Star Wars Character Cafe - The Floating Fortress Part 8

THE FLOATING FORTRESS

45. Full Throttle (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 47min 44 sec)

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

The voice of Wedge Antilles trailed off. Cracken frowned, and leant into the comlink as if it would somehow provide him some insight into this strange occurrence. It wasn’t often that pilots spoke half sentences.

“Wedge?” he inquired quickly.

There was no response. All he could hear was static – had the line broken somewhere? Interference from something? It didn’t seem likely. The connection had been fine a second ago…

And then he heard a voice in the background. It was muffled, but shouted at such a volume that it was perfectly clear through the static-ridden reception.

“Everybody out! Out of this room now – that door is going to blow!”

“Wedge!” Cracken shouted this time.

What the hell was going on?

“It’s a trap!” the shouted voice conveniently explained.

Cracken’s heart skipped a beat. There were more muffled yellings from the posse in the governor’s office, until it was finally broken by a dreaded, ear-splitting crackle of static from the comlink. Something had exploded. Wedge and the others were in grave trouble.

In an instant, he switched his comlink over to general squad frequency. The line opened directly to all the pilots left alive. He spoke quickly and clearly, keeping panic or anxiety – anything that might obscure his words – from his voice.

“Pilots, this is the commander. Anyone close enough to respond will proceed immediately to the governor’s offices of Government House. You need to assist Antilles and the others in a fighting retreat. Go in, extract them, and get out – quickly.”

He didn’t wait for the response from the pilots, he knew they would carry out his orders. Instead, he flicked the comlink again, this time opening a line to Argentsson in the Raging Cusper.

“Raging Cusper,” the voice of Clip Argentsson said quickly.

“Argentsson, I hate to hurry you, but we have a situation. Get yourself to our location immediately. Where are you?” he asked sternly.

“We’re coming along the beaches from the south, commander. We should come across you soon,” Clip answered. Cracken gazed to the south, following the coastline with his eyes. And sure enough, just breaking over the urban horizon of the city of Gavorr flew the form of a small transport, speeding in their direction.

“We see you – make this a quick pick up, the pilots at Government House are under attack,” Cracken ordered. There was an exclamation from the other end of the line – a female voice, probably the Twi’lek smuggler. Then Clip spoke once more.

“Affirmative, commander. Coming in hot,” he said.

“You’re what?”

“Uh…that’s pilot slang for ‘this will be a quick pick up’.”

“No it isn’t,” Cracken said shortly, “Just make it quick, Argentsson.” He heard a feminine voice chuckling on Clip’s end, followed by a rather powerful expletive from Argentsson. Cracken shook his head slowly – smugglers.

“Alright Cracken, get ready to board – you’re getting in through the cargo hold,” Clip said exasperatedly. By now the small ship – Cracken recognised it as an earlier model Assault Gunboat – was descending to land on the hardened sand of Gavorr’s beaches. Cracken raised an arm to guard his eyes from the sandstorm that the repulsorlift engines had kicked up.

With an ungraceful jolt, the Raging Cusper set down on the sand, and the loading ramp began to slide open. Cracken turned to the other two men – all of them that much drier thanks to the repulsors – and waved them into the ship ahead of him. With a final glance at the churning sea, he ducked his head and followed.

He raised the comlink to his lips. “Argentsson, we’re in. Lift off. You want to be heading south-west, full throttle. I’m on my way up.” He felt the unsteady lurch of the ship lifting off the ground, and steadied himself against the nearest bulkhead. There was a crackling of sound from the comlink drowned out in the noise of the engines – presumably the affirmative from Clip.

Hold on Wedge, Cracken thought solicitously. Just hold on.

46. Okay. Okay. (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 49min 00sec)

The jarring crack of blasterfire perforated Wedge’s eardrums like sharp pins being driven into his ears. Searing red bolts of energy streaked past the official-looking desk that had been unceremoniously upturned, occasionally striking the solid other side and charring the woodwork. This cover wouldn’t last long.

Just seconds after diving for cover, Wedge stuck a single eye around the corner of the hardwood furniture and aimed his blaster. A single shot – he didn’t see if it made contact or not – was all he managed before an intense barrage of scarlet energy drove him back. The small glimpse of his enemy had been enough.

The troopers were pouring into the room as quickly as they could file through the narrow breach they had blown in the blocked double doors. Several troopers already lay dead – undoubtedly victim to deadly shots from the rebel force. A quick look to his left saw Christof and the other three mercenaries covering behind a large granite statue, regularly ducking out and firing off a quick shot. On his right, Booster Terrik was lying prone behind an electronic terminal of some kind, his blaster hand snaking around the obstacle and firing blind shots in the direction of the doors. Not far beyond the smuggler, pilots Sanders and Reaber were following a similar plan of action. Suddenly, they were right back where they started from a few levels below – except this time, Booster couldn’t crash-land and save the day.

But they weren’t without options.

Wedge raised his comlink to his lips and shouted over the vicious firefight “Antilles to all pilots! We are under attack in the offices of the Governor and need backup! Now!” He couldn’t hear anything. Maybe the pilots had responded, maybe they hadn’t.

He allowed his concentration to slip for a moment as he peeked around for another few shots. This time, he was not as quickly noticed – he managed to fire three rounds into a tight cluster of troopers. All of the shots hit something – whether that something was vital, he had no time to check. More blaster bolts chewed into the marble floors of the office, filling the space where his head had been with a plume of dust.

“Antilles to all pilots, we are under attack in the offices of the Governor and need backup. Please respond!” Wedge flinched as a particularly hard volley of fire slammed into the hardwood desk, sending unpleasant groans and splits through it. Thick smoke was beginning to fill the air.

And then he heard it – a patchy, muffled and scratchy response on the comlink. He was really only able to discern the sounds “tive…ird floor, ent…eeders and pro…or position. ETA …”

Wedge did not catch the ETA – he was far too distracted by the stench of something burning…something that smelled suspiciously like wood. He lay an apprehensive palm against the underside of the upturned desk, and snatched it away quickly. It was hot. Extremely hot.

This force-forsaken excuse for cover is burning up!

He fought back the threatening grip of panic, and surveyed his surroundings more critically. The nearest cover he could hope to sprint to would probably be with the mercenaries to his left, behind the granite statue. Though by the look of it, it wasn’t going to hold out much longer either. He needed to think…

“Wedge, get out of there! Over here, come on – I’ll cover you!” Booster shouted extremely powerfully. Wedge threw a glance at him, but quickly decided against it – even if he could run the distance without getting shot, there was no room behind the computer console for the both of them.

“Antilles!” the voice of Christof drifted to him from the opposite direction. “You’ve got a fire. Get away from that desk!” Wedge turned to look back at the mercenaries. In his gut, Wedge had a feeling that whatever he chose would be a bad choice. But he needed to decide soon – flames were beginning to lick over the edges of the desk. He’d be burned alive.

He doubled over for a moment, the thick black smoke creeping into his nose and throat, sending him into a coughing fit. The smoke was getting heavier. Pretty soon, none of them would be able to see what they were firing at. He raised his head again, and pushed back from the table slightly. It wasn’t until he started firing blindly into the thick smoke that he spotted the obvious, blaring tactical advantage that this gave him.

None of them can see what they’re firing at. Congratulations Antilles – with such quick thinking, you’ll make general in no time.

Christof had realised it a second earlier than Wedge. The mercenary was busily firing too – not at the Stormtroopers, but at the unmarked underside of the hardwood desk. Wedge added his own blaster fire to the equation, and soon the antique was ablaze, sending smoke and embers in every direction.

“Antilles!” Christof called from the statue. “We have to go right now,” he shouted desperately. Wedge needed no convincing – he nodded once to the mercenary, and turned to call out to Booster.

“Booster-”

“Wedge!” he was cut off by the gruff smuggler. “We have to get out of here now!” Despite feeling slightly indignant at having his own plan spelled out for him by not one, but two others, he launched himself into action.

In one fluid movement, he pushed himself off the floor and began sprinting for the double doors at the rear of the room. They were so invitingly open, and safe. All of his thought was focused on getting through those doors.

You’re never going to make it if you don’t give the Imperials a reason not to follow you, he shouted at himself internally. Almost subconsciously, he raised his blaster and emptied it into the thick smoke, in the general direction of the troopers.

Following his lead, the other rebels began to pull back through the thick smoke, firing blindly behind them. Booster – with a burst of speed that Wedge wouldn’t have thought possible, had he not seen it – rushed past him to secure the outside corridor. The other two pilots and the mercenaries retreated more slowly, but steadily, firing as they went, staying low to avoid the near constant stream of laser bolts headed their way. The randomness of the shots was alarming – no matter which way they ducked, their chances of being hit were about the same.

From the doors, Booster urged them on with a wave of his hand. “We’re clear this end, lets go!” he shouted, returning some shots at the thickening grey cloud. As a group, they rushed forward, ducking and weaving as they went – praying they were ducking the right way.

Wedge’s teeth hurt from being clenched so very hard. There had been few times when he had felt such unbridled terror as this. When his parents had died, maybe. Certainly never while he was in the cockpit of his X-wing. Here, on the ground, he was at the mercy of coincidence and luck. If a shot any of the shots being fired connected with a target, it would be a coincidence. If they managed to get out unscathed, it would be luck.

Three steps from the doors, Wedge was convinced that luck had won out. He burst from the smoke filled room and flung himself around the corner, heaving a sigh of relief that he hoped was drowned in the sound of blasters firing. He allowed himself a single moment of elation – a split second of defiant joy that he was alive.

We did it – we got out. Write up another brilliant escape to the Rebellion.

Satisfied that he had savoured the moment, he turned around to the rest of the group – all present and firing heartily at the troopers. All except one.

Where the hell was Christof?

Leaping to his feet once more, Wedge stepped over to the doorway once more. There, being dragged backward by two very worried-looking mercenaries, was Christof – a gigantic black mark charred in his upper back, and another in his side. Wedge’s face twisted in rage. He aimed his gun to help cover the mercenaries extract their leader – but when he pulled the trigger, it clicked empty.

In hindsight, Wedge wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it. Probably the extremity of feeling undiluted joy replaced by intense rage and frustration, as he had heard they lead men to do strange things. He stared at the empty weapon for a moment. Then, in a single fluid movement, he drew him arm back tightly, and flung it as hard as he could at the smoky silhouette of a Stormtrooper.

In the great scheme of things, it did absolutely no good whatsoever. But for one moment, Wedge felt all of his anger and ferocity rush out of his body to guide the small but heavy piece of metal into the chestplate armour of the trooper.

Of course, now that anger and ferocity had left him, he was left only with concern and anxiety. The other mercenaries had managed to drag Christof behind cover now, and were bending over him, checking his life signs. The expressions on their faces told Wedge all he needed to know.

Christof would not live.

Booster, still firing the last rounds of his blaster into the smoking room, glared at them. “Is he alright?” he yelled over the noise, his blaster finally hitting empty. He holstered it, and pulled a second blaster from his inside right pocket.

Wedge, unarmed, knelt down beside the limp form of the Mercenary leader. To his surprise, his eyes were still alert, and angry. “I told you to get out of here! Lay down some covering fire, and just go! I did not get shot to watch you all die with me,” he said. There was no remorse in his voice. It was it’s normal, aggressive self.

“Christof, we can carry-”

“Stow it, Antilles. I’m not going anywhere,” as if on cue, blood began trickling from behind his left eye. “I can’t even see. You’re in charge – lead your men out of here.”

Wedge still struggled with words. What was he supposed to say? Thankyou for dying here, so that we can escape? I’ll make sure you get the recognition you deserve if we get out of here? I haven’t known you very long, but I’ve learned a lot from you?

It was all so hollow and meaningless, while Christof lay where he did, dying before his very eyes. The only thing he could say, the only thing that did not catch in his throat for their tackiness, or their insincerity, was ironically the one thing he least expected to make sense.

“Okay. Okay.”

Christof nodded once – grimly – and Wedge returned the gesture. With a final effort, he stood up, and looked away from the dying man. “Booster,” he called. The large man turned his head, searching Wedge’s eyes. “We’re going, now. Follow me,” he ordered. Silently, Booster cocked his head toward the shot mercenary, posing a silent question. Wedge’s response was a diminutive shake of his head – no.

Booster had no comment – sincere or otherwise – to offer. He simply nodded.

“Pilots, ahh…you lot,” he said, waving a hand at the other three mercenaries. "We’re leaving – this way,” and he began to jog backwards down the corridor. Booster fell immediately into step with him, as did the two pilots. The other three mercenaries, their faces forlorn, hesitated a moment. Their eyes flicked between their dying – or already dead? Wedge couldn’t see from the distance – leader, and the young pilot who was dragging them away.

Wedge hoped – sincerely – that the mercenaries would follow him. If they didn’t, he had no idea what to do. He couldn’t go back, he had promised Christof that much. But nor could he go on without his allies. His backward jog slowed a little, and he looked imploringly into the eyes of the other men.

Come on, please – he’s gone. We’ve got to go.

Wedge had too much respect for their grief to shout the words aloud. Sentences like that had no place being uttered around the bereaved. He said as much as he could with his eyes, and hoped they would come to the right decision.

With a final, more determined look at Christof, the mercenaries all turned as one, and began jogging with the others. Wedge felt a reservoir of dammed relief explode in his gut, and turned to face the direction he was headed. Toward the large marble stairs they had not five minutes ago ascended in hope of getting into exactly this situation.

As he put his foot on the first step, Wedge heard blaster fire behind them again. The Stormtroopers had probably advanced in the lull of laserfire from their opponents. Several red bolts shattered wall tiles around them, but they were far enough away to avoid being hit. They all ran as quickly as they could, wordlessly and determined, down the stairs…

Into the muzzles of twenty or more blasters.

47. A Perfect Escape (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 49min 27sec)

“Stand by…” Tigellinus heard the pilot say quietly.

They were in complete darkness, bathed in the soft glow of consoles and graced with an eerie, almost complete silence. It was refreshing. Such a change from the chaos above ground. Here, deep beneath Government House, there was silence enough to think clearly.

An electric hum surged through the small cockpit, accompanied by a flickering of internal and external lights. For the first time, Tigellinus appreciated just how paranoid Governor Thrisst had been.

It had taken ten minutes to make their way from the upper levels to this underground hangar, it was that deep underground. It had taken a further ten minutes to crack the access codes on the durasteel blast doors – A long time, even on poor equipment. Thankfully, the small shuttle itself did not have any stringent protective devices attached to it.

Now that light flooded through the hangar, Tigellinus saw the extensive defence network that the governor had set up in here. In the four corners of the hangar, remote laser turrets were mounted – their sensors thankfully disengaged. The doors ahead of them were double-durasteel blast doors and, according to the sensors of the shuttle, were magnetically sealed against blaster fire.

The dwelling of a man who is expecting a grim fate, Tigellinus thought. How fitting that it was he who would provide it for him.

“Engines on-line,” the pilot spoke again, finishing the start-up sequence. The small shuttle was remarkably quiet. With a light and surreally smooth twitch, it lift off the ground with it’s repulsorlifts, and hung in mid air.

“Take us back to the ship, flight officer,” Tigellinus said officiously.

The young man nodded, and ran through a series of combinations on the communications console. Up ahead, Tigellinus could see small red lights begin to flicker around the edges of the blast doors, right before they began to slowly slide open.

And beyond them, painfully bright in contrast to the darkness of the hangar, was sunlight. There was a long tunnel, sloping upward at an alarming angle, which lead to the outside world – presumably some distance away from government house. The tunnel back to his Empire.

“Moving out, sir,” the pilot replied.

The ship pitched forward, and they were free.

48.Filtered through grimness (Assault Chronometer: 00hr 52min 02sec)

There was an instant when the unarmed Wedge had felt the greatest sensation of despair and defeat. To have come all of this way without injury, to have defied the Imperials so many times, only to come face to face with an overwhelming enemy – unarmed – was enough to make him sick. For that surreal instant, everything in his life was suddenly snapped into sharp perspective – again. And strangely enough, had they been his last thoughts, Wedge would have died thinking about a mercenary whom he had known for less than an hour.

But luckily, once that instant passed, defeat was replaced by a different emotion. Pure, indescribable relief.

For the first time, he had looked beyond the blasters pointed his way, to the hands holding them. They were bare hands – not armoured white. The arms bearing the hands were sheathed in orange – painfully bright orange. Another second more, and Wedge was able to recognise every one of the faces gaping at him – familiar, friendly faces.

The pilots had arrived. How they had managed it so quickly, Wedge couldn’t tell. But they were here, and that was all that mattered.

“Wedge!” somebody called, as the group lowered their weapons as one.

“No!” he shouted. “Weapons up – take cover. There are Imperials behind us. I don’t know how many,” he ordered strictly. Relief had passed now – he had progressed to determination. Of course, every emotion was filtered through grimness after a death in battle. A defeat was a grim defeat. A victory was a grim victory. Retribution was grim satisfaction. And this – this was a grim determination to succeed.

“Take cover,” Booster backed Wedge up, matching actions to words and diving behind a long marble pillar close to the bottom of the stairs. The pilots followed their orders well, and soon were all concealed behind their various cover. Wedge had ducked behind the same pillar as Booster.

“Hey Wedge,” Booster said. “You know – I didn’t like Christof,” he said solemnly. Wedge regarded him strangely. Why, in the name of the Empire, would Booster say such a thing now? His mouth was twisting into a malicious scowl.

“But I’ll fight in his name, for his honour.

“Join me?”

Wedge didn’t know why, but he felt an ambivalent sense of approval and appreciation for what Booster was trying to do combined with an overwhelming cynicism that what Booster had just said was incredibly corny. In the end, his appreciation won out.

“For Christof,” Wedge said simply, nodding.

Booster nodded back.

With an altogether more twitchy movement than he would have liked, Wedge drew his comlink, and set it to squad frequency. “Pilots,” he said softly, not whispering but not talking naturally either. “Stay where you are, and wait for my order to attack.” He set the comlink back down.

Booster cocked an eyebrow. “Getting creative this late in the day, Antilles?” he asked. Wedge found it in himself to give a wry smile in response, and stood up straight.

“Something like that,” he said.

And without another word, he began to sprint away from the smuggler, directly down the centre of the long corridor. An anxious glance over his shoulder told him that the Troopers hadn’t reached the top of the staircase yet. Good. I’ve still got time.

“Wedge, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Booster had followed him, forcing his bulky mass to keep up with the lighter-bodied pilot. Wedge looked around at the smuggler, and spoke to him very briefly.

“Causing a distraction. You can help if you like,” he said.

“When you tell me what on Gavortis you’re doing, I’ll think about it,” he replied. Wedge didn’t answer by any conventional means – he had run far enough. Any further away, and he would be out of their blaster range. He pulled his comlink once again.

“Pilots, remember – hold fire until I say,” he reiterated.

Booster, puffing heavily after the short but intense jog, came to a halt. There was a strange look of dawning realisation on the big man’s face, and he almost smiled. “Okay, I think I get it. We’re bait, aren’t we?” he said.

Wedge did smile. “I think it was you who said I’d make good a career of being bait,” he said lightly. Booster cracked a smile too.

“Yeah well, you were young and gangly then. It was either bait or professional stick.” The moment of reflection was broken – as they have a habit of being – by the sudden appearance of the Stormtroopers at the top of the stairs.

Without thinking, Wedge grabbed Booster’s blaster from his hand and began shooting at them. If they were surprised to see them there, they covered it very well by shouting “It’s them, blast ‘em!”

“Is ‘retreating’ being worked into your plan anytime soon, Antilles?” Booster asked. He eyed his blaster – probably wishing it was in his hand, where it belonged. Wedge kept firing, and began walking backwards fairly quickly. After a few seconds, he tossed the blaster back at Booster.

“I like to think of it as advancing in the other direction,” Wedge replied, still hastening backwards, Booster coming with him. They were just outside of blaster range of the Imperials now, their shots fizzling to a halt in mid-air or sailing harmlessly into the rear walls, causing no damage to the structure there.

Wedge held his comlink ready.

The troopers began to advance down the stairs, blasters still working constantly, trying to land a lucky shot. Their numbers had swelled at the top of the stairs – how many? Thirty? Forty? – but were not growing any more. It appeared as though this was all of them. They all kept advancing steadily, walking in a formation that allowed two lines of troopers to fire at once. And really, for their purposes, they couldn’t have arranged themselves any better.

Wedge flicked the comlink, and spoke very clearly so that the rebels would hear the order over the blaster fire. “Pilots, choose your targets, and light ‘em up.”

It was pilot slang – inappropriate for ground missions really – but it felt right to issue the orders to the other pilots that way. It didn’t matter to the men standing further up the corridor, hidden from Imperial view. They all checked the charge of their weapons, and drew up to their full height.

And then, as one, they ducked around from behind cover and began shooting.

The Imperials had not been expecting this at all. The first two lines of troopers – about twenty men – went down without firing a single shot at their assailants. By the time the rest had realised what was going on, and the pilots had lost the advantage of surprise, they had gained the advantage of numbers. It was only a matter of time. The final fifteen or so troops tried to retreat, to take cover – but there were no options for them. Some, in trying to retreat up the stairs, tripped and fell, presenting ideal targets for the guns. Some tried to take cover behind pillars, only to discover a rebel hiding behind that exact piece of cover.

Ten seconds of deafening noise and bright flashing, and the entire Imperial force had been wiped out.

Booster let out a low whistle from beside him. “Neat idea, Wedge,” he said quietly. Wedge, in spite of himself, agreed. It was about the first thing that had gone right for him since entering Government house.

“Secure that area, pilots,” Wedge ordered, beginning to walk back to the main group, Booster in tow.

“You got it, Wedge. Neat idea, by the way,” one of the pilots responded. Wedge smiled.

“Thanks for saving our hides everyone,” he replied, putting the focus back on the achievements of the pilots again. Outnumbered two to one, and they had managed to finish the battle in less than ten seconds. No small feat, in anyone’s book. Wait till Cracken hears about this.

“How did you all get up here so quickly, anyway?” Booster asked, as they rejoined the gaggle of orange-clad men. The nearest man turned to him, his face dead serious.

“Some kriffing lunatic blasted a hole the size of Yavin in the side of the building and landed a transport in there. We flew the airspeeders inside,” he explained casually. Wedge, unable to control himself, began laughing hard. Booster looked indignant.

“Lunatic? I would have said ‘genius of modern warfare, albeit a little eccentric’.”

“Booster, I was about to say the same thing,” Wedge laughed, clapping the big man on the back. He couldn’t help but notice that the laughter issuing from his mouth was grim laughter.

Grim laughter for a grim victory.