Star Wars Character Cafe - The Floating Fortress Part 7

THE FLOATING FORTRESS

38. A Cool Swim (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 30min 30sec)

It sounded like such a simple task.

Swim underneath the ship, attach the charges to the correct positions, and swim away before detonating them. Certainly, the swim would take a long time, but there was no way around that. Sure, it was always slow trying to work with intricate devices like explosive charges underwater – though it was best to be safe rather than sorry in that instance.

Theoretically, it was such a simple series of steps.

However, as it has a habit of doing, practicality proved them near impossible. Step one – ‘swim underneath the ship’ – was presenting quite a challenge. Initially, Cracken and his two men could barely see where they were going. The great shimmering, purple seas of Gavorr appeared so beautiful from the surface, it was hard to believe they were swimming in the same body of water. It was less water than it was thick brown murk, littered with weed and floating garbage, making visibility poor at best. To make matters worse, the underwater lights they had brought merely illuminated the cloudy water, creating a strange sensation of claustrophobia.

And it was cold. The three men found themselves in a constant state of movement for fear of freezing their joints. Though it was getting more bearable by the minute, progress was incredibly slow – the iciness doing it’s best to sap their coordination.

Slowly but surely, they progressed. To their great relief, they soon saw the great hull of the Star Destroyer hanging ominously ahead of them. It was a surreal sort of picture. The gigantic engine casings of the ship – though impossible to see in any detail beyond that of a shadow – were half sunk in the water, thoroughly out of place. In and around the engines themselves small fish swam, unimpressed by the awesome nature of their environment.

Hopefully, those fish could soon make a permanent home out of the big ship.

Each man placed a hand on the hull of the ship, and began the long descent under the warship. This leg of the swim was travelling much faster now that they had a solid surface to propel them. Down they went, watching as the water around them became darker and darker, until eventually all that could be seen were small particles of dirt sparkling against the dark.

Cracken did not activate his light until he felt the hull of the star destroyer take a sudden change in gradient. He had reached the bottom of the engine casings. They were finally free to progress along the underside.

Three lights flickered on, stark contrast to the pitch black around them. This time, they were much more effective at cutting through the murk, and provided a good portion of light against the hull of the warship. Visibility somewhat restored, they began the steady swim along the axis of the ship.

It took a long time, uneventful time to get anywhere. Perhaps the most noticeable thing about the journey was the temperature change in the water as they swam by the gigantic reactor dome. The stabbing cold became a kind of relaxing warm, and provided all three men cause to stop for a few moments. They were close to their target now. Just a few more minutes and they would be there.

With a waving arm, Cracken spurred the men on.

39. The Skate Arrives (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 34min 02sec)

Once again the court of Gavorr Government House was disturbed by the sound of thundering repulsorlifts. The three mercenaries left guarding the doors of the building stared at the strange, damaged ship setting down before them. It conked to a halt in the centre of the court, and lay silent.

As the landing ramp descended, they saw the pilot – a very large man with a beard and swagger to rival the most confident of men. He descended the ramp and crossed the court with such ease and speed that belied his appearance. The mercenaries had no doubt he would want to know what was going on. They were not disappointed.

“You – what is going on here? Where’s Wedge?” he demanded.

The nearest mercenary tilted his head in greeting of the man. At least he had proven he was privy to what was going on – he knew the pilot Antilles. They wouldn’t have to shoot him now.

“Antilles went inside the building a few minutes ago to try and find the Admiral. We’re waiting out here, in case he comes by. There are more pilots patrolling the area in some airspeeders. We’ve got no idea what you’re meant to be doing,” he explained curtly. The other man frowned, and looked sweepingly around the scorched court.

“Looks like I missed most of the action,” he said.

Clearly.

“Look, who are you?” the mercenary asked. The big man turned back and smiled dryly. He looked vaguely familiar somehow – perhaps he was a famous criminal or civilian activist. He looked the part.

“My name is Booster Terrik – and I have an idea. How many of them went inside?”

“Four.”

Terrik’s eyes shot open wide. “Only four? There’s gonna be hundreds of troopers in there. Or thereabouts, anyway. They’ll need help,” he said emphatically. The mercenaries all glanced among themselves. Terrik narrowed his eyes.

“Look, just follow me. Do any of you know how to operate a gunner’s station?”

They all three nodded.

“Good, then let’s go.”

40. A Costly Distraction (Assault Chronometer 00hr 35min 02sec)

Wedge Antilles felt remarkably heavy and sluggish as he stalked through the grand corridors of Government House. This was a terrible, primitive form of combat – nothing like the grace and grandeur of dogfighting. His movement was bounded by the strict forces of gravity, and his protection was stripped to his ability to dodge. There were no shields, there was no ejector seat, and no evac shuttle waiting to come and rescue him if he got into trouble.

This was combat at it’s worst. Every creak was an alarm bell and every reflection was an army of enemies. Progress was so incredibly slow that the largest threat was the threat of boredom – a death sentence in their circumstance.

His palm sweating, Wedge searched his brain for a plan. There was nothing. Desperately he tried to piece together some semblance of leadership, to keep the confidence in his followers running high. There had to be some way to complete their objectives and not get very dead in the process…

What the hell was I thinking?

Almost as though he could sense the insecurities of the pilot, Christof took the lead of the group and gestured for them to follow. Wedge nodded to his subordinates, and allowed the mercenary into the lead. Christof undoubtedly had years of experience at this kind of combat. Maybe – just maybe – it could save them.

Wedge snorted a laugh – and yet outside, in the heat of the moment, he had been perfectly serious about going in without him. What he had mistaken for focus on objectives had actually been brash arrogance. They weren’t harassing pirates here – they were dealing with Imperials. It was an insurmountable difference. It was criminals versus professionals, it was over-confidence versus training – life versus death.

Ahead, the mercenary halted suddenly. He was peering around a bend in the corridors, very gradually pushing his head forward. He jerked to halt, and waiting in silence. Abruptly, he hoist up his arm and pushed the three back urgently. It was clear he was trying to minimise noise, and keep them out of sight at the same time – someone was coming.

He wasn’t quick enough.

“Did you see that?” an amplified voice echoed down the corridors, followed by; “They’re over here! Intruder Alert!”

Christof swore loudly, and glared into Wedge’s eyes. He had a kind of maniacal look about him, the kind of look one might find in a Wookie or some other hunting animal. They nodded between each other, and Wedge gave the order.

“Move in!”

The four of them burst from behind the cover of the bend as one, and opened fire immediately. Not taking time to aim, Wedge depressed his trigger as fast as his fingers would allow. It didn’t matter if the shot’s missed, the troopers would have to take cover to avoid the risk. And then they would have the upper hand.

But then Christof shouted something that Wedge found incomprehensible. “Retreat!” he yelled, throwing himself to the ground and slithering back to the cover of the bend. Wedge didn’t argue, and threw himself back behind the stone walls. On his way, he got his first actual look at their adversaries.

There must have been forty troopers filing in from the large double doors at the end of the corridor. They were taking up strategic positions behind the various statues and busts along the corridor, or inside the frames of the huge transparisteel windows occupying the left hand side of the hall. Each began firing, sending a firestorm of scarlet into the stone walls and floors. Each bolt tore huge gouges into the polished rock, leaving a smoking crater.

This was not good at all.

The four had made it back to safety, and were each reaching around the bend and firing blindly. At least this way they would slow the advance of the troopers – slightly. It wouldn’t be long though, and their enemies would work their way to a clear line of fire.

They had to retreat, and find another way. But in long corridors like this, running with backs turned to the troopers would be suicide. No amount of suppressing fire would hold them back long enough to reach new cover. It would be like shooting nerfs in a cage.

“Christof-” Wedge began.

“I know!” he shouted back irritably.

“We have to find a different way!” Wedge insisted, snapping a new power pack into his blaster and resuming the blind fire. Christof threw a contemptuous glance down at him.

“Yes Antilles, we do – but I’m fresh out of ideas! So when you say run for it, I’ll follow,” he suggested. Wedge nodded to the man, and turned to explain to the other two pilots. This was insane. He longed to be in the cockpit of his X-wing again, where ten-to-one odds were not so impossible – just improbable.

He felt a lump form in his throat as he relayed the plan to Reaber and Sanders. It was entirely his fault. He was the reason that they were going to die in their desperate run for cover. Why had he ordered them into the building? Why the hell hadn’t he waited for the Grand Admiral to try and get back to the star destroyer? In hindsight, a million different options suddenly opened themselves to Wedge, each seemingly as likely as the last to succeed.

But it was too late. This was the option he had taken. And now he had to bear the consequences. Unfortunately, so did two good men – even Christof didn’t deserve to be placed in such a foolish command.

He did the only thing he could do as he finished explaining the plan to them. He looked them directly the in the eye, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

They understood, he could tell they did – they knew their leader had resigned them all to death. But they didn’t let it show on their faces. Their expressions, if anything, set harder with more determination. Hope glimmered in their eyes. They weren’t dead yet.

Wedge allowed their eye lock to linger for a moment longer. They were not dead yet. They were soldiers of the Rebel Alliance, and whilever there was life in their bodies they would not give up.

They were not dead yet.

“Alright, on three!” he shouted over the firestorm. The other three men each tensed their bodies in preparation to pelt as fast as they could down the huge corridors. As was part of the plan, all four began emptying their blasters at the troopers.

“One!” Wedge shouted. The firestorm continued, and the pilots and mercenary increased the intensity of their random shooting.

“Two!” The intensity increased once more, and Wedge even thought he heard one of the troopers cry out in pain. They had scored a hit – enough to spur in him the last ounces of confidence and defiance.

He inhaled sharply to finish the countdown, and yelled the word “Three!” as loud as he could. But it was lost to his ears. It was lost to all of their ears. A tremendous explosion of sound came hurtling through the corridor the troopers were occupying. He felt a searing heat on his arm and blaster, and withdrew it quickly. The sound of crashing transparisteel was barely audible with the sound of expanding heat, and the unmistakable sound of ship-mounted laser cannon fire sputtered it’s deadly rhythm.

“Down!” yelled Christof as the cannons fired salvo after salvo into the corridor, melting steel and liquefying stone. There were no more sounds of troopers, and the torrent of red blaster fire had desisted. Wedge exhaled deeply and tried to get his breath back. By some miracle, he had been saved – his men had been saved.

The flood of turbofire suddenly stopped, leaving only the roaring sound of repulsorlifts beyond the window. Wedge hoist himself off the ground, his legs shaking slightly with the effort. He glanced around at the three others – under the pretence of checking if they were alright, though really trying to see if they were as jelly-legged as he.

“Alright everyone?” Christof asked flatly, pushing himself from the ground. None of them answered, and he was quite sure Christof wouldn’t have heard them anyway. He was leaning tentatively around the bend in the corridor, blaster ready. Wedge made to follow him.

“I don’t believe it,” Christof said dryly.

Wedge also leaned around the corner, and concurred with Christof. It was one of the assault transports from the courtyard, and it was trying to land in the corridor.

How insane. Despite the fact that the opening they had made was too small for a ship that size, the floor of this upper-story level might not support the weight of the heavy transport.

Who the hell could be flying that thing? The commander?

It would be an appropriate entrance for Cracken – crashing through a building in an assault transport. But somehow, it didn’t seem possible that he was that reckless.

Wedge squinted his eyes and turned his head as the transport crashed it’s way further into the corridor. More pieces of debris hit the floor, and the sounds of contorting metal filled the air. The repulsorlifts echoed in the corridor, reverberating in a thoroughly unpleasant way through his entire body. And then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the transport cut repulsorlifts and landed with a quaking crash.

And then, wedge got a suspicious feeling in his gut. He’d seen someone land a speeder exactly that way, not an hour ago…

“By the gods, he really is a dangerous idiot,” Wedge said quietly.

“What?” Christof demanded, “what, in the name of the sith, is going on?” Wedge’s face began to creep into a smile as he saw the hatch slide back to reveal the silhouette of a very substantial man, swaggering slowly out of the assault shuttle.

“This is sure gonna cost ya, Antilles,” Booster called from the corridor. Wedge’s face broke into a fully-blown grin, and he began crossing the distance to the ship. He noticed three other men, clad in Stormtrooper armour but without helmets – the other three mercenaries – step out of the ship with him. He vaguely heard Christof begin chastising the men for leaving the front doors.

“I’ve never met a man as adept at crashing as you, Booster,” he said emphatically, coming to halt immediately before the bulky mass of the man. He mastered the urge to wrap him in a quick embrace – that would be unprofessional.

“And I’ve never met a kid as good at getting into trouble, Antilles,” he replied. “But now you’ve got yourself a problem. We can’t go that way-” he pointed at the wreckage of the transport blocking the corridor “and by now every security agent in this building is bearing down on us.”

It snapped wedge immediately back into focus. He was right – if security were at all serious about defending the Grand Admiral, then they would be here any second.

“Booster, how would you feel about taking the lead in this operation?” Wedge asked quickly, with a nervous glance down the corridors. He was certain his two pilots and Christof would hate the idea – but they didn’t know Booster. Surviving was what he did.

“I was gonna take it anyway, Antilles. Come on – we have to get to the higher levels,” he ordered. He began to make off in the direction they had just come, when Christof cleared his throat.

“I beg to differ, whoever-you-are. Antilles, trust me – the Grand Admiral will be nowhere near the top levels. If we leave right now – and we’re extremely lucky – we might catch him as he tries to leave through the subterranean levels. We’ve wasted enough time going up,” he said authoritatively. Booster glared at the mercenary.

“If you’d done your homework, mercenary, you would know that there are no subterranean levels in Gavorr Government House. The Grand Admiral is trapped,” he announced firmly. Wedge was sure that if their eyes could shoot laser bolts, both would be vaped where they stood.

“That isn’t to say that there aren’t alternative exits – ones that aren’t a matter of public record,” Christof said, his tone icy. An awkward kind of silence hung in the air for a few seconds as the smuggler and the mercenary continued to lock eyes. Wedge eventually broke the silence.

“Look you two – we have to do something, and I think it’s probably best to take a chance on the official layout than to go off chasing maybe’s on the ground floor. We’ll go up, it’s the best chance.”

Christof casually broke his staring match with Booster, and spoke as though the whole situation had never happened. “Alright. But remember – the only thing you will find on the upper levels is more security and Stormtroopers. And know this – the Grand Admiral’s personal guard is a handpicked bunch of soldiers. These aren’t garden-variety Stormies. They’re the best of the best.

“Mark my words, if we go up – we won’t come down.”

Booster’s response was immediate and very predictable. Wedge admitted to himself that, in hindsight, he probably should have let Christof lead the group. His way was the much less dangerous. But then, Booster did have a better chance of being right.

“You better hope you’re wrong mercenary, because up is where we’re going – Stormies or not.”

41. Where’s a Holocam When You Need One?(Assault Chronometer: 00hr 37min 08sec)

Cracken snapped the last of the waterproof charges into place, and breathed an internal sigh of relief. All the charges had been set without incident. The Manual Release clamps of the docking bay would be thoroughly destroyed, causing the thick metal doors to slide open. The ensuing change in pressure would literally snap the big ship in half.

They’d done it. There was no sign of an underwater patrol, there was absolutely no indication that the Imperials were any the wiser of their actions. This would be a grand day for the Rebel Alliance.

Cracken’s only regret as he swam toward shore was that, in hindsight, he should have brought a holocam.

42. Scuttled (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 41min 43sec)

Captain Garlinn of the Conquistador was bustling about the various stations on the Bridge of his ship, trying desperately to control some of the damage and fallout caused by the huge explosion of the Femme Fatale. Though the structural integrity of the ship remained intact, the shields were well and truly damaged, and several electronics systems had failed – including life support on the lower decks.

It was an unmitigated disaster. The Admiral would be most displeased at his return – a displeasure aimed squarely at the captain whom he had entrusted the ship to.

And yet, it was not remotely his fault. The Admiral’s sleeper units had failed. Despite the transmission of the accomplishment signal, unit Three had left at least a small group of Rebels alive. And the results had been devastating.

Somehow, Captain Garlinn could not imagine Tigellinus accepting his mistake and shouldering responsibility. It would be left, as it always was, to the subordinate to accept the consequences.

Garlinn was suddenly startled from his train of thought when a deep, vibrating pulse coursed through the floor of the bridge. He stopped in his tracks, trying to use his feet to sense the vibration again. That was very unusual, there should have been no extraneous systems online to cause such a surge…

And then the world exploded.

A tremendous screaming of contorting metal filled the air, drowning out klaxon alarms and shouts of officers. The lights immediately shorted out, and the whole bridge lurched forward. The floor was tilted, and shaking uncontrollably.

“Report!” he shouted uselessly.

The forward viewport was tilted so far down that the main body of the ship was visible. Garlinn stared in unbridled shock. It was as though the ship were in two halves, and was slowly sinking in the middle. Great plumes of water exploded from transparisteel viewports and other weak areas of the hull. The centre of the ship rapidly descended ever lower into the water, disappearing into the abyss of Gavorr’s oceans.

“Report!” he shouted again, still unheard over the screeching of metal.

Before him, the forward hull was rising out of the water – a great triangle of metal looming over his head, blocking out the sun and plunging the bridge into total darkness. The tilt of the command decks was now almost vertical. Garlinn had to clutch the back of his command chair to prevent himself falling onto the forward viewport.

And then suddenly, everything silenced.

They hung there, suspended vertically, bobbing gently with the waves on the ocean. The Klaxon alarms were dead – everything was dead. Something utterly catastrophic had occurred on the Conquistador.

“Report,” he called again, his voice defeated.

“Sir, right before it cut out, the operations console reported that the hangar bays were opening. It was either malfunction or sabotage sir – the hangar bays cannot be opened except by manual release while we are marine.”

Garlinn closed his eyes.

Rebels.

Almost gently, the bridge began to move again – this time directly down. The hull of the Conquistador was sinking again. There would be no escape for the bridge crew, nor most of the personnel on the ship. Even those who managed to jump overboard would most likely be sucked down with the great mass of the warship.

Garlinn began to yell a loud cry of defeat and anger. The Conquistador was lost. He, and all of his crew, was going to die.

The Rebellion had won.

43. Pickup (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 42min 52sec)

They heard the roar of the approaching engines long before the dingy old gunboat soared into view. Clip and Eva both covered their ears as the ungainly but sturdy converted fighter descended into the street, drawing civilians from their houses again. Clip felt a surge of pride in his little R2 unit Noosa – he’d never been asked to do that before.

Eva moved close to his ear, so as to be heard over the screaming engines. “This is your ship? You really are struggling to make a profit, aren’t you kid?” They both started to jog toward the loading ramp.

“Stow it, Eva. We need to get to Government House, and this is the ship that’ll take us there.” Predictably, Eva snorted and muttered if we’re lucky under her breath. Clip ignored her.

They both boarded the ship, and found Noosa in the cockpit. He turned quickly from the flight terminal, and rolled to a stop at Clip’s feet. Though clip couldn’t understand the series of tootles and whistles the droid released, he imagined it to translate as “look at me, aren’t I clever”.

“Good work Noosa,” he said, patting the droid’s domed head.

“Now all you’ve gotta do is convince the ship to take off and we’re set,” Eva said, strapping into the copilot’s seat. Clip joined her as the pilot, and fumbled with the console. Immediately, the repulsorlifts lifted the ship gently off the ground.

“You badmouth my ship one more time and I’ll introduce you to the waste disposal unit. Now which way is government house?” he asked, putting the ship into a slow, hovering crawl.

“I can’t remember which way Wedge was headed. Why don’t you call and ask?” she suggested, handing him the comlink again. He took a glance at the frequency, and set into the shipboard comm system. Hopefully, somebody was still alive to take the call.

“Hello, this is Clip Argentsson calling Wedge Antilles. Wedge, are you there?” For a moment, there was silence on the end of the comm. Then a harsh voice – not Wedge’s – answered.

“Argentsson, this is Cracken. Where are you?”

Clip’s eyes widened. Cracken? Wasn’t he supposed to be underwater?

“Commander…ahh, we’re not sure. Somewhere west of the transit port. We were looking for directions to Government House, actually,” he replied quickly. “Where are you?” he added as an afterthought.

“Lying on a beach, enjoying the scenery. Listen, I know the way to Government House – what’s your transport?” the Commander inquired.

“My ship, the Raging Cusper. I brought it down from the casino in orbit.”

“That’s excellent. I wonder if I might redirect you. Can you spare the room for three passengers?” Clip threw a quick glance around the cockpit. It was messy and littered with smuggling paraphernalia – like empty elba beer cans and dirty clothes – but big enough.

“Sure thing, ahh…sir,” the word sounded awkward to him. “Where can we find you?”

“Just follow the coast, you’ll see us. We’re the only ones for miles. How soon can you be here?” There was an overwhelming sense of satisfaction in Cracken’s voice.

“ASAP, Commander. We’re coming to bear on the coast now. No more than five minutes,” Clip said, casually rounding the ship to face east.

“Good. Quick as you can, Argentsson,” Cracken ordered, cutting the comlink out. Clip deactivated his end, and took the Raging Cusper into a lazy arc to follow the beaches of Gavorr. He scanned the scenery. Long, empty beaches of yellow sand complemented by a sea tinged purple, glistening and vast.

There was something wrong with this…

“Clip…” Eva said quiety. He turned casually to face her.

Her eyes were fixed intently on the oceans of Gavorr, scanning a particular spot over and over again. The expression on her face was rife with disbelief and wonderment. He threw a glance in the direction she was looking, but saw nothing.

“What?” he demanded, looking back again. Still, he saw nothing. He was growing concerned…there was nothing more annoying than missing something that was plainly evident to someone else. But there was nothing there, he was sure of it…

He snapped his head around one last time.

Holy Son of the Sith…there’s nothing there!

44. Closing in… (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 45min 25sec)

The door of the office exploded inward, and Wedge Antilles leapt through the opening, taking cover behind a small wooden table. Behind him, Christof the mercenary covered left while the pilot Sanders covered right. Reaber, the second pilot, covered all sundry points – roof, corners and furniture. Behind him, the three mercenaries entered, blasters ready. Bringing up the rear was Booster Terrik, a hulking mass wielding a powerful blaster.

“All good?” he called, following the remaining mercenaries in.

“All good, Booster,” Wedge said, rising from behind cover. The room was obviously empty, even though it was large. There was very little furniture in there, as it was all piled up against a door leading onto the outer corridors. Apparently, the Imperials didn’t want the rebels going that way.

“Looks to be the Governor’s chamber, to me,” Booster commented, roaming around the various pieces of furniture against the doors.

“Me too – you better see this,” Christof announced, his blaster rifle trained on a spot behind a desk. The party strode over to see what it was, intently interested in what they had better see. In the back of his mind, Wedge had a shrewd idea…

“Sithspit, you think they had to shoot him so many times?” Booster said, only half shocked by the discovery. On the floor, sitting with his arms and legs crossed, was the body of the Governor of Gavorr. There were no less than ten blaster burns across his body, maybe more – and the tortured smile on his lifeless face indicated he had been killed quite suddenly.

“This is Governor whats-his-name, isn’t it?” Booster asked.

“Governor Thrisst, yes,” Wedge answered.

“So they killed him then?” Christof asked. “I thought the Grand Admiral sounded pretty incensed when Thrisst refused to meet on his ship. I’ll bet he wishes he’d just done as he was asked now.”

Something nagged at Wedge’s thoughts. Why hadn’t the governor just gone over the Conquistador when he was asked? It was a simple enough task. Surely he had to know that it would mean trouble for him and his entire cabinet. The only thing that could have kept him away was if he suspected something was going to happen to the big ship…or knew something was going to happen.

“Son of the Sith,” he said quietly.

“What?” Booster asked.

“He knew. Booster, he knew about the attack – he knew about us.” Booster narrowed his eyes slightly and glared at Wedge. He ignored the stare, confident in his assessment. It all made perfect sense.

“Antilles, come on-” the smuggler began.

“No, he’s right, it’s the only explanation,” Christof piped in. Booster wheeled on the smaller man, his hand uncomfortably close to his blaster. Wedge moved between the two. For all the good it did.

“And what would a mercenary know about it?”

“Think about it, smuggler. Why else have your precious rebels been attacked by no local security agencies? Why else would the governor so stubbornly refuse to take a short trip out to the Star Destroyer? Take my word, he more than knew about it. He was a conspirator.”

Booster’s eyes twitched, and he held Christof’s gaze for a long time. Wedge knew the expression that he wore – he had seen it before, dozens of times. It was the expression of a man who knew his argument was lost, but too proud to admit it.

“Why, then?” he asked sharply. “Why betray his own government?”

Wedge sighed, wishing that Booster would let the point go. They still had a job to do – a Grand Admiral still lurked in the corridors of Government House. Standing here arguing would accomplish nothing.

Christof seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He offered only a shrug in reply, and turned his back on the big man. Booster did likewise, face reddened from the tension. They resumed their search of the Governor’s chamber.

Something caught Wedge’s eye in that moment. By the furniture stacked against the door he noticed something strange. It was like a soft light, but nothing definitely present. He cocked his head, and scanned that area again. His inspection turned up nothing new, but his suspicions were piqued.

His attention was dragged away by a crackle of a comlink. He yanked it from his collar, and spoke quickly.

“Antilles.”

“Antilles, Cracken here. Give me good news.” A rush of relief took Wedge as he heard the Commander’s voice. His mission had seemed like such a fool’s errand, he had never expected to hear from him again.

“Commander, good to hear from you. What of your objective?”

“Rusting on the ocean floor, Wedge. Now report your status please,” Cracken reiterated. Wedge grinned broadly – things weren’t going so badly, after all. The Conquistador was down – the very first Imperial Star Destroyer successfully sabotaged! If nothing else, they had caused the Empire a great deal of expensive trouble today.

“We have stormed Government House, commander,” though he used the word stormed loosely. “So far we have encountered heavy resistance as we scale the levels of the building. We are currently in the Governor’s offices – I’m afraid Governor Thrisst has been killed.” There was a pause from Cracken, as though this was somehow grave news.

“That is a shame, but no threat to the mission. How many are you?”

“Three pilots, four mercenaries and one Booster Terrik,” Wedge answered quickly.

“Where are the rest of the pilots?” Cracken demanded immediately.

“Scanning the ground from airspeeders, sir – in case the Admiral tries to make a getaway from a rear or secret entrance.”

“Forget that – call them into government house immediately. You will need help. Get out of the upper levels and back to the ground floor. I need you to look for some kind of hidden exit – a subterranean gravitube or something similar. I’ll be there soon, Argentsson is going to pick me up in his ship and deliver me.” Cracken was speaking so fast Wedge could barely follow all of the instruction.

“Yes, Commander. I will report back if …”

Wedge immediately cut himself off, coming to a very sudden and shocking revelation. He scanned the pile of furniture stacked against the doors frantically, until he finally saw it again. A single, soft flash of a red LED light.

Abandoning all pretence of leadership, Wedge raised his blaster and began backing quickly away from the door. “Everybody out! Out of this room now – that door is going to blow! It’s a trap!” he shouted emphatically, giving his two pilots a hard shove in the direction of the clear door on the opposite side of the room.

It seemed to take a moment for his words to sink in – and eventually, it was Christof who set the wheels of retreat in motion. After making his own assessment of the situation, he had undoubtedly noticed the same LED light as Wedge.

“Thermex! Cover, now!” he shouted, diving behind an overturned hardwood desk. The rest of the intrusions team followed suit, finding appropriate cover and drawing their blasters.

Just in time, too.

The gigantic double doors exploded inward.