Archive of Our Own ^beta

There were only three sounds in the universe that Simmons could truly say he hated.

One had been the smug tone his father had always used when he was mocking him. Another was the whining noise their single speeder always made right before it broke down again and needed another five hours of repair.

And the last was Sarge’s voice calling, “Simmons! Front and centre on the double! We got an emergency on our hands!”

Groaning, Simmons stood from his position on the wall and stretched his aching shoulders. Four hours on watch duty had left both his mind and various parts of his body numb; there was very little to watch in the dull, featureless grey-green marshland. “Coming, Sarge,” he called as he descended the tower’s steps into the cool interior.

Their outpost was little more than a tall block of hollow permacrete plonked down amid the foliage on a ridge line overlooking an area of marshland that was somewhat less boggy than everywhere else. Underneath it, they were assured, was a secret, hidden Jedi Temple that needed to be protected from the Empire. It was, in Simmons’ opinion, doing a good enough job of that without their help.

One floor down from the flat roof level of the outpost - what Sarge called “the lookout” - was the base’s main room. It served the combined function of kitchen, operations centre and rec room, and was usually somewhat untidy and tinged with the smell of last night’s dinner. Today, Simmons noted, was no exception.

Sarge was pacing from wall to wall, which only took ten steps each way. Donut was standing at attention in front of the large table that had been shoved into one corner and designated “the operations desk”. It was covered in haphazard piles of flimsi, a few datapads, and their only holocomm unit.

“Simmons!” Sarge boomed, “Status report!”

“No movement outside, sir,” Simmons said, walking over to stand beside Donut.

“Good.” Sarge grinned; it was a rather unsettling expression. “Well boys, we just received a top priority communication from Alliance Command!”

Despite the fact that it was Sarge saying it, Simmons felt his heart beat a little faster. A top priority communication could mean a special, important mission; just the sort of thing he’d joined the Rebels to do.

“It seems our little temple here attracted a Jedi after all!” Sarge was saying. “But he got made by the authorities, so we’ve got to hightail on up to Cardoola and scoop him up!”

Simmons couldn’t breathe. “A…a real Jedi, sir?” he asked, breathless.

“Yessiree, Simmons! And the Alliance has given us permission to temporarily abandon our position here to go help him out!” Sarge clapped his hands together. “We move out in fifteen! Get that old ship ready to fly, Simmons!”

At that, Simmons’ heart sank a little. “Er, sir…we haven’t started the ship in three years. It’s going to take longer than fifteen minutes to get her going again.”

Sarge grunted. “Well, get it done fast as you can, private.”

*

As fast as Simmons could ended up being an entire day.

“Sorry, sir,” he said when Sarge came to check up on his progress. “Almost everything needs a tune-up, and several parts need to be replaced completely.”

Sarge only said, “Just gives us more time to secure the base!”

Simmons had decided he didn’t want to know what Sarge and Donut were doing to ‘secure the base’; he’d moved all his things out and into a bunk on the ship while they weren’t looking, just in case they managed to cause irreparable damage.

The ship, which had been all but buried in the shrubbery for three years, was not in great shape. It had been a clunker before the Alliance bought it and assigned it to them as their ‘evacuation vehicle’; now it was all but falling apart. It was a miracle the sublight engines still started, and Simmons had serious doubts about the condition of the hyperdrive. He wasn’t an expert, but he was sure it wasn’t supposed to make that sound when he ran the test sequence.

Lopez, as usual, was no help. The mechanic droid was an expert on all things related to starship maintenance, but his language module had been fried in an ‘engineering accident’ that Sarge still refused to elaborate on, meaning he was without the ability to speak Basic. Instead he clanked around the ship, muttering a constant stream of irritated and foul-sounding Weequay, and Simmons did his best to ignore him.

Still, after a day’s worth of maintenance, Simmons went through the startup sequence and was rewarded with the roar of the engines powering up, and the dubious clunks and ticks that meant the life support systems had cycled on and air was circulating through the ventilation system.

Simmons heard footsteps come stomping up the ramp, and a second later Sarge poked his head into the cockpit. “Ready?”

“As ready as she’s going to be, sir,” Simmons said, checking a few readouts.

Sarge grunted, then retreated back down the corridor; a few seconds later Simmons heard him yelling, “Donut! Time to scramble! Get up here!” from the top of the boarding ramp.

Simmons felt a tingle of nervous energy go through him. He’d been stuck in this dead-end posting on this trivial world for three years; now, it seemed, he was finally about to do something worthy of the dreams he’d had when he first signed up with the Alliance.

Sarge barrelled back into the cockpit, grinning from ear to ear, closely followed by Donut. “Time to blast off, Simmons!” he yelled, “We got ourselves a Jedi to rescue!”

The ship lifted off at more of a crawl than a blast, stirring the trees and bushes into a frenzy while Simmons watched the readouts and dials, heart in his mouth. Nothing stopped, nothing exploded; all the dials and lights stayed green. The ship slipped up into the atmosphere just as she should, if a little slow and with some minor grumbling from her engines.

“We’ll be at Cardoola in a couple of hours,” Simmons said, adjusting their course. They were heading south, the marshlands turned to a green and brown blur by their speed. “Have you got a plan for finding the Jedi, sir?”

“Not yet, Simmons.” Sarge clapped a hand on his shoulder. “But I’ve got some time to figure it out now, huh?”

Simmons tried to ignore the bundle of nerves in the pit of his stomach.

*

Cardoola wasn’t much to look at from the air. The spaceport viewed from above seemed to be a series of circular holes; they were open air hangars, with roofs that could be closed to protect ships from the regular monsoons. After a little negotiation with the spaceport authority, Simmons eased their ship down into one of them, landing with a sigh of relief. The ship had held together admirably through their four hour trip from the outpost; perhaps it wasn’t in as bad shape as he had feared.

When everything was powered down, he walked down the cramped corridors to the boarding ramp. Sarge and Donut were waiting for him, both kitted out in nondescript clothes, with blasters placed obviously on their hips. There was no room for subtlety with that sort of thing in Cardoola.

“Is there a plan yet, Sarge?” Simmons asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Sure is, Simmons!” Sarge nodded. “We’re going to give him a lift!”

“What?”

“We figure he’ll be looking for a way off-planet,” Donut explained. “And we’ve got a ship.”

“So we offer to take him somewhere…”

“Then hightail it back to Alliance HQ!” Sarge finished. He looked very proud of himself. “Come on boys, time’s a’wasting!”With that he disappeared down the ramp.

“Does the Jedi get a choice whether he wants to come back with us?” Simmons asked Donut as they followed.

“Well, no. But I figure every Jedi wants to help the Rebels, right?”

“I just don’t want a lightsaber in the gut when he figures out he’s being kidnapped, that’s all,” Simmons muttered.

Down on the ferrocrete of the hangar floor, Sarge was already arguing with a shady-looking Gran. The alien probably wanted an extra “docking fee”, despite Simmons already having transferred credits before they were allowed to land.

“We’ve already paid our fee,” he cut in, glaring down at the Gran.

He made a hacking noise in the back of his throat. “Extra five thousand when you get on ground,” he said in his thick, gravelly voice.

Simmons had to stop himself laughing. He might be inexperienced, but even he knew that was ludicrous.

“And it’ll cost me nothing to put you in our deep freeze hold, you little twerp,” Sarge growled.

“Port authority!” the Gran said, slapping his chest and sounding outraged.

“There’s no cameras,” Donut said, all causal nonchalance.

Sarge drew his blaster very slowly from its holster. “You wanna test me, you little rock-faced sleezeball?”

The Gran backed off, waving his hands in front of him vigorously. Sarge didn’t return his blaster to its holster until the little alien had disappeared through the door into the wider spaceport. “Little twerp,” he muttered.

Simmons sighed, feeling the tension in his body ease, but only by a little. This was a town full of scum like the Gran. “Let’s just get to the cantina.”

Cardoola’s streets were muddy and choked with traffic, with speeders, bikes, animal-pulled carts and even hand-pushed barrows jostling for space. Simmons really hoped no one was following them; he was so focused on avoiding what was going on in front of him, they’d made it to the cantina by the time he thought about pursuers.

The cantina was the biggest in town. Simmons had never been, but he’d read up on Cardoola and the other cities on the planet, just in case they’d ever needed to come here (and, admittedly, just to pass the time). They passed through the low entryway, pushing past several other patrons who were leaving, and found themselves in a wide, dim room with a very low ceiling. Smoke and quiet, languid music hung in the air, mixing with the murmur of conversation. It would almost have been tasteful, if not for the quality of the clientele.

“I’ll find us a table,” Sarge said, keeping his voice low. “You boys get us some drinks. See if you can hint to the bartender that we’re looking for passengers.”

The bartender was a mournful-looking Nautolean; Simmons asked for three of something strong and watched as the man poured dark amber liquid into three glasses. He felt nerves coil again in his stomach, his voice feeling like it was stuck in his throat.

“Don’t suppose there’s anyone looking for a ride that you know of, my friend?” Donut asked.

The Nautolean fixed his big, black eyes on them. “You looking for someone?”

“Let’s just say our hold is stuffed with mealpacks, and we’re taking a scenic trip of the Outer Rim.”

“Ha.” The Nautolean gave a bark of laughter that showed his pointed teeth. “There were a couple of people asking around, earlier. I’ll point them your way.”

“Much appreciated.” Donut picked up the drinks, then motioned for Simmons to set down the credits. Simmons nodded to the bartender and put down the exact chits.

“Thanks, Donut,” he sighed as they picked their way through the throngs of dubious characters.

“No problem!” Donut grinned. “I just love Nautoleans; I love their tentacles!”

Simmons winced. “Er, sure.”

Sarge had found them a table in a dingy corner, away from the main hubbub of the room. The table to the left was empty; on the right sat a group of Twi’leks who looked like dancing girls, sharing a meal and a few deathsticks.

“Sorted?” Sarge asked as Simmons put his drink in front of him.

“He said he’d seen a few people around. Hopefully that includes you-know-who.” Simmons slid into his seat, keeping his voice low. “Have you got a picture of our…target?”

Sarge pulled out his handheld datapad and slid it across the table without a word. On it, a man’s face was displayed; he had round, slightly chubby cheeks and dark skin, and a long fall of curly black hair. Simmons thought he was human until he noticed the Kiffar tattoo on his left cheek. Underneath his face was his name, Dexter Grif, and the Imperial credit symbol followed by 100,000. “Ouch,” he said, handing the datapad back, “He’s worth a lot.”

“He’s a J-y’know,” Donut said, “Not many left these days. They’re worth more.”

“Right.” Simmons nodded as Sarge tucked the datapad away out of sight. “So I guess there’s nothing to do but wait?”

“Try to relax,” Donut instructed, “Try to look like you’re having a good time.”

Simmons blew out an exasperated breath. “Sure. I’m having the time of my life.”

*

It was past nightfall and the cantina was getting a lot more lively before they struck gold. The bartender had sent two people seeking passage over to them already, whom Sarge had turned away with the excuse that they weren’t going anywhere near the planets the potential passengers wanted to get to. Now there were patrons at every table, a thick throng of people around the bar, and the music had changed to quick, upbeat jazz numbers. The Twi’leks who’d been sitting next to them were taking turns working the stage, sending alluring smiles out at the gathered crowd.

Simmons tried not to show any obvious reaction when the man they’d been looking for shouldered his way through the crowd and stopped at their table. “I hear you’re looking for passengers,” he said.

Simmons glanced up at him and then away, not trusting himself to keep his expression casual. He focused on the dark liquid in his glass while listening to Sarge say, “Just one passenger, at the moment. The spot’s still open. Where you going?”

The man - Grif, the bounty had said - pulled out one of their spare chairs and sat down at the table. “Where are you going?” he asked. “I’m looking to get off this rock, not go anyplace in particular.”

Someone trying not to look like a fleeing bounty wouldn’t have volunteered that much information; maybe the Jedi hadn’t trained him in that sort of thing. Or maybe he was getting desperate.

“We’re taking a somewhat scenic tour around the Outer Rim,” Sarge said, swirling the liquid in his glass. “We’ll be making stops on Ryloth, Tatooine, maybe Hypori, Rothana…then I figure we’ll be up to Huttspace for a while. Definitely make a stop on Nar Shaddaa,” he added with a wink.

Nar Shaddaa, the Smuggler’s Moon, perhaps the most legendary hive of criminal activity in the galaxy. The perfect place for someone with a price on their head to disappear. Simmons was rather surprised by Sarge’s subtlety; he wondered if the old man had done this sort of thing before. He knew nothing about his life prior to their posting together at the outpost.

“Sounds good,” Grif said. “How much?”

“We’re not looking to turn a huge profit,” Donut said. “If you wanna go all the way to the Smuggler’s Moon, maybe we say…ten?” At the look on Grif’s face, he added, “We could maybe lower it if you did a bit of work for us.”

“Do we need another hand?” Sarge asked, his voice suitably gruff.

“I need another hand,” Donut huffed. “You make us haul cargo like a slave driver.”

“Fair enough.” Sarge took a swig of his drink. “You help the boys with the cargo and take your turn making the grub, we’ll take you to Nar Shaddaa for seven. Deal?”

Grif looked relieved for a second before he hid it behind a mask of neutrality. “Deal,” he said.

“Good!” Sarge grinned at him, the somewhat manic grin that always made Simmons uncomfortable. “We’re docking pan eighteen. Start finishing up, boys; if we leave before midnight we don’t have to pay another docking fee.” He pointed at Grif. “You, grab your stuff. You got a name?”

“It’s Sarda,” Grif said, smooth as silk. Simmons wouldn’t have believed it was a fake name if he hadn’t known; at least the Jedi could lie that much. “I’ve got a bag or two. I’ll meet you on the docking pan?”

“We’ll see you there,” Donut said.

*

“That was too easy,” Simmons muttered, checking the release catch on one of the landing gear legs. “Something bad is definitely going to happen now.”

“Simmons!” Donut poked his head around the landing gear leg to glare at him. “Don’t jinx it!”

Simmons glared back at him; after that he got on with his work in silence. It was a fairly quick check-up, and he was probably just being paranoid, but it gave him something to do while they waited for Grif to arrive. Donut was sitting just out of sight around the leg, watching the entrance to their docking pan, his blaster rifle laid casually over his lap.

It seemed like hours before he heard Donut say, “There you are! We were starting to worry.”

“Yeah,” Grif’s voice replied. He sounded harried and nervous. “Listen, there’s some sort of, er, trouble going on in the spaceport, we should probably get moving.”

“Really?” Donut asked. Simmons pushed the release cover back into place and dropped down from his perch on the landing gear, coming around it to see Donut on his feet, tense and staring at the docking pan entrance, and Grif, who was clearly trying not to look in the same direction.

“It’s fixed,” he said, “We’re ready to go.”

Donut nodded. “Then let’s get-” He cut himself off with a gasp.

Simmons caught a flash of white in the corner of his eye. “There he is!” yelled a voice, made tinny and nasal by a helmet voice filter.

He already knew what he was going to see before he turned to look; stormtroopers. Two of them entering through the docking pan entrance, their rifles raised. “Stand down!” one of them yelled, “The Jedi’s coming with us!”

“And there will be no space bugs!” the other one shouted.

“Shut up, Caboose!”

“Shoot ‘em?” Donut asked, twitching his rifle a little.

“Kriff yeah shoot ‘em!” Simmons snapped. He pulled his own blaster from the holster at his hip. “Get inside!” he yelled at Grif.

“I’ve got the right!” Donut said, raising his rifle and shooting in one quick movement.

Simmons raised his blaster and aimed at the stormtrooper on the left, but an incoming bolt made him duck and miss the shot. The stormtrooper on the right rolled to the ground, avoiding Donut’s shot, and took cover behind a pile of crates.

The Jedi hadn’t hung around; Grif was gone when Simmons looked up again. “Into the ship, into the ship!” he yelled at Donut. He was lining up a shot at the left-hand stormtrooper, who didn’t seem to be interested in finding cover at all. He squeezed off a returning shot, but it whizzed over Simmons’ shoulder and rebounded on the opposite wall, flying back again to burst against the wall mere inches above the other stormtrooper’s crate. They heard him yell, “Stanging kriffing fierfek, Caboose! Don’t aim at me!”

“Sorry!”

Simmons turned to Donut. “Get in the kriffing ship,” he snapped.

Donut opened his mouth to reply; then his magenta skin blanched to mauve, his eyes widening as he spotted something behind Simmons. “Sim-”

An explosion of white-hot pain burst through Simmons’ right arm. He didn’t scream; his mouth opened, but all that came out was a choked, “Uh,” as he stumbled forward.

Strong arms caught him, and he looked up into Grif’s face. Apparently the Jedi hadn’t been so gone as he’d thought. His lips moved, but Simmons didn’t hear anything, only felt himself dragged forward and upward.

He tried to focus through the pain; he’d been shot, and in his right arm- there was something important about his right arm-

“There’s no blood,” he heard Grif say, panicked confusion in his voice.

No blood. No flesh. Metal arm. Right. Simmons fumbled with his shirt. “Help me,” he said.

Grif all but ripped the shirt off him. “Oh,” he said, pausing as he took in the ruptured synthskin, the protrusion of metal and wires that now made up Simmons’ upper right arm. “It’s a prosthetic.”

With clumsy fingers, Simmons searched at the shoulder joint until he found the switch he was looking for. When he flicked it, the blinding pain in his arm ceased in an instant. “Thank the Force,” he muttered, feeling his knees shake.

“What?” Grif asked, his hands fluttering around Simmons’ shoulders.

“Turned off the pain receptors. It’s fine now.” He turned to look around. Grif had dragged him up the boarding ramp and some way into the ship; Donut was crouched at the top of the ramp, still aiming his rifle outward as it closed. Simmons could feel the rumble of engines under him.

“It’s closed Sarge, let’s go,” Donut said into the commlink on his wrist.

“They’re closing the roof shutter,” he heard Sarge say over the comm. “Hold on, this might be tight.”

The engines howled as Sarge kicked them up several notches, and then everyone was left clinging to the safety webbing as the ship tilted upward at a dangerous angle. Simmons was sure he heard a long scrape as they went, but they didn’t burst in a fireball; they were out.

“Let’s just hope there’s no Star Destroyer in orbit,” Simmons said, flopping back against the wall as the ship levelled out.

*

They were lucky; the Imperial ship in orbit was only a light cruiser, and it was on the other side of the planet from them as they came screaming out of the atmosphere. It didn’t even have time to hail them before they’d made the jump to hyperspace.

Sarge came and found the three of them where they were sitting around the small lounge table. Donut was checking over his rifle; Simmons was detaching his now useless prosthetic arm with slow, exaggerated care. “That’s a bad hit,” Sarge said as he drew up a chair.

“It can be fixed,” Simmons said, lying the arm on the table. “But not by me. I need to take it to a professional.”

“I’m sorry,” Grif said, speaking up for the first time. He was still sitting slumped, staring at his hands. “They were looking for me. I didn’t want anyone else to get involved.”

“We’ve no love for the Empire,” Sarge said, shrugging.

“It was a lucky shot,” Simmons said, “Those stormtroopers seemed stupid, and we underestimated them.”

Donut shook his head. “I forgot you didn’t see him, Simmons,” he said. “It wasn’t a stormtrooper who shot you. There was another guy; a Mandalorian.”

“A Mandalorian?” Simmons echoed. “Why-?”

“Must be some kind of bounty hunter,” Sarge said, scowling. “Just our luck. He’ll be hot on our tail.”

“You can just drop me off at the next planet,” Grif said, “You don’t need to put yourselves in more danger.”

There was an awkward silence. Simmons exchanged glances with Sarge and Donut, clearly asking, Should we tell him now?

“We…may not have been exactly truthful with you, son,” Sarge started.

“But not in a bad way,” Donut added, “We’re not bounty hunters or anything.”

Simmons snorted. “That’s very convincing, Donut.”

“But we’re not! And if we were, we’d have surrendered to those stormtroopers, right?”

“Point.”

“We’re with the Rebel Alliance,” Sarge said, “We got a tipoff the Empire was looking for you, so we thought we’d get to you first.”

Grif stared at him blankly for a few moments. “Technically I think this counts as entrapment,” he said.

“Probably,” Donut said, grinning.

“I told you he wouldn’t like it,” Simmons muttered.

“I suppose you don’t have to come to the Rebel base with us,”Donut said. “But we are flying there, and we’re probably not going to stop along the way, not now there’s a bounty hunter on our tail.”

“And you’ll be safe from the Empire there,” Simmons added.

Grif glared at all of them. His jaw worked; he clearly wanted to say something sharp. But all he said was a curt, “Fine.”

*

Grif spent all of his time in his cabin, only emerging for food (which he consumed an inordinate amount of). Simmons spent most of his time in the cockpit, the circuitry bay or the crawlspaces, patching up dodgy mechanics and wiring and dropping them in and out of hyperspace for required course corrections. The planet they’d been posted on was an out of the way backwater near Alzoc III; they were trying to get to the Alliance’s main base on a moon of Yavin, a system almost the other side of the galaxy. It was going to be a long, tense trip.

Until the moment Simmons dropped the ship out of hyperspace to see a communication alert flash up on the holocomm. There was no one who had their direct contact except Alliance Command; nervous, Simmons opened it.

“This is a top priority broadcast,” the tiny blue figure of General Kimball said. “All ships in quadrant S-96 or travelling the Daragon Trail are required to contact Alliance Command immediately. Repeat, all ships in quadrant-”

Simmons paused the recording and went to get Sarge.

“Best get on the horn, then,” Sarge said after he’d seen it. He sat down in the co-pilot’s chair. “Feels good to be out in the galaxy again,” he muttered under his breath.

Simmons didn’t know how to answer that, so he ignored it and put in a call to Alliance HQ.

General Kimball appeared not long after Simmons told the operator why they were calling. “Crew of the Nexu,” she said. “Did you successfully rescue the Jedi?”

“We’re on our way to Yavin with him now,” Simmons said.

She frowned. “Next time please check in, when you achieve your mission objective,” she said, sounding a little annoyed. “But for now, I need to redirect you. A group of our operatives have secured crucial information about a new Imperial weapon; they managed to escape the Empire but they’re stranded on Phindar Station without transport. We need you to get to them ASAP and secure the information, and bring it back to Yavin.”

Nerves billowed in Simmons’ stomach again. ‘Crucial information’ sounded very important. Going from the quiet outpost to two big missions in less than a week felt rather like being thrown in at the deep end.

“We’ll handle it, General,” Sarge said, sounding as unconcerned as always. “Who’s our contact?”

“Her alias is Connie; that’s all you need to know. She’ll be waiting on Level I-5. Look out for a Mirialan with forehead tattoos.”

“Understood, General,” Sarge snapped her a quick salute. “We’ll get it done.”

Kimball nodded once, and Simmons cut the holocomm.

As Sarge got up, Simmons idly wondered what war and which military he’d been in. He was definitely old enough to have fought in the Clone Wars. Sarge didn’t reveal anything about his past, but every line of him said military, even to someone with very little experience of armed forces like Simmons.

“Change course for Phindar, Simmons,” Sarge said as he left the cockpit.

“Yes, sir,” Simmons said, already reaching for the navicomputer.

*

The ship had a standard day/night cycle, which helped keep their bodies and minds healthy by imitating the light of a day and night on the average terrestrial world. It worked pretty well; Simmons always felt sleepy when he drew the night watch.

He was sitting in the pilot’s chair with his feet up when the door to the cockpit opened unexpectedly behind him. “Hello?” he said.

The last person he expected to slump into the co-pilot’s chair was Grif.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing one eye. He still looked sullen.

“It’s late,” Simmons said, “Can’t sleep?”

Grif shook his head, not speaking. They sat in silence for a while before Simmons said, “Thanks, by the way. For coming back to drag me out of danger.”

“It’s nothing,” Grif said, waving a hand. “I’m sorry you got shot.”

“At least it was my metal arm,” Simmons said, grinning.

“Yeah.” Grif smiled a little. “So er…how’d you…” He motioned to his own arm.

“Mining accident,” Simmons said. “Imperial safety standards on Subterrel aren’t up to much.”

“Subterrel?” Grif said. He sounded impressed. “That’s a tough homeworld.”

“Technically I was born on Klatooine,” Simmons said. “But I spent most of my childhood on Subterrel.” He made a face. “Not recommended as a holiday destination.”

Grif’s laugh was very soft. The sound felt intimate, here in the close confines of the cockpit. “You can guess where I’m from,” he said, motioning to his face.

“I can take a wild guess. It begins with K?” Grif laughed again, and Simmons laughed along with him.

“So I suppose my other question is, what the hell are you doing here?” Grif asked.

“Flying the ship?”

Grif snorted. “Cute. I meant, here in the Rebellion.”

Simmons hesitated. It felt wrong to admit that he’d initially joined the Rebellion because they’d offered a destitute, unemployable cripple the chance to get off his harsh mining world and be useful again. They’d even given him a new arm. He hadn’t joined for idealistic reasons like most of his companions, though he’d started dreaming about taking down the Empire, just like they did. He’d swallowed the propaganda, some might have said, but it didn’t feel like that to Simmons. He wasn’t in it for the hope and the freedom; he was in it for revenge.

“The Empire fucked me over,” he said, shrugging. “I guess I’m trying to fuck them right back.”

That made Grif laugh, a long, proper laugh. Simmons stared at him, blinking, somewhat shocked by the amount of sound he produced.

“I like it,” Grif said when he’d calmed down. “More practical than all this justice and freedom shit.” His smile was small now, but it was still there. “At the end of the day, you just wanna fuck their shit up.”

It warmed Simmons inside, for some reason he couldn’t name. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess that’s it.”

*

Phindar Station orbited above the ugly green world of Phindar. The sight reminded Simmons of the marshland around their outpost as he angled the Nexu into one of the wide public hangars.

It was a fairly clean, respectable trading hub, all things considered. They weren’t harassed for extra “fees” when they exited their ship, and the hangar even had ground staff who offered to fill their fuel tanks for a reasonable price. Once they laid eyes on her, their foreman winced and offered to give them a deal on a clean up and a new coat of paint as well.

They left Donut behind to oversee the work - and keep a subtle eye on Grif - and took a turbolift down to level I-5. “This level spans the entire station,” Simmons said, looking at the holomap. “How are we going to find one woman?”

“Determined wandering,” Sarge said.

Level I-5 had businesses on one end, and residences on the other. Sarge and Simmons wandered about, as casual as possible, trying to look for their contact without looking like they were. He’d never been trained in espionage, so Simmons imagined he was making a hash of it, but he kept trying.

It ended with a tap on his shoulder. “Looking for someone?” a female voice asked.

Simmons turned to see a Mirialan woman, her head and body swamped by a large black cloak, her green skin broken by a splash of connecting squares across her forehead.

“Connie,” Simmons said.

“That’s me,” she said, grinning. “You wanna get your friend and go somewhere more private?”

Simmons looked around, and saw Sarge on the opposite side of the walkway, peering into a shop window. Before Simmons moved he turned, spotted them, and came striding over.

“This way,” Connie said, and led them down a side passage.

Connie either knew her way around the spacestation, or she had acquired some very accurate plans. Given her occupation, Simmons suspected the latter. She led them through a series of back-passages and access corridors, all the way to an abandoned concourse full of shut up shop fronts. “In here,” she said, opening one of the doors with what looked like a slicing spike.

Inside, the air smelt stale and dusty. Empty shelving units had been pushed up against the walls. “Upstairs,” Connie said, pointing to a staircase behind what had once been the shop’s counter.

In the upper room, a mixed group of humans and aliens greeted them. “These are the crew Kimball sent,” Connie said, coming in behind them. She walked over to the windows and lifted the blinds, checking outside.

“We’ve been watching, but Connie’ll never be happy unless she does it herself,” one of the others joked.

Connie’s face was very serious when she turned back to them. “This is a mission of the highest secrecy,” she said. “Even within the Alliance, this is black ops stuff. You don’t need to know any names or any more details than this; the information we have needs to get to the Alliance, and it needs to get there fast.” She held up a datastick. “I’ve copied everything we have onto this. If we can’t get out, we’re relying on you to take this to Command.”

“We have a ship,” Simmons said, “We can just take you out now, can’t we?”

Connie looked askance at him. “You don’t know about the lockdown?” When they both shook their heads, she sighed. “The Empire knows we’re here. We’ve outrun them for now, but in a few hours they’re going to close down the whole station to try and prevent our escape. It’s a miracle you managed to make it in before they closed the hangars.” She pressed the datastick into Sarge’s hand. “Take this, keep it safe. Once the lockdown ends, if we’re still alive, we’ll meet you outside the Boolean Bazaar store on I-16. Until then, keep your heads down.”

They both nodded, and Connie smiled. “Okay, good,” she said. Her sigh was relieved. “Now, I’ll show you the way back to your hangar.”

*

As Connie predicted, only three hours after she left them at the entrance to their hangar, the overhead PA system announced that the whole station was going into lockdown. There was a lot of protest from the locals, as far as Simmons could see; it wasn’t long before the holoscreen in the spacers’ bar in their hangar was showing footage of a riot on the lower levels.

“Kriffing Imperial slugs,” one of the other freighter pilots muttered. “I’ll be making up this profit loss for months.”

“I’m gonna lose my whole shipment,” someone else at another table mourned. “Paju fruit only lasts so long, even in sealed cold containers.”

“Kriffing Empire.”

Simmons kept quiet and sipped his drink; there was little else for him to do. He and Sarge had already visited a prosthetic specialist a few levels down and paid for Simmons’ arm to be repaired. Sarge had flashed a credit card Simmons hadn’t known he had, which he said was to be used for all mission expenses the Alliance should be picking up the tab for; in Sarge’s eyes, that seemed to be everything.

He jumped as someone flopped down onto the seat next to him. “Hey,” Grif grunted.

“Er, hi.”

“Corellian whiskey,” Grif told the bartender. When he had his drink in front of him, he said, “Listen.”

Simmons didn’t like that tone. “What?”

“I said I’d come with you because you were going straight to Rebel HQ or wherever. But now you’ve made a stop-”

“Oh no, no no no,” Simmons said. “You don’t get to slink off, Grif. You agreed to come to Ya- Alliance Command with us.”

“Under duress,” Grif snapped. “If I had a choice, I would’ve got out and walked. Well, now I have a choice.”

Simmons sat staring at him. “You can’t just leave,” he said.

“Why? You gonna clap me in binders and drag me to the Rebels? I thought you were supposed to be the good guys.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a Jedi,” Simmons said. “Like, the ultimate good guys. Protectors of the weak, defenders of justice, peacekeepers, all that stuff. You should want to fight the Empire!”

Grif gave him a withering look. “I guess they didn’t put my background on the Wanted poster, huh?”

Simmons felt a cold pit of doubt form in his chest. “It just said you were a Jedi,” he said, wary and slow.

Grif barked out a cold laugh. “I wasn’t a Jedi. Not a proper one, anyway. I failed out when I was a padawan; I joined the AgriCorps. I spent my time growing plants with my nurturing Force powers.” He spread his hands. “I don’t even have a lightsaber.”

“But…but you know how to use one, right?” Simmons said.

Grif shrugged. “As well as any thirteen year old Initiate.”

This was bad. This was more than bad; this was awful. “So, what, you just want to run away and hide?” Simmons snapped.

“Uh, yeah?” Grif rolled his eyes. “Did you miss the part where they want to kill me? You, man, you could just live. You could just pack this in and go live on some world somewhere and nothing would happen to you. But me? I’ve gotta find the deepest, darkest hole on the most forgotten backwater just to stay alive.” He shook his head. “You’re normal; you don’t understand.”

“But with the Empire gone, you wouldn’t have to hide,” Simmons said.

“What’re the chances I survive resisting the Empire?” Grif snapped. “What’re the chances you lot can even overthrow them? They’re not good, no matter what you tell yourselves. The Empire’s here to stay, so I’m going to go find my hole and hide in it, forever.”

“You’re just sticking your head in the sand,” Simmons said, disgusted. “What about the people out there who’re suffering now?”

“No one’s ever cared when I suffered,” Grif said bitterly, “No one’s ever rescued me. So I’m just returning the favour.”

“We rescued you,” Simmons said.

“Yeah, but not out of the goodness of your own hearts, huh? Everyone always wants something.” Grif lifted his glass and knocked back his drink. “I don’t know what your deal is with the Empire or the Rebellion, but good luck to you, man. Don’t go killing yourself over something stupid.” With that he stood and walked away.

Simmons watched him go. He didn’t look back.

*

“Well,” Donut said, “I suppose we can’t make him come with us.”

“We already told the General we had him. Now we’re going to have admit we failed,” Simmons said, resting his head on his folded arms. They were back on the ship, once again sitting around the lounge table.

“Okay, but we’ve got the info now too. So we succeeded at one mission. And as long as everything goes well, we’ll be able to get the spy team out of here too. That’s two wins for the Alliance.” Donut took a sip of his drink. “Besides, if he wasn’t even a real Jedi, would he have been much use?”

“More use than no Jedi,” Simmons muttered.

Donut looked at him seriously over the rim of his glass. “Simmons, I think what you need is some distraction.” He stood up. “Come on. We should go do something on the station.”

Simmons glared up at him. “I don’t want to do anything.”

“Come on, Simmons! We’ve finally got out of that outpost, we should see the some of the galaxy!”

“Right you are, Donut!” Sarge appeared from the corridor, grinning. “And I know just the place where we can get one order of fine distraction!”

Simmons got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Where’s that, sir?”

*

Of all the things Simmons expected Sarge’s ‘distraction’ to be, a somewhat shady looking arms dealership had been pretty high up on the list.

“An old army pal!” Sarge said as he pushed open the door. “He won’t be expecting to see me, no siree!”

The tall, grim-faced old man behind the counter did a double take upon spotting Sarge. “I thought you were dead!” he yelled. Simmons couldn’t tell whether he’d thought this was a good or a bad thing.

“Ya can’t kill justice, Ablar,” Sarge said, grinning and walking over to grasp the man’s hand. “How’ve you been, you old goat?”

Ablar shook Sarge’s hand with enthusiasm, and as they fell to talking, Simmons tuned out their conversation and cast his eyes around the shop. Ablar had a wide selection of basic-issue blasters - mostly handguns, rifles or holdouts - as well as a couple of items that looked more specialised. Simmons went over to a rack and picked one up at random, checked the power pack had been removed, then aimed it and sighted down the barrel. Not bad, as far as he could tell.

“Boys!” Sarge sounded excited. “C’mere, Ablar’s gonna show us the special goods.”

“In the back,” Ablar said, opening a small flap in the counter to let them through.

Through the door behind the counter was another room; almost as large as the front room, it’s walls were covered with considerably more exotic stock.

“I haven’t seen an Arkanian bolastick since training!” Sarge said, almost bouncing as he crossed the room to look at whatever a bolastick was.

The sheer variety of weapons on offer was staggering. Simmons wasn’t sure how some of them could even be used to kill someone, let alone what they were. Sarge and Ablar’s excited chatter faded into the background as he inspected the walls, marvelling at the diversity. There were a lot more weapons in the universe than blasters, it seemed.

“See anything good?”Donut’s voice asked at his shoulder.

“I’m not sure what half of it is.”

“There are some pretty-looking blasters over there, but I like those things with all the spikes on, don’t you?” Donut asked, pointing over at a slightly more terrifying section of the walls.

“Er…sure. You go…check that stuff out.” Donut bounced off while Simmons made a mental note to avoid that section of the room. He let his eyes wander again, allowing them to catch for a moment on anything interesting. Deadly-looking matte-black rifles, blasters with knives attached, long pointy spear things, was that a flail-

Simmons paused, staring in surprise. Next to the flail was a rack of silver cylinders that seemed to pose no obvious danger. They were all of comparable size, some simple metal tubes, some with additions or engravings; a few had been encased in wood or other materials. Simmons took a few steps closer. There was no way- could they really be-

He picked one up and held it out, making sure to keep it vertical. If his suspicions were right, then he really didn’t want to be in the way of this weapon’s deadly end. His thumb hesitated over the button on the side of the tube.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what you think it is,” Ablar’s voice said. “Be careful if you turn it on.”

Simmons glanced over to find both Sarge and Ablar watching him. “That’s real rare stock, Ablar,” Sarge said, “You must be going up in the world.”

“My friends are good to me,” Ablar said with a smug smile.

Unable to resist the temptation, Simmons thumbed the activation button, then jumped a little as a blade of pure blue energy burst from the weapon.

“It’s a beautiful thing, right?” Ablar said. “Don’t know where my man gets them from, but trust me, they’re not fake. That blade can slice through anything; metal, glass, permacrete, transparitisteel…”

“Anything except beskar and cortosis,” Simmons muttered to himself, moving the blade side to side by tiny degrees, too cautious to swing it. The horrible vision of severed limbs grew in his mind’s eye, and he switched the lightsaber off again, feeling a little ill.

“Don’t get a lot of buyers for ‘em - got a pretty steep learning curve, so I’m told,” Ablar said, grinning at his own dark joke. “But I’ll find someone. A collector, maybe.”

Simmons put the lightsaber back into the rack, letting his fingers linger on it. The blue blade was beautiful, almost mesmerising; the memory of it lingered in Simmons’ mind. He picked up a few of the others, inspecting the hilts, wondering about their differences. Was there a practical reason some were decorated or designed differently, or had the Jedi done it for aesthetic purposes?

Donut’s arm landed heavily on his shoulders. “Ugh, Simmons, Sarge won’t use the Alliance credit card to buy me that cool flail,” he moaned. “Wanna come get some ice cream with me?”

With one last look at the row of lightsabers, Simmons nodded. “Sure. Let’s go.”

*

Two levels down Donut found them a cute little ice cream parlour which he claimed ‘looked just like home’.

When they’d ordered and sat down, Simmons said, “I never asked, where is home for you, Donut? I just assumed Zeltros…”

Donut’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Oh, have you ever been, Simmons? It’s the best place in the entire galaxy!”

Simmons took a sip of his soda to hide his smile. “Really? What makes it so special?”

“Everything’s so alive,” Donut enthused, “There’s always something happening! A party on every corner, shopping, dancing, singing…” He sighed. “Everyone’s happy.”

“It sounds…great,” Simmons said, while in his head he thought It sounds exhausting. But it did sound exactly like the kind of place Donut would fit in. “So why did you leave?”

“To see the galaxy!” Donut said.

“The Empire didn’t, y’know…move in…” Simmons made a vague hand gesture; he knew Donut would know what he meant.

“Oh, no. The Empire has left us alone so far.” Donut shrugged and sipped his drink. “I guess they think we’re harmless. Plus, certain members of the Admiralty can’t resist a good Zeltron party.” He winked.

“They come to Zeltros to party?” Simmons asked, “What, on vacation?”

“Sure do.”

Simmons nodded, and squirrelled that little bit of information away for later. Maybe he’d never use it, but one of Sarge’s few useful axioms was ‘always know your enemy’s weakness’.

As if summoned by thinking of him, Sarge appeared without warning, slipping into the booth next to Donut. “Ice cream, eh?” he said. “Haven’t had ice cream since I was a boy!”

“You have to order at the counter,” Donut said.

Sarge picked up the menu, and Simmons found himself zoning out of the ensuing conversation about flavours. Though the trip around the station had been distracting in a way, his thoughts still returned to Grif. The failure bothered him, kept niggling away in the back of his mind. This was his chance to show the Alliance what he could do, and he’d blown it. Maybe not totally - they had, as Donut pointed out, still acquired the intelligence they’d been diverted to retrieve - but their first mission had been to secure the Jedi. Simmons still felt like he’d failed.

“Simmons?”

He looked up; both Donut and Sarge were watching him expectantly. His ice cream had arrived without him noticing. “Yeah?”

“Were you not listening?” Donut asked, his lips pursed in disapproval.

“Er….maybe.”

“Sarge said he’s got something for you.”

Simmons blinked at Sarge. “Really?”

Sarge looked a little uncomfortable as he searched for something in his bag. “Ablar, he er…gave me a discount.” He pulled something from the bag and set it down on the table between them. Donut gasped.

It took Simmons’ brain a moment to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. When he finally processed what was sitting there on the table in front of them, he babbled, “What- I don’t- for me?”

Sarge scratched the back of his neck. “I put it on the Alliance card,” he said, shrugging. Then he grinned, “Besides, you’ll need something to lure that Jedi back in, eh?”

With slow reverence, Simmons reached out and picked the lightsaber up off the table. It was the same one he’d taken out and activated in the store; a simple silver cylinder with curved prongs around the emitter, engraved with a swirling design of flowers and stars. “It’s beautiful,” he said, his voice hushed.

“Don’t try and use it yourself without a lot of practise,”Sarge said, suddenly stern. “You probably shouldn’t use it at all. Too easy to cut your own leg off.”

Simmons nodded, then tucked the lightsaber out of sight into his bag. “Yeah. I’ll just…keep it.”

“Good.” Sarge nodded sharply, then turned to Donut. “Didn’t forget you, Donut.”

“The flail?” Donut asked, bouncing in place.

“You couldn’t even lift the damn flail. No, I got you this.” Sarge put a sleek blaster on the table. “Verpine shatter gun. S’got a lot of stopping power, that thing. You could blow your enemy’s head off from a hundred paces!” He grinned. “Not as exotic, but you might actually be able to use it.”

“Oooo.” Donut picked up blaster and turned it over in his hand. “It’s shiny.”

Simmons laughed. “That would be what you notice.”

There was a sudden, unexpected bubble of happiness in his chest. No one had ever given him something as important or valuable as the lightsaber; no one had ever made a gesture like that for him. There was a small part of him thinking, Hey, maybe we are a team. Maybe I do belong here.

Of course, that was the moment the low, ominous station alarms started to blare.

The ice cream parlour was frozen for a moment, everyone paused mid-motion as the meaning of the sound sunk in. Then everyone began to move, to speak, to argue, to yell.

“Sounds like trouble,” Sarge said, instantly all business.

“Maybe the Empire found out we’re here?” Donut said.

“We should get back to the ship.” Sarge stood. “Come on.”

The streets outside were awash with people, with loud voices shouting and confused crowds gathering around the public information screens. Simmons stood on tiptoe to look over the heads of the crowd, and caught the words ‘imminent threat’ and ‘unidentified object approaching’, before Sarge hustled him onward. The turbolift stations were jam-packed with people scrabbling to get to other levels - to home, to a ship, who knew - and they had to shove and elbow their way forward. Simmons was pretty sure Sarge had his blaster out and was poking it into people’s backs to get them to move, but he didn’t comment on it.

Up in the public hangars, things were worse. A large group of pilots and captains had gathered in the centre of the floor, and were arguing with an Imperial officer. Stormtroopers were lined up behind him, hands on their weapons. The argument was getting loud, the yelling echoing around the hangar. On their left, through the grimy windows, Simmons could see another large crowd gathered in the spacers’ bar, their faces washed in the light from a holoscreen. They were probably all watching the emergency display.

Sarge kept his head down and kept walking. “Don’t make a scene,” he told them under his breath. “Those idiots can argue with the Imperials all they like, they’re not opening the lockdown. If anything happens, the best place to be is on the ship.”

When they’d all sat down in the cockpit, Sarge said, “Run pre-flight checks.” His voice was so serious that neither of them argued with him.

Once Simmons had checked over everything he could without doing anything port security would have picked up, he went back into the cockpit. Sarge had opened the emergency broadcast channel, and was listening to the announcements.

“Repeat,” the message started, “An unidentified object has entered the system and is on a collision trajectory. This object is large in scale and potentially dangerous. Please keep calm and stay in a safe area until the emergency has ended. Repeat…”

“If it’s on a collision trajectory, why aren’t we evacuating?” Simmons asked, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat.

“Because if they end the lockdown, they might lose Connie and her team,” Sarge said.

“There are over a million people on Phindar Station,” Simmons said, “Even the Empire wouldn’t…”

“You’d like to think,” Sarge said. His voice was grim. “I guess now we know how valuable this information we’ve got is.”

Donut entered the cockpit and sat down. “Anything new?”

“It’s just playing the same message over and over,” Simmons said.

“It’s been almost an hour. Surely they should know something?”

“If they do, they aren’t telling,” Sarge grunted.

Together they sat in uncomfortable silence, listening to the emergency channel repeat and repeat the same message. Simmons chewed the skin around his fingernails, watching out of the cockpit windows as people ran to and fro outside.

“How can nothing have changed?” he burst out after a half hour. “They must know something by now.”

“We could go out and ask…” Donut started.

“No.” Sarge was as firm as they’d ever heard him. “Look at it out there. There’ll be a riot in the next half hour, if nothing else changes.”

Simmons leant forward, standing half out of his seat, craning around to see whatever Sarge was looking at. The crowd in the centre of the hangar had grown much larger, and they looked angry. Those at the front were bent forward, yelling without restraint at the Imperials, who had gone from one officer to six, as well as around forty stormtroopers. The Imperials were yelling right back, gesticulating wildly, while the stormtroopers had their weapons trained on the crowd.

Simmons felt Donut lean over his shoulder. “That’s a lot of yelling,” he said, “I don’t know, I think the Imperial officer in the middle is kind of-” He broke off with a loud curse word and ducked down behind the console.

“What?” Simmons demanded, leaning back as well.

“It was the guy! The bounty hunter, the Mando!” Donut hissed.

“Kriff! How did he find us?”

“Where was he?” Sarge asked, “Was he looking this way?”

“No, he was talking to one of the stormtroopers.” Donut peeked back up over the console. “Over there, on the left. Can you see him?”

Sarge nodded. “Fierfiek. We’re sitting ducks here!”

“It’s not like we can move now,” Simmons snapped. “We’ll have to sit tight.”

“What if he notices us?” Donut asked, nervous.

“We’ll deal with it. Until then, we keep an eye on him,” Sarge said. He pushed Donut away from the console. “He didn’t see me, so you two stay out of sight. If he doesn’t see you two, maybe I can convince him this isn’t the ship he’s looking for.”

Another tense ten minutes passed before the emergency broadcast began playing a different message. “Alert, alert; unidentified object has ceased collision course. Emergency status is still in effect; please stay in a safe area until the all clear is given. Repeat, unidentified object…”

“That’s good, right?” Donut asked.

“Means we won’t be getting splatted. Probably,” Sarge said. “Means they might have an excuse to extend the lockdown, though.”

“Maybe we should-” Simmons started. He was interrupted by a loud banging on the ship’s hull.

They all froze. The banging came again, a series of quick, agitated thuds.

“The guy,” Donut gasped, “Is he still there?”

Sarge leant forward and then cursed. “Don’t see him.”

“Kriff,” Simmons said. He’d drawn his blaster without even thinking about it.

“What do we do?”Donut asked. The thuds came again, almost drowning out his words.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Sarge said, “Throw the akk off the scent. Or shoot him in the face, whichever’s easier. You two hang back in the corridor and be ready to come out shooting if I give the word!”

“Sarge, wait-” But Sarge was already striding off down the corridor, so Simmons had no choice but to follow.

Sarge strode right up to the boarding ramp and hit the button to lower it. Simmons and Donut hung back, able to see the top of the ramp but hidden from whoever was outside. Sarge stood, hands on his hips, waiting as the boarding ramp came down. When it got to about three quarters down, he made a face. “So, back are you?”

“Yeah,” said a familiar voice. “Seems like you fucks are the only ones willing to give me a ride. Again.”

“It’s Grif!”Donut mouthed at Simmons, as if he hadn’t already realized. He felt his stomach turn over, but he still walked up to stand behind Sarge.

Grif was standing at the bottom of the ramp, arms crossed over his chest, his expression sullen. “We’re still going directly to Alliance HQ,” Simmons said. “No chance to get out and walk.”

Grif gave him a sour look. “Yeah, I know where you’re going. And I’d rather be here than there.”

“Really? They said the threat’s over.”

Grif looked incredulous. “Have you guys not been watching the news on the holonet?” When they shook their heads, he made a noise of disgust. “Turn it on, you’ll see what I mean. They’ve been tracking the ‘object’; that thing’s the size of a small moon, and it’s just hanging out in orbit on the other side of the planet. I’m not sticking around to see what it wants.”

“We have to,” Simmons said, “The station’s still on lockdown.”

“Yeah, and when shit goes down, the lockdown might go down too. I wanna be in a position to split when that happens.”

Simmons looked at Sarge, who nodded. “Come aboard then, son,” he said, stepping backward.

Grif walked up the ramp, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder, and followed them back to the cockpit. “You guys seriously haven’t been watching the holonet?”

“Can’t. The receiver doesn’t work or something,” Donut said.

“Oh it works,” Simmons said, “We just didn’t pay our bill.”

“Force almighty,” Grif muttered.

“You said the object they’re talking about is the size of a moon?” Simmons asked. Back in the cockpit, the emergency channel was still blaring; Simmons twisted the knob to turn it down.

“Yeah. And it’s just…hanging there,” Grif said. There were only three seats, so he leant up against one of the console panels. “No one knows what the kriff it is. Idiots are rioting on the lower levels; I barely made it here.”

“Do you think it could be-”Donut started.

That was as far as he got, before they were all thrown sideways. Simmons didn’t have time to scream; he was slammed into the right wall of the cockpit, someone else hit him, they were spinning, he bounced off one of the chairs-

He only realized he’d blacked out when he regained consciousness. The ship was still again, and he was floating.

He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Outside the cockpit windows, the view of the hangar bay was rotating, round and round and round, sickeningly fast. They must have lost the artificial gravity generators somehow-

A loud crash echoed through the ship, making everything judder and shake. A huge piece of metal went spinning past the viewport - it took Simmons a moment to recognise it as the wing of a shuttle. Kriff kriff kriff, what is happening.

He was floating too, so that meant they must have lost the gravity generators in the Nexu as well. He kicked off the ceiling, flipping himself over.

The others were all under him. Grif was floating with his eyes open, a dazed expression on his face, but Simmons could see him blinking. Sarge was scrabbling with such urgency at the controls that Simmons felt he should be more concerned about it; and Donut had his eyes shut, a small trail of blood blobs drifting away from his temple.

“Sarge,” Simmons croaked.

“Get down here and help me Simmons, on the kriffing double!”Sarge snapped. “We’ve got to get out of here - we were lucky not to be pulverised by the other ships-”

Sarge’s frantic tone finally got through to Simmons’ brain. “What happened?” he said, kicking off the ceiling again and guiding himself down into the co-pilot’s chair, where the straps would keep him in place.

“No kriffing idea, but the station’s lost gravity and something set it spinning,” Sarge said. “The whole thing went sideways and at least three ships crashed into us; we’re intact, just about, but I don’t think we can fix the gravity.” He tugged at a lever, then pressed a button, and they both sighed in relief as the engines burst into life. “We need to get outta here; things out there are pinging off the walls and ceiling and crashing every which way-”

“I get it,” Simmons said, “Focus on getting started.”

“Lost two of the landing struts,” Sarge said, “The others won’t retract now.”

“That’s hardly the worst of our problems,” Simmons said. The engines were fully turning over now, and he tested the controls experimentally. The Nexu stopped turning in midair and righted itself, and Simmons turned it to face the hangar doors. The rectangle of open space rotated around and around; Simmons realized with a lurch in his stomach that Sarge was right, and that the whole hundreds and hundreds of feet long station was spinning over and over like an acrobat doing backflips. Worse, ships and broken parts of them were flying everywhere, rebounding off the walls; Simmons dodged the ship right as the proximity alert went off, missing a piece of debris by metres. They were lucky to have been in a lightly populated area of the hangar, or the ship would have been scrap metal.

“I’ll get us out of here,” he said, “You check on Donut, he’s unconscious and bleeding.”

As Sarge slipped off his belt straps, Simmons began to manoeuvre the ship with slow, careful precision toward the hangar entrance. When he reached it he realized with a shock of horror that the ray shield hadn’t just defaulted to open; it had disappeared, meaning the hangar was open to the vacuum. Everyone who was on the hangar floor is dead. All the pilots, stormtroopers and Imperial officers would have been sucked out into space, along with a significant chunk of debris. Although it had probably helped keep their ship intact, Simmons didn’t feel good about it.

He heard Donut groan Sarge’s name behind him. “How you holding up, kid?” Sarge said. “Think we need to get you a bacta pack. You okay handling our exit, Simmons?”

“Already done,” Simmons said, breathing a sigh of relief as they slipped out into open space. There were chunks of debris floating out here too, but the speed the station was flipping through space at had spread them over a wide area. A few ships pinged on the radar; distressingly few.

“Are you okay, Grif?”Simmons asked as he put some distance between them and the station.

“Yeah. I mean…yeah, I’m okay. I think.”

“You wanna get down here instead of hanging around up there?”

“Right.” After a few thuds, Grif pulled himself with awkward difficulty into the pilot’s chair. “What. The. Fuck,” he said, strapping himself in.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“They’re just…they all just…they all died,” Grif said, his breathing heavy.

That brought Simmons up short. “What?”

“So many people just- they’re just gone,” Grif said. “One moment everyone was screaming and then…nothing.”

“Screaming? Screaming where?”

“In the Force.”

“On the station?”

“On the station…on the planet…maybe both,” Grif shook his head like he was trying to clear his ears of water. “I don’t know, I don’t know what the fuck happened.”

“And what the hell hit the station?” Simmons asked. “It must’ve been huge, to set it spinning like that.”

“The ‘unidentified object’, maybe?” Grif said.

“Yeah. Yeah, you might be right.” The proximity alert sensor had stopped pinging, so Simmons let the Nexu coast.

“Plot a jump to wherever we’re going, man. I don’t wanna stick around any longer than necessary,” Grif said.

Simmons’ fingers hesitated over the navicomputer. Grif had a point - they had no idea what was going on here, but it was obviously something big and dangerous - but at the same time, he wanted to know. What if they could find some information that would help the Rebellion?

“Dude, come on,” Grif insisted.

“Don’t you think we should-”

“No. Whatever you’re about to say, no.” Grif pointed a finger at him. “We should run now, while we have the chance.”

“Okay then.” Simmons reached for the navicomputer, but before he could start keying in their destination, the proximity alert went off. It wasn’t just the alert ping that told him when he was approaching space debris, either; it was the low, warbling moan of the collision course alarm.

“What the fuck?” Simmons snapped, tapping the buttons. “What the hell are we on a collision course with?”

Something huge and round showed up on the sensor image; it took Simmons a moment to realize that they weren’t going toward it, but that it was coming toward them. As big as a small moon, he thought. “I think it’s whatever hit the station,” Simmons said.

“We got bigger problems,” Grif said, pointing to the image. “Like, where the fuck is Phindar?”

“What?” Simmons looked again. “We’re probably out of range for it to show up-”

“We’re still in range,” Grif said, stubborn. “It should be right there, but it’s not. So where the hell is it?”

Simmons frowned, and manipulated the sensor so it would show a wider range. No matter how far he went out, though, the planet didn’t show up; there was just an field of small rocks, like an asteroid field.

“It’s gone,” he said. “It’s kriffing- it’s gone.”

“That explains it,” Grif said, “Phindar blew up and a chunk of it hit the station and sent it spinning off into space.”

“Planets don’t just blow up,” Simmons said. “That’s absurd. To create an explosion of that magnitude within the planet’s core-”

“I think it’s that thing,” Grif said, poking the sensor image. “That object. It’s a weapon.”

“To create a ray-”

“You don’t think the Empire’s got the resources to do this type of shit?” Grif snapped.

They were quiet for a moment, staring at each other. “Well,” Simmons said, “Let’s see.”

“Simmons-”

Simmons grabbed the controls and swung the Nexu one hundred and eighty degrees, until they were looking back the way they’d come. They could see light glinting off a spinning silver shape far in the distance as Phindar Station careened off into the night; and ahead, through a wake of scattered debris, sailed something that really did look like a moving moon.

“Karking kriff,” Simmons breathed. “That’s huge. And it’s moving under it’s own power. That’s like…like a mobile space station…”

“A mobile space station with a death laser attachment,” Grif said. “Now can we leave?”

Simmons swallowed. “Er, yeah. Let’s- let’s get out of here…” He started tapping numbers into the navicomputer.

“Hurry, Simmons,” Grif said.

“Don’t pressure me, if I get this wrong-”

“We’ll end up in a sun, I know I know-”

“So don’t hassle me-”

A chirping sound echoed through the cockpit. It took Simmons a moment to recognise it as the comms alarm. “Someone’s hailing us,” he said.

“It’s probably the space station. Don’t answer.”

“But if we don’t answer it’ll look suspicious-”

“And if you do you’ll have to stop doing the navicomp which means we won’t be ready to split when they decide to pull us in or blast us out of the sky-”

The comms alarm chirped insistently. “You answer, throw them off,” Simmons said, and flipped open the comm channel before Grif could protest.

“Unidentified freighter, this is the Death Star battle station,” a nasal voice said. “Your transponder identifies you as the independent freighter Nexu, can you confirm, over?”

At Simmons’ nod, Grif said, “Er, yeah, confirmed. Over.”

“Checking your records. Please hold.”

Grif gestured wildly at the cockpit window and mouthed ‘Death Star?!’ several times. Simmons grimaced and shrugged, then went back to the navicomputer.

“You’ve no registered activity for a period of three years, aside from a landing here and four days ago on Trasilla,” the Imperial voice said. “Please explain, over.”

“We’ve been, er, on planet helping my uncle farm,” Grif said, “We came out here for…er…our honeymoon.” Simmons whipped his head back around and stared at Grif, who winced and spread his hands. “Hasn’t exactly been a picnic, over.”

“Sorry for your trouble, citizen. We’ll be taking all survivors on board for safe transfer. Please stand by.”

“Negative, er, not needed, we’re travelling well under our own power, no need of an escort, er, transfer- um- over.”

“Transfer is mandatory, citizen. Stand by for tractor beam.”

“Kriff,” Simmons swore, “We can’t let them-” Before he could even finish the sentence the ship jolted. When Simmons tugged on the controls, the thrusters responded but they didn’t move.

“Stand by for more instruction in the hangar bay, citizen,” the Imperial said, and then the channel disconnected.

“Kriff. They’re rounding up the survivors and killing them, so they can’t tell anyone what they saw,” Grif said.

“Which means the weapon is still a secret,” Simmons said, “So if we could get information about it back to the Alliance…”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Grif said. The huge battle station was growing bigger with every passing minute. “Unless you hadn’t noticed, things are looking pretty dicey for us right now.”

“I know, but-”

They were interrupted by Sarge re-entering the cockpit. “Donut’s awake, he’s alright,” he said. “What’s happening? What was that big bang just now?”

“We got caught by a tractor beam and we’re being pulled into an Imperial battle station,” Simmons said.

There was a moment of silence. “Well, kriff,” Sarge said.

“Sorry, sir.”

“It’s alright, Simmons. We’ll just have to fight our way out.” Sarge screwed his hands into fists. “Or take them all down with us.”

“All of them?” Grif asked, pointing out of the cockpit window.

Even Sarge paled a little when he saw the Death Star, and even more when they explained their theory about what had happened to Phindar. “Damn, cursed Empire,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Simmons said, pointing. They were almost at the battle station now; the great grey sides of it filled almost the whole window. Little arcs of green light were beginning to skip along the surface of a particular circular section of it. “You don’t think-”

Beams of green energy burst out around the circle in a star of light, meeting and becoming one beam that cracked out into space. It cut across the black sky and stars, out of their field of view.

“The space station,” Simmons said, his voice hushed.

A second later Grif jerked, then leant forward and vomited.

“Grif!” Simmons squawked.

Grif was breathing heavily when he sat up again, and his skin was pale and clammy. “They got the space station too,” was all he said. He wiped his mouth and looked down at the floor. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

“We’re in deep poodoo now, boys, and no mistake,” Sarge muttered.

Simmons thought of Connie, of her smirk, her easy grace, her serious expression as she’d handed over her datastick. She’s gone.

The station reeled them in, becoming ever more massive in the viewport until they spotted the opening that led to the hangar. It was a huge, cathedral-like space, full of TIE fighters and different sizes of Imperial shuttle.

The Nexu crashed onto the deck plate with a groan of scraping metal, listing to the left where she was unsupported because of the missing landing struts. They came to a bumpy stop, all gripping with white knuckles to the arms of their chairs. Then they waited.

Nothing happened.

“Gonna be a nightmare getting down from the boarding ramp like this,” Sarge said.

Grif leant forward and peered out of the viewport. “There’s some stormtroopers forming up outside,” he said. “And look, another non-Imperial ship.”

Simmons looked. The ship drawn up next to them was the exact opposite of theirs; sleek, in good repair, it even looked somewhat new. It was like a Chaphati wolverine had chosen to sit down next to an old, overweight nerf. It was the kind of ship a successful mercenary or bounty hunter might fly, or maybe a toy bought by a wealthy merchant for his darling child. “Someone with money’s flying that thing,” Simmons said. “Maybe that’ll be useful.”

“I don’t think we can buy our way out of this one,” Grif said.

“No but…maybe they’ll be important enough for the Empire not to kill?”

“Well that’s great for them, how does it help us?”

“We could kidnap them or something,” Simmons shrugged.

“We don’t need subterfuge!” Sarge said, “We need to go out there and show those Imperials what for!”

“We’re on a battle station the size of a moon,” Grif said, “Do you have any idea how many Imperials are on this thing?”

“Probably more than I have ammo for,” Sarge said, “Which is why our first stop should be the armoury.”

Something thudded against the hull. “Looks like they’re just begging for the sweet embrace of death,” Sarge said, drawing his blaster.

“You can’t go charging out there onto a deck full of-” Simmons didn’t get to finish the sentence before Sarge was out the door. “I hate him,” Simmons growled, following.

“You guys are a real advertisement for joining the Rebellion,” Grif muttered.

“Shut up Grif.”

They found Sarge crouched down by the boarding ramp. Someone pounded on the hull again, and this time they could hear a voice shouting, “Come out with your hands above your heads!”

“What are we going to do? We can’t take out a whole squad of stormtroopers!” Simmons said.

“We lower the boarding ramp and use the walls as cover,” Sarge said.

“I can’t take out anyone,” Grif snapped, “Unless you guys haven’t noticed, I haven’t got a weapon.”

Simmons jumped, surprised. Of course, he hadn’t remembered to give Grif the lightsaber! “Hold on, I’ve got-”

Outside, someone screamed. They all swivelled toward the noise. It was followed by blasterfire and shouts, someone screaming, “Hal! Hal, oh god, Hal-”

After half a minute it was over. The three of them crouched, hardly daring to breathe, listening to the silence outside. “What the hell happened?”Simmons whispered.

“I don’t know,” Grif said.

“Let’s open the ramp and find out,” Sarge said, and he hit the button before Simmons could stop him.

All they could see when the ramp opened was the ceiling and walls. Unperturbed, Sarge scrambled out onto the ramp, leaving Simmons with no choice but to follow him. “You!” he heard Sarge exclaim.

He dropped down off the ramp next to Sarge, who had his blaster aimed at someone. That didn’t distress Simmons as much as it probably should have. Following his line of sight, Simmons backed up a step; Sarge was aiming at the same grey-armoured Mandalorian they’d spotted on Phindar Station.

“I can explain,” the Mandalorian said, “I’m not working for them any more.”

“A likely story,” Sarge said.

“I just shot all these stormtroopers, didn’t I?”

“A ploy to get us to trust you, so you can turn around and take us prisoner!”

“You’re already in Imperial custody,” the Mandalorian pointed out.

A stormtrooper, hurrying and not wearing a helmet, came clattering down the open ramp of the other ship. “We’re good to go now- woah,” he stopped, putting his hands up.

“See? Consorting with the enemy, you back-stabber,” Sarge said, waving his blaster for emphasis.

“They’ve defected,” the Mandalorian said.

“Sure they have.” Simmons drew his own blaster and aimed it at the stormtrooper. “You’re really convincing.”

“Aren’t these the same guys we were chasing? The guys from Trasilla?” the stormtrooper asked.

“It’s a small galaxy,” the Mandalorian said.

“What’s your deal? You take us in personally, and you get the credit?” Simmons asked.

“I wasn’t after you, I was after your Jedi,” the Mandalorian said. “Now, I don’t give a shab. I’m going to go turn off the tractor beam, then I’m going to get out of here. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in, or shall I leave you here for the Imperials?”

“Why would you defect?” Simmons asked, not lowering the blaster.

“Because the Empire just killed about five hundred million people unprovoked. Even Mando’ade have standards.” He gestured toward the inside of the station. “Any more questions? Or can we get on with this?”

“He’s telling the truth,” Grif’s voice came floating down from above. “I can tell.”

The Mandalorian looked up. “So you did keep the Jedi.”

Grif jumped down from the ramp. “I go where I want, asshole,” he said. “And right now I want to be out of here yesterday. Stop pointing your blasters at them and let’s go.”

Simmons hesitated, then lowered his blaster. “Okay. Sarge, call Lopez; I bet he can turn off a tractor beam.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got a droid that can do that,” the Mandalorian said.

“Two droids are better than one,” Simmons said, while Sarge lowered his blaster with much reluctance and turned around to call Lopez’s name.

“We’re not shooting each other? Cool?” The stormtrooper lowered his hands, “So now that’s over, who the kriff are you?”

“Grif,” Grif said.

“I’m Simmons, and this is Sarge,” Simmons said, “We’re…with the Rebellion.”

“Yeah, I figured,” the Mandalorian said.

“I’m Tucker, and Mr Snarky over there is Wash,” the stormtrooper said, “And we’ve also got-”

“Tucker!” another voice called. Another, taller stormtrooper appeared on the ramp of the other ship, this one wearing his helmet. “Church says they are sending more troops!”

“This is Caboose,” Tucker said, “Tell him to get out here, we need him.”

There was a heavy clang, and Simmons turned to find Lopez standing nearby. He’d clearly just dropped off the ramp. “¿Dónde está lo que necesitas que arregle?” he said.

“We need you to help us turn off a tractor beam, Lopez,” Sarge said. “Well within your capabilities!”

“Why does he speak Weequay?”Wash asked.

“His voice unit’s broken,” Simmons sighed.

“Is everything you own broken?” Grif asked.

“No!”

“I’ve got him!” Caboose’s voice yelled. He was walking back down the ramp, followed by a light blue R-series droid.

“Alright, you shabs, let’s get this tractor beam all kriffed up,” the astromech said.

“Your astromech has a language voice unit?” Simmons asked.

“Hey!” the astromech said, “Not all of us want to talk in kriffing whistles and beeps, asshole!”

“It’s the worst upgrade I ever gave him,” Wash said.

“Hey!”

“His name’s Church. Now, let’s get a move on.”

There was still no one in the immediate vicinity when they started moving toward the edge of the hangar, though they could see people in the distance. “Shouldn’t they have sent another squad by now?” Simmons asked.

“They have,” Church said, “But they haven’t got here yet. Don’t know why.”

“We warrant special treatment, clearly,” Wash said.

At the edge of the hangar bay, several corridors and turbolifts led into the space station. “The controls for the tractor beam will be in a room overlooking the hangar bay,” Wash said. “We probably need to get in a turbolift.”

“Don’t we need to turn it off at it’s power source?” Tucker asked.

“No time for that. The droids can take it down temporarily from the room close by.” Wash pointed to a turbolift, “Look, that one says ‘to control room’.”

They all piled into the turbolift, which was a pretty tight fit, but they only had to go up one level. Wash lead them down a corridor and then through a door into a room lined with banks of consoles. “How do you know your way around?” Simmons asked.

“Been on quite a few Imperial capital ships. They’re not very creative when it comes to changing the floor plan.” Wash looked around the room. “Okay, Church, do your thing.”

“You’re assuming I can do this,” Church said, extending his manipulator arm and plugging into the wall.

“Lopez! Get on it too!” Sarge said.

“Sí.”

“So what do we do?” Simmons asked, “Wait?”

“That’s all we can do,” Wash said.

There was a moment of silence.

“So,” Tucker said, drawing the word out, “Rebellion, huh? I hear that’s where all the cool kids are hanging out these days.”

“If the cool kids like running for their lives in crappy spaceships with shitty equipment,” Grif muttered.

“Hey! It’s not that bad,” Simmons protested.

“It’s a calling!” Sarge announced. “A duty to defend the galaxy from the forces of evil!”

“It’s a little rough and ready,” Simmons admitted, “But it’s better than the Empire.”

“That’s not hard,” Tucker snorted.

After another moment of silence, Simmons ventured, “So you’re…thinking of joining, then?”

“Yeah,” Tucker said, “I mean, I guess. Probably the easiest place to be on the run from the Empire. Plus, like, kriff the Empire, y’know? After four years on Trasilla being shits to the locals, we finally get our first exciting mission, then the Empire blows up an entire planet? I’m done.”

“There’s a lot of people who feel the same in the Rebellion,” Simmons said.

“Gonna be in good company, then.” Tucker looked at Wash. “So how about it, Mando boy?”

“The Rebellion?” Wash snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, no. I’m going home.”

“What? Home?” Tucker seemed honestly surprised.

“Yeah, home. Back to Mandalore.”

“Isn’t Mandalore controlled by the Empire?”

“In name only,” Simmons said, “At least, not in the areas under the control of the traditionalist clans.” Wash nodded along with this explanation.

“Well, hell, maybe us Rebellion types can move in under their noses!” Tucker said.

“On Mandalore?” Simmons said, incredulous, “Sure, great idea. And the first time someone offers a Mando enough money, they’ll rat us out to the Empire.”

“Dude! You can’t generalise like that!” Tucker looked at Wash. “Wash! He’s insulting you!”

“Is he?” Wash shrugged, “It’s true.”

Tucker’s angry reply was cut off by the sound of an alarm. “Oops,” Church said.

“What do you mean, oops?” Wash demanded.

“I think I just set that off.” Church twirled his arm in the slot, “But on the bright side, I downloaded a full set of plans for this place.”

“Great, when we’re screaming in an Imperial dungeon we’ll be real thankful for plans,” Grif snapped.

“But if we get out we can bring them to the Rebellion.” Simmons turned to Lopez, “Have you got it yet, Lopez?”

“No.”

“Are you close?”

“Sí.”

“Come on, come on,” Tucker muttered, bouncing on his feet.

“Watch the door,” Wash instructed.

“Lo tengo,” Lopez said, and turned away from the console.

“Did you do it?” Simmons asked.

“Sí.”

“Right, let’s go,” Wash said.

They all rushed out of the door, and were halfway to the turbolift when a voice behind them called, “Hey! Stop!”

Without even pausing Wash spun, aimed, and downed the two stormtroopers behind them. “Get in the lift,” he said, holstering his guns again with a practised motion.

“He always like that?” Grif muttered as the lift descended.

“Fucking terrifying? Only most of the time,” Tucker whispered back.

For a minute, Simmons was sure they’d make it. The tractor beam was off, their ship was working, and they had a badass Mando merc by their sides.

That minute ended when they reentered the hangar bay.

Waiting for them in the wide expanse of deck between them and their ships was a tall figure in flowing black robes.

“Kriffing shab,” Simmons heard Wash breathe.

“Agent Washington,” the figure said. His entire head was covered by a black helmet, the faceplate of which mirrored the face underneath in a weird, uncanny way. “I see your loyalty to the Empire has…lapsed.”

“That’s the risk you run, hiring Mando’ade,” Wash said, moving with careful steps towards the figure. Simmons and the others followed him.

“I’m afraid the Emperor does not take well to such unfaithfulness,” the figure said.

“You can tell your Emperor he can shove his faithfulness-”

“That’s what I always liked about you, Wash,” said a new voice, “Not afraid to stick it to those in authority.”

They all looked up; on one of the hanging catwalks above was a man in a Grand Moff’s uniform, grinning down at them. It wasn’t a pleasant expression.

“Gates,” Wash said. The word sounded like it came through gritted teeth.

“Remember when you called me a pencil pusher, Wash? A cowardly, what’s your word? Hu’tune?” Gates grinned. “Well, look at me now. Commanding officer of the Empire’s shiniest new toy.” He chuckled. “I hope you understand that you have to be punished for your disloyalty, Wash.”

“Try me,” Wash snapped.

“With pleasure.” Gates snapped his fingers. “Kill them, Locus, but leave the Jedi alive. The Emperor wants to have words.” With that he turned, still grinning, and disappeared down the catwalk.

“You always lacked a soldier’s conviction,” Locus said, evidently still talking to Wash.

“I’ll show you my kriffing conviction,” Wash said, drawing his blasters. “Everyone, now!”

Simmons drew his blaster, but the tiny bit of confidence he still had evaporated when he a blood-red lightsaber spring to life in Locus’ hand. A Sith? How in the hell were they supposed to fight a Sith?

“I don’t even have a kriffing weapon!” Grif said, and the words pinged a memory in Simmons’ mind.

“Yes, you do,” he said. “Here, hold this a second.” He shoved his blaster into Grif’s hands, then pulled the lightsaber from the inner pocket of his jacket and shoved that at him too. “Here.”

Grif took it like Simmons was handing him a venomous snake. “What hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Use it? You’re a Jedi!”

“I failed the training!” Grif wailed, just as a blaster bolt whizzed over their heads. Wash and the others had all moved forward, shooting at Locus, and they were being left behind.

“You can do it,” Simmons said, “I believe in you.”

“Why?” Grif asked, which, Simmons reflected, was a pretty valid question.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got the Force or something.”

“It’s not something you catch like a kriffing cold,” Grif said. He hesitated for a second, then switched on the lightsaber. Its blue light illuminated his face, shone in his eyes. “Well,” he said. “Well, kriff it.” He shoved Simmons’ blaster back into his hand, and then he turned and ran in Locus’ direction.

Simmons ran after him, aiming blaster shots at the stormtroopers that were approaching on all sides. They were being boxed in, the stormtroopers moving with the clear intention of pushing them back against the wall.

The sizzling clash of lightsaber meeting lightsaber echoed around the room. Simmons looked over, heart in his mouth, to see Grif engaging Locus, blue sword against red.

Simmons ducked into cover behind some crates, seeing the others do the same around him. There weren’t that many stormtroopers, but with Locus also in the way, there was no chance of getting to their ships. Grif would have to take him down.

Which, Simmons thought, it was quickly becoming obvious he would not be able to do. As he popped up over a crate to send more shots at the stormtroopers, he saw Grif and Locus battling back and forth in the corner of his eye. Compared to Locus, even Simmons could see Grif’s attacks were poorly timed, his footwork was weak, and his blows lacked Locus’ strength. Wash kept sending shots at the Sith Lord every time Grif stepped away, which kept him from winning outright, but Grif was struggling.

But while Grif keeps him occupied, we can slip through. It was a horrible thought, but it was true. Simmons saw the last stormtrooper in their way fall, and he was up and running, the space between their two ships calling him, a safe haven in the carnage. Sarge, Tucker, Caboose and the droids were with him, but Grif was still locked in combat with Locus, and Wash was right behind him.

“Sarge!” Simmons gasped, “We have to help them- there has to be something-”

“Don’t you worry,” Sarge said, already charging up the ramp of their ship, “I’ve got just the thing for the occasion!”

“Where the hell is he going?” Tucker demanded.

“I don’t know,” Simmons said. He aimed his blaster at Locus, but he was too close to Grif, and Simmons definitely didn’t have Wash’s aim. “Oh god, we can’t just stand here!”

Almost as he said it, Locus’ foot came out, and Grif tripped, falling hard on the ground. “Pathetic,” Locus sneered, batting away Wash’s blasterfire like he was swatting a fly. “To think that this is what passes for a Jedi now. The greatest of your Order have certainly been and gone.”

“Kriff you, dude,” Grif spat out, gasping and holding his side.

Wash kept firing, aiming at Locus’ head, and he drew the Sith’s attention. “You are an inconvenience, Agent Washington,” Locus said, and then he held out one hand, the fingers crooked. Wash staggered, gasping, dropping one blaster to clutch at his throat.

“Wash!” Tucker yelled. He raised his blaster, but the shots went wide.

“How did you think this would end, Agent Washington?” Locus asked, tightening his fingers. “That you would slip away? Even with the tractor beam disabled, the gunnery emplacements would tear you to pieces before you could make the jump to hyperspace. You would never have escaped.”

“Shows what…you know…” Wash gasped, his face reddening.

“Damn right!” Sarge’s voice said, close by. Simmons turned to see him going to one knee at the bottom of the ramp, a huge gun balanced over his shoulder.

“Sarge, is that-”

“The ultimate handheld death-dealing machine? Why, yes it is. Courtesy of Ablar, Force rest his soul.” Sarge raised the rocket launcher and aimed it at Locus. “And I intend to deal some death today.”

“You could hit Grif!” Simmons yelped.

“Gotta break some eggs to make an omelet,” Sarge said, and then he pulled the trigger.

Time seemed to slow as Simmons’ watched the rocket arc towards Locus and Grif. At the last second Locus turned, raising a hand, and then they were both engulfed in smoke.

“Grif!” Simmons yelled.

The smoke cleared, parting with unnatural precision, and Locus was there, unharmed. Wash had dropped to the floor, gasping, and Grif hadn’t moved. “A pretty toy,” Locus  said.

“Please,” Sarge said, “A Merr-Sonn would be a toy. This beauty’s a Verpine.” Then he pulled the trigger again.

This time Locus’ movement as he raised his hand and deflected it was clear, but it was obvious that it wasn’t as easy for him as deflecting the blaster bolts had been. “You try my patience,” he growled, starting forward towards them.

“Grif! Wash! Come on!” Simmons yelled.

The rocket launcher went off again, and Locus deflected it, though not as far this time. The blast went off close enough to make him stumble.

“Come and get me, you stinking Sith!” Sarge yelled, “I was trained for this!”

With Locus’ attention on Sarge, Wash was staggering forward, starting to run. Simmons watched, desperate, until Grif came barrelling out of the smoke as well.

“I will crush you like an ant,” Locus said, stalking towards them, now uncomfortably close. In response, Sarge fired another rocket.

“That was the last one,” he said aside to Simmons. “I need to reload!”

“Stang, stang, kriffing fierfek,” Simmons swore. He raised his blaster and began firing at Locus, knowing it would do little to slow him down.

Wash and Grif, at a full run now, barrelled past Locus and towards the ships, seeming to take the Sith Lord by surprise. He didn’t even swing at them.

“Go, go, go!” Wash was yelling.

“Church’s got the ship warming up!” Tucker shouted back, retreating up the ramp of their ship.

Grif ran up, heaving for breath, and Simmons pointed him at the ship. “Get on!”

Somehow, Sarge had reloaded the rocket launcher faster than Simmons had thought possible. This time, he didn’t aim the rocket at Locus, but rather at the deck before his feet; the metal exploded in a rain of sharp, jagged shrapnel, leaving a sizable hole in the decking and a cloud of acrid smoke from the burning electronics. “Get on board, Simmons!” Sarge yelled, aiming another rocket at the deck.

Simmons retreated up the ramp of the Nexu. The ramp of Wash’s ship was already closing, with him leaning out of the hatch to get a few last shots off in Locus’ direction. Simmons adopted the same position and called down to Sarge, “Come on!”

Somehow, the engines were running. Simmons didn’t question it, just fired at the smoke obscuring Locus while Sarge ran up the ramp, pausing at the top to send one last rocket careening off in Locus’ general direction. Simmons hit the button to raise the ramp, and felt the engines kick up a notch as he did so. The ship levelled out, turning in midair. “Who’s flying?” Simmons asked.

“Lopez!” Sarge said. “Come on!”

Sarge paused on their way to stow the rocket launcher in a weapons locker, but Simmons raced ahead to the cockpit. Lopez and Grif were there, the droid in Simmons’ usual seat, piloting the ship with expert ease. “Lopez, the guns,” Simmons said, “How are we going to get past the turbolaser batteries?”

“¿Me tomé la molestia de desactivar el rayo tractor, crees que no desactivé las armas?” Lopez asked. The ship shot out of the hangar and toward empty space.

“He doesn’t seem worried about them,” Grif observed.

“He’s never worried about anything,” Simmons said, “Besides, he can survive in a vacuum!”

The comms alarm beeped, and Simmons rolled his eyes. “If the Imperials think we’re answering-”

“It could be the others,” Grif said.

“Point.” Simmons flipped open the channel.

“Hey Rebel losers, where we headed?” Tucker’s voice asked.

“Just get away! Then meet us at…” Simmons imagined a star chart in his head. “Well, how about at Mandalore? It’s on the way.”

“Right. See ya there.” Tucker closed the channel again.

“Cálculo de salto al hiperespacio,” Lopez said. A couple of seconds later, he pushed one of the levers in the cockpit forward, and the stars outside the window stretched to lines before they were overtaken by the blue swirls of hyperspace.

“That,” Grif said, collapsing back in his chair, “Was fucked.”

“Yeah,” Simmons agreed, “You can say that again.”

At that moment Sarge swung into the cockpit, yelling, “We did it! We spit in the faces of those bastards! Fuck the Empire!”

“Fuck the Empire,” Simmons repeated with passion.

“Fuck the Empire,” Grif said.

“A la mierda el Imperio.”

*

Three months later.

“And that’s all we need to cover today,” General Kimball said. “Thank you for your hard work, everyone. Make sure to file your reports on the mission in the usual way. Dismissed.”

Simmons stood, stretching to try and remove the kink in his back. It had been a long debrief.

He wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here, doing important missions, spending hours in debriefs with General Kimball herself. Probably had something to do with the whole rescuing a Jedi, facing down and escaping from the Empire’s most feared operative, and bringing the Rebellion a full technical readout of the Empire’s most advanced weapon “adventure”. Most of what he remembered from the escapade was him stumbling around while someone else did all the important work, but the whole thing seemed to have convinced the Rebellion that he was good for more than sitting around guarding a Jedi Temple, which was a relief.

He made for the doors with everyone else, not hiding his grin when Kimball called, “Hang back a minute, Sarge. I need to talk to you about the expenses you’ve been charging to the Alliance credit card we gave you…”

Laughing to himself, Simmons ducked out of the briefing room and into the hallway. The base on Yavin was much better and hundreds of times bigger than their old one on Trasilla; some of the other Rebels complained, but to Simmons, it was paradise.

Down the long halls, into the barracks, and into his room; Simmons sighed as the door closed behind him. It was good to be back. He pulled off his jacket and boots, thinking of a hot shower and dinner in the mess hall. He was just fishing out some clean clothes when someone knocked on his door.

Surprised, he went over and tapped the button to open it. Very few people visited him here.

His surprise only grew when he saw who was standing behind it. “Grif!” he exclaimed. “You’re here! I mean, I thought you were, y’know…”

“Off at the secret Jedi enclave?” Grif said with an awkward smile. “Yeah, I hang out there. Come back here, do a little work, that sort of thing.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I’m, er…I’m sorry I haven’t had time yet to, er, come and see you.”

“I’ve barely been here,” Simmons said, “The Alliance sends me on a lot of missions.”

“Oh. Good.” Grif shifted from one foot to the other. “Look, I-”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to come in?” Simmons stepped back from the doorway.

“Er, yeah. Sure.” Grif moved into the room, almost picking his way across the floor, despite the fact that it was immaculate. “I… what I really came here to say was, thanks for giving me the lightsaber.” He unhooked it from his belt; Simmons hadn’t even noticed it was hanging there. “I don’t know how you got it - kriff knows, there aren’t many of them left - but thanks. Really helped me out.” He held it out.

Shaking his head, Simmons laughed. “No, you keep it.”

Grif frowned. “But it’s yours.”

“What use have I got for it? I’m not a Jedi.” Simmons closed Grif’s hand over the lightsaber and pushed it back. “You need it a lot more than I do.”

Grif bit his lip. “These are really valuable, y’know. You could sell it-”

“It’s more valuable where it is,” Simmons said; then his mind caught up with his mouth, and he blushed. God, did he really just say that?

Grif blinked at him, and they stood in silence for a few moments. Simmons opened and closed his mouth; he had no idea what to say.

“So, er, what’re these?” Grif asked, gesturing toward the bed.

Simmons turned, for a second having no idea what he was talking about. “Oh, the photos.” He smiled, “I used to dream about seeing the galaxy. Those are all the places I really wanted to go; I stuck them up above my bed so I would remember.”

Grif wandered over and peered at them. “Nice. A lot of Core Worlds. You must have expensive taste.”

Simmons laughed. “I guess.”

Grif turned around and perched on his bedside table. “Alliance accommodations aren’t too shabby, either.”

“Nope, it’s not so bad.” He loved his room here, but he didn’t want to seem like too much of a dork.

After another moment of silence he said, “Y’know Grif, I was wondering. How did the Empire find out about you, back on Trasilla?”

Surprisingly, Grif looked embarrassed. “Oh. That.”

“It was something stupid, wasn’t it.”

Grif nodded. “Something real stupid.”

“Come on, tell me.”

Grif sighed. “I was growing spice, okay? I was growing spice in my back garden and the cops busted me for it. Then when they looked up my records they found the Wanted poster…” He spread his hands. “And that’s how I wound up with the Empire on my tail. Happy?”

Simmons tried to stifle his laughter, but it came bubbling out anyway. “You got busted for growing spice in your back garden,” he sniggered, “And you said you were being careful!”

“I was!” Grif protested, “The old Imperial guys didn’t care about a bit of spice growing on the side. These dicks were new.”

“Ah ha, Grif, that’s so funny. After all that stuff you said about hiding in the deepest darkest hole…”

“Yeah yeah yeah, laugh it up,” Grif said, “Got me here, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Simmons grinned, “I guess it did.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, grinning softly. Then another giggle bubbled up inside Simmons’ chest. “I’m just imagining you in your garden, tending your cute little spice plants-”

“Come here, ass,” Grif said, and reached out and pulled him in for a kiss.