Star Wars Character Cafe - The Floating Fortress Part 6

THE FLOATING FORTRESS

32. Cataclysm on the High Seas (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 26min 19sec)

“Alright, hold on!” Booster yelled, sending the Pulsar Skate into long, lazy dive across the bridge of the floating Star Destroyer. As he did, the two belly turbolasers opened fire on the ship, splashing very harmlessly against the powerful shields.

“Femme Fatale is one minute from contact,” Cracken said, keeping a close eye on the sensors.

Booster didn’t quite hear him; he was concentrating on keeping the ship in a constant state of random movement. Flying in a random pattern was often harder than people assumed. Deep within every pilot is a pattern that he doesn’t even know he follows, but it becomes obvious to objective observers. Even Imperial gunners would catch on eventually.

The only question was whether they would do it inside a minute.

The Skate’s turbolasers kept sputtering away, chewing at the shields but never penetrating them. It would only be a few seconds now, and the bridge staff would finally make the decision to open fire…

“Star Destroyer is firing,” one of the two pilots in the gunner pods said apathetically.

Instinctively, Booster jinked away from the course he’d been flying at the time of the shot. Four bright green streaks of light marked the first volley of fire, and they sailed harmlessly by on the right side of the Skate.

Still moving quickly, Booster slammed the throttle forward, pinning himself and Cracken to the back of their seats, before releasing it suddenly and cutting in repulsors slightly, bumping the Skate vertically upward five metres or so. More streaks of light – as many as ten now – stabbed past the hull. He slammed the throttle back forward, and they were pinned again.

“Forty Seconds until Femme Fatale,” Cracken piped in.

And on it went, jinking, darting and bouncing in the most random pattern possible. The hull of the Skate would screech in protest every so often, unable to cope with the strain Booster had put on it in atmosphere. This was crazy.

This was amazing.

“Thirty Seconds.”

The turbolaser fire increased yet again, filling the sky with bright green bolts, visible even in the bright daylight of Gavortis Major. Booster bit his lip, and willed his ship to find safe passages through the fire.

Come on…not long now…

“Twenty Seconds.”

Twenty seconds…come on…

Something made a hideous screeching noise from the starboard side of the ship. A report immediately came in from the gunner on that side: “Are you reading that, sir? Turbolaser clipped the starboard stabiliser nacelle. Suggest you compensate immediately.”

Without that stabiliser, Booster had to hold the controls at a 45-degree pitch to keep the ship flying level. That didn’t matter, they could live with that – if they lived at all. But now, the turbolaser blast had destroyed shields on that side of the ship, and they were a sitting shot.

“Ten seconds, Booster. Get us clear,” Cracken ordered.

Booster didn’t need to be told twice. He slammed the throttle to full power again, and made for the rear of the destroyer. The course took them past the bridge, which the gunners pelted with orange turbolaser fire. And then they were past it, and heading out to open sea. Green turbolaser fire still streaked at them, like a giant predator trying to grasp at an insect that had escaped it’s maw.

“Three…Two…” Cracken said, watching the sensors closely.

Suddenly, the turbofire ceased. Booster rounded the ship quickly, and cut the repulsors in to hover there. Their distance was about two klicks from the Destroyer, well enough away to avoid the fallout from the blast.

The Femme Fatale was dangerously close to the floating destroyer. At point blank range, the big ship began unleashing deadly salvos of fire at the ship, all absorbed fairly evenly by the forward shields. It drew even closer…

“One.”

There was an initial flash as the shields of the two ships connected, and burned against each other. The weight of the Femme Fatale and it’s burning engines continued to press forward. It’s front end began to crumple under the strain, contorting and folding back on itself.

And then, it – along with thousands of kilograms of Thermex – blew spectacularly.

33. Escapades of a Slow Little Droid (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 26min 30sec)

Like the most obedient of servants, the little droid had waited faithfully by the comm unit since his master had said so. During that time, he had run quiet background diagnostics on his systems and checked all the essential programming he could without making any noise that might interfere with his audio receptors – he did not want to miss his master’s call.

It had been exactly three hours and forty-seven minutes since his master had left the cockpit of the Raging Cusper, and in that time there had been only one single event that had broken the silence – a ship had exploded on the opposite side of the station. The computer had told him so, and requested that he go to ground.

Of course, he refused. His master told him to wait by the comm unit. He did not permit him to take any more liberties than that. Hence, taking control of the ship was not an option.

That meant that this side had filled with any ships that needed to dock away from the radiation, cramming the landing zones to their capacity. Standard parking distances had changed from fifteen metres either side to four metres either side.

But to a droid, all of this was trivial information.

In that instant, there was a pang of sound from the comm unit. Immediately, Noosa extended his more sensitive audio receptors, and electronically activated the connection to his master on the ground. This was, however, a foreign comlink.

“Noosa?”

It was the voice of his master. He should now transmit the code…

“Last night’s dinner was Smuggler’s Pie.”

Verified: Yesterday’s meal had indeed been smuggler’s pie. This was his master. Noosa gave a long, questioning hoot.

“Sorry I haven’t called earlier, Noosa, but now I need you. As quickly as you can, I need you to pinpoint our location from this comm signal, and pilot the Raging Cusper down to us. Don’t go so fast you cause accidents, but as quickly as you can, ok?”

His master needed help, and made a legitimate request. Noosa tootled an affirmative note, and trundled across the cockpit to the droid terminal. He set to work, beginning by activating the pre-launch start-up sequence.

“Thanks Noosa – see you soon.” The comm unit clicked off.

A rudimentary calculation gave Noosa an estimated preparation time of five minutes, allowed for five minutes to carefully navigate his way out of the over crowded landing bay, and seventeen to travel to the location of his master.

When factoring in the instruction quickly, that figure reduced to forty seconds prep time, one minute to shove his way out of the hangar, and fifteen to speed to his master’s location with all haste.

Sixteen minutes and forty seconds, beginning now.

34. Taking the Court (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 27min 50sec)

This explosion was unmistakable. Off the East Coast of Gavorr, the gigantic flash and tremendous, earth-rumbling tremor were painfully apparent. All the heads in Gavorr court turned as one to the east, panic obvious on all those faces not shielded by a helmet. Christof’s heart skipped, he knew what this meant.

Cracken’s men had used their flying bomb.

In his mind’s eye, he imagined TIE fighters scurrying everywhere, troopers creating offensive formations and swarming the city of Gavorr. Certainly, the troopers already in the court were already reforming for action – taking up well-ordered defensive positions. Soon, the Grand Admiral would rush from Government House, his hordes of escorts protecting him, and they would leave.

Cracken had screwed up. Badly.

”Christof?” a voice drifted through his helmet comlink.

“What?” he answered irritably.

“I think we ought to make a start,” the other said solemnly.

“Are you joking? There are over forty of them.”

“I know. But it’s either that, or let them get away. We don’t get paid if they get away,” the other man replied. Christof sighed.

“We don’t get paid if we die, either,” he said weakly.

It was a futile argument. They would die anyway. One way or another, if this man lived, there was all the more chance that the Empire would catch up to them. They were already wanted men. A Grand Admiral might like to make it his personal mission to hunt down all those involved in bringing down his mighty warship.

And he would succeed.

There was an awkward silence on the comm channel, followed by another Christof sigh. He raised his E-11 Blaster rifle to his chest, and said a silent prayer. He’d never been a religious man, but that was the last thing that mattered right now.

“Alright, on three.” He instructed.

“One.”

The other three troopers raised their rifles to their chests as well. One checked the charge on his gun, and made sure it was set to ‘kill’. Christof took a deep breath, feeling the Mynocks in his stomach turn into Wookies.

“Two.”

Never had he been in a position like this. Sure, he’d killed troopers – he had an excellent record against them, actually. But always he’d had equal odds or better. Usually, the gunfights had been on his terms, where he could control the situation. Not this time. The troopers were the ones with the organised positions. They had superior firepower. They outnumbered the mercenaries ten to one.

It did not bode well for his continuing career.

Knowing very well that it would be his end, Christof took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak the fatal number three. It was much harder than it should have been – after all, had never had trouble reciting numbers before.

“Th-“

But the rest of the word was drowned in the thundering roar of combustion engines. From over the building line exploded a group of airspeeders in tight formation. There were five of them, slowing to a halt in the centre of the court. Christof let out the most relieved cry of surprise in his life, and backed away from the descending craft. For a surreal moment, they just hung in the sky, doing nothing but making a hell of a noise. He held his breath, waiting…

What in the name of the sith…?

And then the speeders erupted with blaster fire.

Crimson bolts streaked down from the speeders, striking Stormtroopers as they hurried for cover. The elevated position of the rebel troops gave them an extreme advantage over their Imperial adversaries, and they used to its full capacity. At least ten troopers were dead or immobilised, steadily climbing to twenty.

Suddenly, Christof remembered where he was.

“Three!” he shouted into the comlink, and opened fire on the scrambling troopers. He thought his first blast connected with the chest plate of a nearby trooper, and saw it drop with a thud.

Immediately, his head cleared – his purpose was defined perfectly. He knew what he had to do now. He was at work. He’d been here before many times, and he was good at what he did.

Now the Imperials were at even odds with him. They had lost the advantage of their well-ordered positions and formations. They had lost their advantage of numbers. They were reduced to fundamental combat – shoot to kill, shoot to stay alive. It was one target at a time, pitting your own skills against those of your enemy.

This was fighting.

“Get your helmets off!” one of the other mercenaries yelled into the comlink, “or the Rebels will shoot us!” Christof took the command to heart, and yanked off his helmet. He dived for cover immediately, looking to find a place to gather himself. After a second or two, he came to rest behind a statue of one of Gavorr’s previous governors.

A pang of worry hit him as he discovered two enemy troopers hiding behind the same statue. The nearest turned to face him, his shoulder patch identifying him as a group lieutenant.

“Where is your helmet, trooper?” he yelled over through his helmet loudspeaker.

“Lost!” Christof answered, pulling back behind both troopers. The lieutenant turned away from him in disgust. The pair busily fired at the hovering airspeeders, not taking any notice of the cowardly trooper that lost his helmet. With a feeling of great defiance, Christof blasted them both from behind.

Feeling doubly confident, he popped up from behind the statue, and added his extreme prejudice to the firestorm.

35. The Drop (Assault Chronometer 00hr 28min 11sec)

“Ok, Booster,” Cracken said calmly, pulling on his diving gear. The small breathing apparatus hung from his neck, accompanying large goggles and a waterproof diving suit. He looked for all the galaxy like an overgrown, hind-legged Corellian Waterfrog. “Take us closer to the water. Get out as soon as you can – or they might spot us,” he instructed, moving to the rear of the bridge. They would only be in comm contact for a few more seconds.

Booster lowered the Skate, and heard the rushing wind as one of the three rebels opened the landing ramp.

“That’s close enough!” Cracken yelled over the comm. “We’re going to drop now! Give us ten seconds to get clear, and then get over to Government House to help out! We’ll comm you when we’re ready for pick up!”

“Alright – you got ten seconds starting now. Good luck,” Booster said sincerely.

“May the Force be with you,” the other replied.

Booster sighed.

The man was crazy.

36. This is unacceptable (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 29min 22sec)

“Commander, you will give me a report immediately,” Grand Admiral Tigellinus ordered. The leader of ground forces suddenly stopped talking on his comlink, and snapped to attention in front of the seething Admiral.

“Yes sir! A second explosion was just reported a minute or two ago-”

“Yes, I did feel that, commander.”

“Yes sir, of course sir. Accompanying this explosion we appear to have lost contact with the Conquistador – apparently there is some anomalous energy interference between here and there. We are working as hard as we can to regain communications – though we cannot rule out the possibility that the explosion was our flagship, Admiral.”

Tigellinus’ eyes flashed with rage.

“So send forth a scout, commander.”

“I’m afraid all of our units are occupied with-”

“That, commander?” he shouted, pointing to the transparisteel windows of Government house. Beyond them, red laser blasts streaked by, occasionally striking the window and splashing harmlessly against it. “Occupied with that! Your men are being killed quite effectively by some civilians in airspeeders. It is unacceptable! I demand that you bring this under control immediately!”

“With respect sir, these are more than Civilians – they are-”

“Rebels, Commander? You mean the same rebels that I had wiped out before marining my flagship? The same rebels that your own men reported had been wiped out? The same rebels that I spent so many hours personally thwarting?

“You have a lot of respect to learn, Commander. Your comments can so easily be interpreted as treasonous – to imply that your Superior is incompetent. You are not above the wrath of a Grand Admiral.

“Now you will bring this situation back into order.”

Tigellinus’ eyes burned with rage, visibly sending ripples of fear through the Troop Commander. After a short pause, a very ragged breath blew from the loudspeaker of the helmet. The Commander was no fool – he would accept any duty given him.

“We will do our utmost sir, however with communications to our flagship down, I think it would be wise to evacuate this building immediately, as I suggested earlier,” he said with as much conviction as a subordinate of the Admiral is allowed. Tigellinus glared at him.

“Commander, upon return to the Conquistador, you are to be stripped of rank,” he said sinisterly. It was impossible to see the Stormtrooper’s reaction behind the white helmet, and Tigellinus didn’t care. He was outraged. In all of his experience in the Imperial Navy, he had never been in a situation so chaotic.

In fact, the commander may yet prove himself useful by doing the only thing he couldn’t fail – dying. Dying in the name of the Grand Admiral. He would see to it that his sacrificial death was recognised.

If he had time.

“Now prepare the men, Commander. You will provide a distraction while my staff and I use the Governor’s exit, and return to the ship. And from there, we will show this backwater government the gravity of these circumstances,” he ordered coldly.

He threw a significant glance at Governor Thrisst, who stood captive between two Stormtroopers. “Your attitudes toward our great Empire of late have been less than pleasing, Governor. Some might even call your blatant unwillingness to aid us in conquering the Rebellion as…Treason.”

The Governor’s eyes widened suddenly, fear taking control of them. He struggled futilely against the hold of the troopers, and pathetically tried to cry out through the gag in his mouth. He knew the fate that awaited Traitors to the Empire.

The sounds of blaster fire outside thinned and ceased, leaving a very awkward kind of silence in the governor’s chambers. Tigellinus turned away and stalked toward the end of the cavernous chamber, leaving the Stormtroopers behind and his entourage in tow.

They’d done it. Somehow, the rebels had overcome his countermeasures.

It seemed impossible. All three sleeper units had reported back to him, their missions complete: the divers were killed, the starfighters were buried, and the remaining rebel forces were neutralised by sleeper unit three.

Nevertheless, they had survived.

This was an unacceptable failure. The Emperor would hear of how his subordinates had been so easily deceived by the rebels. At least they would have to worry about the commander of ground forces no longer. He would insist on being appointed the commander of a more competent force next time – perhaps of one of the new Super-class star destroyers being put into production.

Yes, that was what he would do the moment he got back to Coruscant.

And then he would be back to crush the Rebel Alliance.

Behind him, the sounds of the struggling governor suddenly ceased, drowned in a volley of blaster fire. Gavorr’s government had paid the price for defying the orders of his Excellency’s Grand Admiral Tigellinus.

37. Flushing an Admiral (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 30min 23sec)

There was an almighty crash as Wedge Antilles set his airspeeder down harshly in Gavorr Court. He immediately leaped out, blaster ready, and brought his comlink to his lips. All in all, their engagement here hadn’t been too bad at all.

The troopers had never even had a real chance. In the airspeeders, they’d had the element of surprise, allowing them to take out half of the soldiers before the first shot was returned. And naturally, the elevated position had given them a much better perspective for shooting. It had only taken a few minutes – most of which was spent chasing rogue troopers around all corners of the court – to finish the job.

Not that there was any guarantee it was completely finished yet.

“Stay in your teams – sweep the area. Report back when area is secure,” he ordered, leaving no room for questions. He shoved the comlink back into his pocket, and signalled his own team to follow him.

He needed to find the man named Christof.

During the noisy fight, he’d noticed a few troopers that weren’t wearing helmets. Cracken had warned him that he would be wearing trooper armour, and so Wedge came to the natural conclusion that at least one of the helmet-less troops must be him. He’d sent out a radio signal to assign them as friendlies – but without the targeting computers they were used to in their fighters, accidents could happen very easily. He hoped his orders had held true, otherwise they would be lost.

There was one simple way to find out.

“This is Flight Officer –“ it sounded like such a weak title when it echoed through the court “ Wedge Antilles of the Rebel Alliance. We are here on orders of Alliance Commander Airen Cracken. Come out now,” he shouted. That ought to do it. Though any surviving imperials wouldn’t exactly be running in fear.

“Antilles? My name is Christof – me and my men are coming out,” a voice floated from behind a statue. Wedge snapped his head around, blaster ready. There was no real need for evidence. He could never have known they were looking for a man called Christof unless he actually was Christof.

The burly frame of Christof emerged from the statue, as did three other men from various cover nearby. Cracken hadn’t mentioned anything about other friendlies in the area, and so Wedge held his blaster steady. So did the others.

Christof was a tall man, able to carry the Stormtrooper disguise very well. His face was ravaged by years of fighting, but still proportionate and passable as normal. A rough beard grew over his chin, accompanied by a patchy moustache. His dark skin was beading with sweat from the recent fight, and already a patch of blood matted the hair above his left ear. He certainly looked the part of a mercenary.

“You’re Christof – and who are they?” Wedge asked.

“Hired help – long time business acquaintances of mine,” he answered.

“You’re a smuggler?”

“Mercenary. Some would argue there’s no difference,” Christof answered. Wedge snorted a suspicious laugh. He had never really had a great trust of mercenaries – in his mind, they were uttely different from smugglers. A mercenary dealt in death, whereas a smuggler dealt in goods and services. A smuggler was much less likely to shoot their own employer in the back if they were promised a higher price from the enemy.

But he had his orders. And Cracken knew what he was doing – always.

He lowered his blaster slowly. “Alright. What’s the situation here, Christof? Where’s the Grand Admiral?” he asked, closing the distance between them. Christof shrugged and then pointed to the gigantic doors of government house.

“He went in there before all the explosions started. A little while ago, some troopers went to inform him what was going on. They haven’t come back out yet,” he explained

“But no doubt they’ll be along in a minute. Kind of hard to miss a firefight like this one,” another mercenary added. Wedge glanced over at him. True – if nothing else they’d notice the smell.

“Maybe. They might also decide that we’re more trouble than we’re worth, and flee by another entrance,” he suggested. The mercenaries and the pilots all agreed with him before Christof spoke up.

“Well, we better move quickly.”

“We had better. So here’s what we’ll do: you four wait here. Any sign of a Grand Admiral, shoot him. Pilots,” he said authoritatively, turning to face them all. “You need to get back into the airspeeders and patrol the grounds. Concentrate on the major exits and anything else that might be used for an escape, including the roof. Same deal – shoot any Imperial officers you see,” he ordered.

There was a general consensus of affirmative from the pilots, and they broke apart. As they did, Wedge called out: “Sanders, Reaber – come with me.” The two pilots stopped in mid stride, and turned to follow him.

“What’s going on, Wedge?” Reaber asked. Wedge smiled.

“We’re going to go inside. There’s a Grand Admiral to flush,” he said dryly. The other two pilots exchanged glances, and let out a sigh of worry. Each man cocked his blaster, and they moved to the great steps of Government house.

“Lift off, pilots – cover us as best you can. Listen in for more instructions from the Commander,” Wedge ordered over the comlink. “We’ll be in comm silence while we’re inside. If we make no contact inside of fifteen minutes, come looking,” he finished. It probably wasn’t the most sensible of orders – if they were killed or captured inside, surely the next group to come in would meet a similar fate.

He only had his gut instinct to follow. True, he hadn’t been with the Alliance very long and this was his first command – but that didn’t matter to him. He had good instincts, ever since he was a child he’d followed them, and they’d kept him out of trouble.

Well, at the very least, they hadn’t killed him.

“Hey, Antilles – where do you think you’re going?” Christof asked, jogging up behind them. Wedge regarded the man.

“Do you mind, Christof? I’m trying to move quickly – at your suggestion,” he answered. The mercenary, however, did not retreat. He sprinted around to Wedge’s front, and spoke face to face with him.

“If you’re going in there, I’m coming with you,” the mercenary said flatly, jogging backwards to keep pace with Wedge.

“Just stay here – what happens if he comes by this way while we’re inside-”

“Then my team will kill him! Look Antilles – I have a contract with the Rebel Alliance for a hugely generous sum for the assassination of one Grand Admiral Tigellinus. If I don’t kill him, then I don’t get paid, understand? Even if I don’t go with you per se, I’ll still be in there looking.” Christof was adamant – Wedge was too intensely focused on his mission to care.

“Fine – come on then. Keep your mercenary trigger finger under wraps, too – there are civilians in there. Keep it tight, you three – and remember the stakes involved here. Keep it quiet, too.” He instructed quickly. Yes, that sounded suitably like something a commanding officer always told his ground troops. Wedge had no idea what ‘keep it tight’ meant on the ground, but it had to be the same thing as starfighter combat – or at least very similar.

Anyway, if they ran into any Imperials, any thought of formation would be probably be forgotten amid the searing bursts of laser fire.