked, proffering one of the two wrapped bars.

Conrad shook his head and nodded at the road. "Gotta keep my eye on the prize - shit, no wonder you failed your driver's license test again. You were probably offering the instructor food while you were in the middle of Coronet traffic."

The taller of the two boys shrugged as he munched on his own bar, sipping at the bottle of water periodically to wash the sticky aftertaste from his mouth. "Eh, the last one was kind of a bitch. I was pretty sure I didn't do anything really wrong."

Conrad Griffen shook his head. "You always say that. And the last one was a man."

"I meant what I said, bro."

The driver shook his head again, smiling despite himself.

Conrad Griffen and Garryll Gates had been a double act for twelve years, or so the local stories went; they'd met when they were five, in kindergarten. As boys were known to do, they'd gotten in a fight (over crayons or slide or some trivial matter), and tussled for a few moments until the teacher had sent them to opposite sides of the room and had them sit with their faces in a corner. Their time-outs ended with a the two miniature combatants solemnly shaking hands, eying one another's split lips and trying to look more cool about the fantastic injury they'd no doubt bounced back from.

As such, the teacher was bewildered to see the two boys talking together animatedly the next day, and even more surprised to see the two boys hanging around one another for the entire rest of the year. From that point on, they seemed to be joined at the hip, as close as brothers. Both grew into rowdy, misbehaving boys, tall and lean, good enough at Limmie to stand out, athletic and as quick to start a child's game of war as to start a race. They were happy kids, terror of their teachers in a pair, friends with everyone. The adults despaired of ever getting these two to straighten out.

Then, in secondary school, Conrad's father, an aging Stormtrooper, moved back into the Coronet suburbs to help maintain the local STC garrison. A few days later, he showed up in the school behind a table, in full grey dress uniform, handing out military forms for the Stormtroopers Reserve Officer Training Corps. Garryll had stopped in the front hall, run a critical eye over the man's short row of gleaming medals, at the perfect creases in his trousers and dress jacket, and picked up a brochure. Conrad had smiled at his father - and received a small smile in return - and also scooped one up.

"You want to join the Corps, man?" Conrad had asked, holding up the four-page form. "Ain't your parents gonna send you off to college and make a bureaucrat outta you?"

"Not anymore," Garryll had grinned in return. "I'm going to be one of the Empire's finest. Patriotism, and all that."

Conrad had shaken his head, but he'd showed up the first day at five-thirty in the morning with Garryll at the school's athletic fields, wiping sleep out of his eyes and looking owlishly at the other boys and girls who'd found their way into the ROTC. Conrad's father, Staff Sergeant Willy Griffin, appeared at exactly five-thirty, dressed in a black full-body suit with a large bag over his shoulder. The dozen-odd middle schoolers looked at the Stormtrooper sleepily.

"Garryll!" called Conrad' father, having met the young man a few days earlier when he'd come over at the same time to have dinner at Conrad's house. "You look awake - tell me, who leads the Empire?"

"Emperor Palpatine, sir," Garryll said, standing a bit straighter. "Only Emperor in its sixteen-year history, previously Chancellor Palpatine."

"Very good," the older Griffin replied. "You, girl! What are the three arms of the Imperial Military?"

"Stormtroopers, Army and Navy, sir," replied a red-head with short, curly hair.

"Excellent. Griffin! What is the air-speed velocity of a LAAT/i gunship?"

"I...don't know, sir."

"Well then, maybe you should focus!" his father said, but they knew he wasn't totally serious - there was laughter in his voice, and he leaned over and opened the bag. From it, he pulled the shockingly white T-visored helmet of the intimidating Stormtrooper Corps. "This, boys and girls, is the famed Stormtrooper helmet - who wants to try it on?"

Garryll stepped forwards first, a moment before the curly-haired girl. She smiled at him and swept a hand forwards. "Age before beauty."

The young man chuckled; "Indeed."

He took the proffered helmet and placed it on his head; it was surprisingly light, and he could see moderately well, despite the little amount of light in the sky and the dull black visor. The voices seemed a little muffled, and Conrad was grinning like a loon. Willy Griffin leaned over and flicked a small switch on the inside of the helmet, and suddenly, Garryll was blinking in amazement.

The Heads-Up Display had activated, along with the external speakers and a plethora of other devices. He blinked, and the view changed to a green-tinted view - night vision, then. He tried to blink in that direction again, but he ended up activating a range-finder. "Cool!"

He could hear his voice projected out of the helmet, and a few of the other students nodded and grinned.

The speeder, a busted old piece of metal and duct tape and repulsorlifts and prayers, slid into the main parking lot of the Stormtrooper Corps garrison. Garryll finished up the protein bar and crumpled it into a small ball before dropping it into a small trash bag Conrad kept in his speeder. It joined a couple dozen of its brethren, crinkling softly as it unfolded. Conrad shoved his door open, as did Gates, then both slammed their doors shut and Conrad locked his beloved, aging vehicle. They shrugged into their sweatshirts and blew into their hands to keep the early-morning chill at bay.

Gates pulled what looked like dogtags from around his neck, and ran them through the front door scanner; Conrad did the same. The automatic doors hissed open a second later, revealing a utilitarian lobby and a heavily-muscled man behind a desk; his buzz cut and bulging biceps covered in tattoos ran contrary to the friendly smile he usually had stuck to his large face.

"Morning, Corporal," Garryll said, waving at the Stormtrooper.

"Morning, Cadets Gates and Griffin," the man said cheerfully, tapping thick fingers on his desk. "Your instructor's on the shooting range. Think you two are the first."

"Good, I don't want Smith and Johnny fouling up my rifle again," Conrad joked. Corporal Kline boomed laughter - Smith and Johnny were the two best of the cadets at cleaning and maintaining guns.

Garryll grinned as well and moved through a door at the back of the room. The hallways were relatively clear this early, with only some of the very-earliest risers awake and moving about. They followed the hallways at a brisk pace, having been around the garrison so often. The firing range, a kilometer-long field behind the garrison, was accessed by the rear doors.

Conrad reached the doors and yanked one open, and the two boys walked back out into the elements. Conrad's father was cleaning a set of E-11s and other guns. He glanced up as the two tall boys emerged from the garrison. "Conrad, Garryll."

"Morning, sir," Garryll said. "What're we working on today?"

"Yesterday we finished up practice with the short-range; today we'll ratchet up to mid-range; A-280's, E-11 rifles, the old DC-15s, a bunch of solid-slug weapons - the works."

"Solid-slug weapons seem impractical," Conrad scoffed. "Maybe a hundred shots to a clip, and heavy, too."

Staff Sergeant Griffin waved them over to a table of weaponry, and ammunition. He picked up a rifle and handed it to Garryll. "Here, boy. Show my son how much damage these things can do."

"Aye, sir," Garryll said, relishing the weight of the rifle. He selected a clip for the rifle and whistled. "Look at the size of these rounds, Conrad!"

Conrad raised an eyebrow that said, 'get on with it, then.' Garryll walked carefully over to a firing corridor and put a pair of earplugs in. Sighting carefully, he moved the weapon's stock into the familiar hollow of his shoulder, chin and cheek flush against the cool metal of the weapon.

He's fifteen years old, lean, tall, confident. The Stormtrooper is holding up a gun, explaining its features.

"And who would like to try this one out?" Staff Sergeant Griffin asks, inserting a power cell into the carbine. "Any takers?"

Garryll holds up his hand, and moves forwards. For some reason, he's always the one that gets to try new things first. Sometimes that's good - armor, knife-throwing, sims - but sometimes it's god-awful - hand to hand combat 101, crawling through the mud, crap like that.

The Stormtrooper unfolds the stock and hands it to the cadet. "Alright, boy."

Garryll holds the rifle gingerly, the cold metal uncomfortable in the freezing winter air. He's chivvied up to a firing lane, a half-dozen silhouettes of men or aliens scattered across the lane, at varying distances.

"Tuck the stock into your shoulder," the Veteran soldier says. "And rest your cheek against it, right eye level with the scope. Stick your elbow out - don't want it getting in the way. Good."

Garryll's eye was level with the scope, the crosshairs rising and falling with his breath. He held his breath for a moment, and it stopped, dead still, on a target's chest. "Fire, my boy."

The young cadet takes a shallow breath and then holds it, allowing the crosshair to bracket a target a dozen meters away. His finger tightens on the trigger - it's harder than he thought it'd be, and it takes him a second to pull harder to compensate. A moment later, the gun kicks - and a brilliant red laser bolt flashes across the distance, impaling the target in the neck. He exhales.

"Good job, bro!" Conrad whistled, and the other ROTC cadets cheered at the rising smoke from the target. Sergeant Griffin waved at him to keep going while he instructed the rest of the teenagers to other firing lanes to start their own firing. Garryll grinned, and lines up another shot. He was going to like this bit.

The rifle was heavy, and Garryll was unused to the sheer solidness of a slug-rifle. Energy weighs nothing, and the powercell is only as heavy as one of the bullets. To compensate, the boy dropped to a knee to balance his firing stance, and sighted; he flicked the firing selector switch from single to burst, and settled on a target thirty meters away.

"Firing!" he called. "Firing!"

After the second warning, he pulled the trigger, feeling the much heavier kick of the rifle, but grinning, pleased, at the much fuller sound of the rifle's retort. Through the scope, he can see that he did a pretty good job of keeping the weapon on-target, two shots within an inch of one another and the third a hand-span higher. Conrad whistled - "Look at the size of those holes!"

Garryll grinned simply; there was nothing so great as to release some pent-up aggression on a target. He safes the weapon, sets it back on the table, and proceeds to wait with Conrad for the rest of the ROTC cadets. Three years into the program, they've had a bit of turnover - where there was a dozen the first meeting, years ago, only half that number had persisted until their junior years. The door hissed open behind Sergeant Griffin, and the rest of the cadets trickled out to the firing range. After a few greetings and some basic instructions, the Stormtrooper lets the teenagers at the guns.

Garryll looked ran a critical eye over the weapons on the table; the Clone Wars's DC-15, the infamous E-11, A-280, and a host of other, less well-known guns. He picked up an A-280 and walked over to the range, testing the weapon's weight, length and charge. It was heavy - a real infantryman's weapon; it was of medium length, with a thick, short stock at the end, much more of a last-resort blunt instrument than the E-11. He shouldered it and fired quickly, opening up on full-auto at a handful of targets ten meters or so away.

"Look at that," Gates said a moment later, pointing the rifle into the air, its barrel smoking. "Just totally killed that one."

The cardboard-stock targets were blown apart, great holes in the chests, heads, necks and bases of them. One was almost in two pieces.

"That," their ROTC officer explained, "Is what happens when you go up against the '280."

Garryll grinned, and reloaded, and went to plinking targets at range for half an hour. By then, the sky was beginning to get genuinely bright, and he knew they'd have to get a move on to school soon. Reluctantly, he set the rifle down on the table and saluted to the Stormtrooper, before leading the cadets back to their speeders and their school.

It's the same day - fourth block, end of the school day. The school's air conditioning was acting up again, and it's hot as hell. Garryll swore he could see a heat mirage on the white board, but that could just be him falling totally asleep at this point. Conrad was holding his head up, but his eyes were closed.

"You moron, Con," Garryll mumbled at his friend. "You gonna fail Calc, boy."

"Shut up," Conrad grunted back. "Exam was a week an' a half ago. Kline can't fail me now."

The door slams open; it's one of the school councilors, the skinny young woman with long brown hair and glasses and some well-placed curves. Conrad opened his eyes to check her out - he always did, not without reason - but this time, she looked pretty scared.

"Turn on the television!" she cried. "There's some sort of terrorist attack on the Governor's building!"

Garryll's stomach froze, his digesting lunch churning with sudden nerves. His parents worked there.

Conrad jerked in surprise, and shot a look at his best friend's ashen face. Ms. Biel Kline, the calc teacher, turned on the old-as-crap box TV in upper corner of the classroom. Everyone had crowded around the flickering, low-tech screen. After a few seconds' fussing with the remote, the teacher managed to get the old machine onto the main news channel. The camera view was bouncing as the operator viewed the scene, presumably from a hovering air speeder. A ticker at the bottom of the screen was giving updates, and Garryll tried to read the tiny, fast-moving script.

"Hostages...have been taken.... Corellian Liberation Front...has claimed responsibility.... SWAT teams and Stormtrooper squads are assembling to take the building... will keep the situation updated," Garryll whispered. "Oh god, oh god."

Conrad gripped his shoulder. "Don't worry; those damn terrorists can never keep the steam up long enough to fight off a bunch of SWAT and the Empire's finest."

The camera hovered for a few more minutes, and then tiny, flickering lights appeared at the front of the building; the black-clad SWAT officers exchanged laser fire with the terrorists, but had to scramble back. Gates gulped nervously, and drew Cornad's eye. "We've got to get there."

Conrad's knuckles were white, gripped tight around the leather-padded steering wheel. Garryll was gulping nervously in the passenger's seat, clenching and unclenching his fists. The radio was on a news station, giving a running commentary on the siege.

"It looks like the Stormtroopers have arrived," the reporter said. "Admirable arrival time; only a few minutes after SWAT called them in."

Conrad swore softly. "My pop's out there, sure as sure, Gare. Now both our parents are on the line."

"Relax," Garryll said, faint stirrings of optimism clawing their way into his mind. "Empire's finest are on the scene, and those terrorist shit heads are gonna die."

The speeder zoomed through the streets, uncrowded by pedestrians who were drawn into video stores and bars and any establishment with a holo-screen. Conrad spun the wheel one more time, and they were on Government Boulevard. The tall, imposing presence of the Governor's Building dominated the surroundings, but this time, there was much more activity than usual. Black-and-white speeders were parked in a long cordon around the building, and inside the cordon were dozens of heavy assault speeders, SWAT teams, Stormtroopers and cops. Around the building, media speeders hovered and yet more Imperial forces. More media vans and emergency personnel were resting outside the police cordon, ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of activity. They zoomed up to the outer cordon and hopped out of the aging speeder.

Garryll, by standing on the speeder's roof, could see over the multiple cordons; the building was only a few hundred feet away, and the two boys could see it reasonably well. A group of white-clad figures were sprinting around the building's steps, trading red laser fire with unseen adversaries inside the building. A few men fell, but the Stormtroopers - for that's what they were - seemed to be advancing quickly. Halfway up the stairs, they stopped, and leveled thicker weapons at the building. The hollow, thick, "thonks" of grenade launchers was audible at the distance Garryll and Conrad were standing at. At the same moment, a pair of heavy assault speeders that had been in station-keeping positions dove down and slammed down at the top of the stairs. The grenades exploded, spewing light and raw sound out - flash bang grenades. Stormtroopers piled out of the transports, and the staccato flicker of E-11s filled the air.

"Get it done!" yelled another onlooker, punching the air.

The Governor's Building exploded. Fire spat from windows and the top of the building sagged in as the destruction ran its course. The two heavy assault speeders were crushed by falling debris and cooked by the flames; the Stormtroopers on the stairs sprinted for cover - some made it.

"No...no...." whispered Garryll. The rest of the onlookers were stunned, hands covering their mouths in silent screams. A paramedic broke the silence, grabbing a stretcher, slapping his buddy and sprinting forwards. Dozens of emergency personnel surged forwards to assist, carrying medical gear or stretchers. Garryll jumped off the speeder's roof and ran after them, Conrad right on his heels. As they closed in on the building, they could see the carnage; the smoking building, Stormtroopers in white lying still, others on fire or with burns. Everyone in a SWAT or Stormtrooper uniform that could still stand looked unsteady, dazzled by the noise and the shock wave.

"Medic!" cried one Stormtrooper calmly, though his injury was anything but minor; his leg was blown off, and he was leaking blood into a spreading pool. An EMT dropped down next to him and prepared to cauterize the injury with a device from his medpac. A few seconds later, the soldier was howling.

Screams began to echo across the war-torn central city plaza. Men in body armor cried and yelled in anguish; others were silent as they bore their pain. Conrad had separated from Garryll, and as walked numbly past another torn-up Stormtrooper; the medic trying to help the thrashing man saw him.

"Hold him down, boy!" cried the grizzled combat medic. "Hold him down or he'll die!"

Garryll sprang into action, stepping forwards and pinning the large soldier's arms to the ground. Adrenaline pumped through him, giving him the strength he needed to hold the man down long enough for the medic to pump a suppressant into his blood. The fast-acting drug cocktail slammed the man into unconsciousness, and the medic started applying bacta and other medical remedies beyond the teenager's comprehension. He walked on.

"Gare!" cried a familiar voice. "Gare! Over here, please!"

"Con?" Garryll asked softly, turning to the source of his friend's voice, a dozen meters away, crouched down. The white legs of a Stormtrooper were visible. "Oh no."

He walked over, guts frozen in fear and nervousness. Conrad was kneeling, crying and gulping. The boy looked up as his best friend approached. A medic had sketched an "X" on the Stormtrooper's torso plate, medical shorthand for a doomed soldier; the triage didn't have the resources or the ability to help this downed man, and it would be better spent on men who had a better chance of survival.

Staff Sergeant Willy Griffin blinked slowly, eyes flickering between the two boys. His hand gripped his son's tightly. The Stormtrooper had blood leaking from his mouth and nose, but he was still alive.

"Bastard got me," he breathed. "Broke my spine and all my ribs. Half my organs are blown out, boy."

Conrad and Garryll stared in horror at the admission. The man continued. "I love you, son; don't let this stop you. This is why I served...to help people when this kind of thing happens. I'm sorry, Garryll, that I couldn't save your parents. No one thought they'd blow the building, that's why they put us on a frontal-assault."

Garryll knelt down on the Stormtrooper's other side, his eyes growing moist. Conrad's father breathed deeply, coughed at the pain his broken chest pushed into him. "Boy...'round my neck. tags, and my Cross of the Empire. They're yours...the rest is in my will. Take care of your momma for me... and your sister."

Conrad nodded, swallowed his tears; "Yes sir. Always, dad."

The Stormtrooper's eyes traced from his son to the other boy leaning over his body. "Gates - you'll still be a Stormie?" At the young man's nod, the Stormtrooper reached to his knees; his battered A280 lay across his hips. "Take this...it's yours. Use it to protect...never for wrong reasons - you'll know, boy."

"Thank you," Garryll said. He meant to say more, but Willy Griffin's eyes closed and he coughed blood, lots of it. It spattered, thick and crimson, all over his torso plate, blurring the black marker the medics had applied. He coughed deep, hacking coughs and grasped blindly for his belt. A second's hesitation, and then he was still, forever. Garryll opened the dead man's hand, and pulled a crumpled picture from it. Conrad and his family were in it, a picture that was only a few months old.

Garryll's heart broke.

*** *** *** *** ***

It was a week and a half after the terrorist attack on the Governor's building. It was raining. The ground was slick with mud and puddles. Four people walked side-by-side; behind them were men in uniforms, women in dresses, children in nice clothes. Ahead, twelve men carried three heavy boxes. All wore black.

They reached a wider area; the four walkers stopped, and the followers spread out around them. The men carrying the boxes stepped forwards a few more paces, walking past seven more men in the same uniforms. A solemn man in a Priest's robes held a thick, paper book and blinked through thick, rain-slicked glasses.

Each box was lowered into fresh-dug holes; one was wrapped in a flag of the Empire, the bold, six-spokes symbol that dominated it proudly cast on its face. The seven men in uniforms raised their blaster rifles to their shoulders and fired three rounds each. The Priest began to read.

Garryll Gates blinked tears and rain out of his eyes as he watched his parent's and his best friend's fathers caskets lower into their graves. The rich wood glistened with droplets of rain water and finally disappeared behind the lip of the hole. The Priest's voice echoed in his head, but he would not listen; he could not. They stood there for twenty minutes, listened to the Priest invoke the deceased's final sermon. The crowd withdrew, letting the direct families mourn.

Conrad and Garryll stood side by side, staring blankly into the open graves; two held matching wooden caskets, tiny golden letters inscribed on their faces. The third was a different wood, and had the Empire's flag folded over it. Conrad's mother and sister wept more openly, staring at their husband and father's casket.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Garryll turned. His salute to the dead was done; the only water on his face now was rain. He'd shed his tears, and he was encumbered by the sadness of his parents' loss. Conrad turned a few seconds later, but his tears still ran. They stood side by side in the cemetery, and the rain fell. Conrad sniffled once more, and wiped his nose. Garryll turned to his best friend.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

Conrad shook his head. "Why? Both your parents are dead. I should be apologizing to you."

"Why?" echoed Garryll. "It's neither of our faults. And I swear to you."

He turned to his friend, looked him dead in the eye, and gripped him by his forearm, tight. "I swear. If I ever find the man responsible for them, I'll kill him. Slowly."

Conrad blinked the last of the tears from his eyes, and returned his friend's grip. "I'll hold you to it. And help you, if I'm still 'round."

*** *** *** *** ***

A man in a black uniform weaved his way through Coronet's main, busy spaceport. Even an Imperial Stormtrooper Lieutenant's uniform didn't move cargo droids and hurrying deckhands, not with the public's dissatisfaction with the Empire reaching an all-time high. The rebels had increased attacks across the galaxy, and other, oppurtunistic groups ranging from Pirates to terrorists had begun a wave of attacks. The attack on the Governor's building was just the first of many strikes by Corellian dissidents, albeit the most bold and violent. As Basic was going to be on a remote portion of Gus Talon, Corellia's only moon, the Griffins had decided to just pack it up and get the heck out of dodge before misfortune struck again.

A half-dozen boys and girls - men and women, almost, all over eighteen - sat on duffel bags full of their belongings. All wore black uniforms of the same cut, unmarked except for the Imperial insignia on their backs and upper left breast. At the sight of the Stormtrooper officer, they sprang to their feet and saluted. The tallest boy at the front of the group was first looked over by the soldier.

"You the next lot?" the man asked, and pulled his datapad from his belt. "Arnold, Gates, Griffen, Nils, Volden, Zimmerman?"

"Aye, sir," Garryll said "Where shall we go?"

"Registration is Runabout," the officer said. "A Lambda T-4a. Get aboard and strap in; we'll still need to pick up some more recruits, so make sure your gear is out of the way. Move it out, recruits."

The six Coronet Stormtrooper hopefuls double-timed it to the shuttle, ducking under or around the organized chaos of the spaceport; the Stormtrooper Lieutenant followed at a more leisurely pace. By the time the soldier had reached the shuttle, the six recruits were packed up, strapped in and squared away. A minute after that, the ship was back in the air and headed to the next major city on Corellia to pick up more recruits.

A few more landings later, and the shuttle was full; twenty recruits sat in their chairs and one Stormtrooper officer sat in the last, set apart seat. The shuttle powered out of the planet's atmosphere, and performed a microjump to the planet's moon. Only minutes after that, they were dropping back into the atmosphere, and landing heavily. The door hissed open, and a dry heat poured in. Two drill instructors in grey uniforms stood at foot of the shuttle's ramp.

"Welcome to Camp Trebuchet!" the more grizzled of the pair barked. "Get your asses in line!"

Garryll Gates smiled at the harsh bark of the man, and stepped into the sunshine. It would be an interesting experience.