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Wes Janson carefully disciplined his twitching hand away from his hidden blaster as he strolled through the passenger section of the Ord Novaak spaceport. All his danger senses were stretched to the limit under the effort of trying to look normal. The slightest move that betrayed him as a Rebel would undoubtedly be his last. That didn't keep him from aching to feel the reassuring cool metal of his blaster filling his hand.
There was still no word on the Rebels' insertion into the city. Rogue Squadron's commanding officer, Captain Wedge Antilles, had yet to show up or make contact with the partial Rebel cell already in place here. Half of the Rogues were here already, right on schedule; the rest, including Wedge, weren't due for another couple of days, depending upon their insertion identities. That didn't make it any easier for the Rebels already present here, who had no idea just what their orders really were. Supposedly Wedge knew, but he wasn't here yet.
Wes suppressed a sigh as he squeezed his way past a pair of Rodians who were arguing heatedly in their own language. He was glad he had held his breath, since they obviously had not availed themselves of a refresher unit for quite a few standard galactic weeks. He wrinkled his nose and pressed on, his eyes alertly darting from person to person.
The spaceport was less crowded than usual. Only a few people seemed to be moving the whole length of the room; most others were grouped in waiting areas, awaiting their transportation. Ord Novaak wasn't exactly the hub of the galaxy, after all; aside from the odd trader who came and went in the course of their professions, most simply stopped there briefly to change transports or make a quick stop between hyperspace lanes.
Those of the latter group included very few humans, which was surprising for an Imperial-held spaceport. Wes hoped, for their sakes, they were not staying long. There were Sullustans, Bothans, Twi'leks, Shistavenans, Weequays, Devaronians, and even a pair of Mon Calamari. All in all, the port held a pretty good mix of the various species of the galaxy. The babble of at least a dozen separate languages filled the air, with the public-address system straining to be heard over them.
Almost as numerous as the civilians milling around the spaceport were the Imperial troops. White-armored stormtroopers, in perfect formation with blasters held ready, kept up quite the presence. Wes noticed one squad questioning a mixed group of Ithorians and Bothans; probably looking for Rebel spies. He wished he could divert the troopers' attention away from the innocent civilians, but he was having a hard enough time himself keeping any of the stormies from getting a clear look at him. Word was that the recent Hoth debacle had painted his own face up on the Imperial wanted lists, right up there with Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Leia Organa, Wedge Antilles, and other Rogues.
I guess that makes me truly a part of the Rebellion, then, doesn't it?
Doing his best to appear nonchalant, Wes moved steadily toward the Alliance's dead-drop location, running one hand idly through his thick black hair. Checking the drop with the diminished number of people in the spaceport would make his job both easier and harder. On the one hand, there were fewer people to see him; but on the other, if someone did spot him doing something suspicious, there were that many fewer people, and he would stand out all the more.
As he neared his last dead-drop check of the day, Wes hoped there would actually be something there. Without their CO and their orders, the Rogues on Ord Novaak had no idea what their mission was. It had initially been billed as an intelligence-gathering mission--but what sort of intelligence was there on Ord Novaak? The previous day, Jenna Starr had voiced a theory that they really had no mission; they were just laying low, trying to avoid being discovered by the Empire. Stars knew, Hoth certainly hadn't protected them from that.
Steering his mind away from dually frightening and triumphant recall of the icy planet's evacuation, he did his best to focus on his goal. Checking the dead-drop was hard enough without being distracted by his pride that he had been gunner for Wedge to take down the first Imp walker in that battle. The method had seemed unorthodox, certainly, but with him shooting and Wedge flying . . .
Unobtrusively, Wes checked the dead-drop location. Nothing. No datacard awaited him with the much-desired instructions from the Alliance--or, better yet, with extraction information. Something, anything, just let us know you haven't forgotten about us.
This time Wes permitted himself a sigh. Well, so much for exploring Ord Novaak for today. Time to high-tail it back to headquarters, before he got his ass into something he couldn't get out of. The concentration of stormies in the spaceport seemed to be increasing; or maybe the passenger number was decreasing. It was about time for the evening transports, so it was probably the latter. And all the more reason for Wes to make himself scarce.
Wes headed for the exit to the nearest landing pad, making sure that he hadn't used this route before. When he felt clear, he walked down the ramp to ground level and let himself out. Instantly, Wes flattened himself to the wall outside the door, confronted with an all-too-familiar sound that set all his reflexes screaming: blaster fire, and the cries of the wounded.
With an effort, he stilled his breathing, which seemed all-too-loud to him with the seriousness of the situation. Had the Imps found the Rebels? Unthinkable. Were they coming after him?
Wes stopped that line of thought, berating himself. The whole galaxy revolves around you? I don't think so, Janson, he heard Jenna's voice in his memory. Shushing his lover, he listened to the sounds. His view of his surroundings was blocked by the large transport in front of him, but he could tell the shots and cries were coming from behind and slightly left of the transport. He took a few rapid steps across the open space to the shuttle, then dropped to a crouch next to its hull, drawing his blaster pistol from under his heavy jacket. He didn't know if it was something he wanted to get into, but it didn't hurt to be prepared.
Carefully, he crept around the transport, keeping as close to the scant protection of its hull as possible. His blaster, fully charged, was held loosely in both hands to the right of his face, pointed at the sky. As he moved around the circular ship parked in the docking bay, the sounds of violence got louder, affirming that his ears had not deceived him.
Other details came into view as he moved quickly but silently. The landing pad was only slightly larger than the ship it held; directly opposite the spaceport terminal was a cliff about five meters high, the rock pocked by small caves and scantily covered with crumbling, dry dirt. Below the biggest cave opening Janson saw was parked a repulsorlift bus big enough for about thirty people. Behind the bus was a tiny personal repulsor vehicle.
His observations were cut short by the child who dashed into view from behind the ship that was hiding Wes. She was human, and sobbing, her long, dusty-blonde hair streaming out behind her as she ran. Moments later an older woman, probably the girl's mother, popped into view. Wes heard some shouted commands--Stormtroopers, his ears told him grimly--and then several red laser bolts stabbed out from behind the fleeing pair. The first set caught the woman in the back, and she tumbled to the ground, fatally shot. The small girl lasted a bit longer, but finally, she, too, was hit. Her scream as the blaster shot hit her burned itself like acid into Wes' mind, and he was certain he'd never forget the sound for as long as he lived.
Rage boiled up inside of him. Whatever these people had or had not done, it was no excuse to gun down small children. This was just another example of why the Empire deserved hatred from all of its subjects, and why the Alliance existed. He scurried the last few steps to almost bring the troopers into view. Glancing quickly around the transport, he saw a group of five stormtroopers starting toward the bodies. Another, probably the man of the family, lay at their feet, stirring slightly and moaning.
Okay, so, there's only five. No problem. In his mind, Jenna berated him for rank stupidity, but he ignored her and jumped out from his cover.
Snapping his blaster down into combat position, he pulled off several shots in rapid succession almost without aiming as he ran toward the cliff. The first bolt ricocheted off the lead stormtrooper's helmet, leaving a wide burn mark in its wake, but the second shot took the trooper right through the eye, and he dropped like a ship with malfunctioning repulsorlifts. His next two shots drilled right through the armored chest of the trooper next to his first victim. He crumpled down right next to his comrade.
Now there were three left, but Wes was sure there were more on their way, if the remaining troops had learned how to use the comlinks in their helmets. He continued his sprint across the narrow clearing between passenger shuttle and repulsor bus, somehow staying right ahead of the blaster bolts the stormies leveled at him--though several came close enough that he felt their heat through several layers of clothing.
His mind quickly ran through his options, which were all too few. So were his remaining minutes of life, as a blaster bolt skimmed his right shoulder and seared his skin. Hissing in pain, Wes turned in mid-stride to direct a few more shots back at his assailants, who were running after him. A shot that even he would admit was lucky felled a third stormie, and then he sprinted the rest of the way to the personal repulsor vehicle, his only viable option for escape. Not a very good option, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.
Several steps down from a speeder bike, the vehicle was really little more than a repulsor coil strapped to a chair. Luckily, its simplicity meant it needed no warm-up time, and Wes fired up the vehicle and shot off--right toward the cliff.
He didn't know where the cave systems in the ground near the spaceport led. For all he knew, he was diving into a dead end. But his safety was only partially his concern. His last backward glance had told him that the little girl was only superficially hit, and her father was definitely still alive. No matter what, he had to draw the Imps' attention away from the civilians long enough for them to escape and get medical attention. With that thought foremost in his mind, he took a deep breath and dove into the nearest cave opening.
He realized the stupidness of his plan as he plunged into darkness, the straining repulsorlift's noise increasing in the confined space. How in hell was he going to navigate this cave in the dark? For that matter, he didn't even know where it led--he could have fled right into a stony wall. Great shot, Janson, he told himself sarcastically.
As quickly as he had shot into darkness, however, he shot back into light. As he pushed the little repulsor chair to its limits of speed, he moved through a portion of the cave where the roof had fallen in, and saw that his luck was still holding. He had entered a network of tunnels in the native rock which opened to the sky in many places. Their proximity to the ground surface--caused by countless millennia of erosion eating away at the rock above--had allowed the cave ceilings to fall in many spots, providing him adequate illumination to navigate the tunnels and make good his escape. The walls around him were somewhat smooth and rounded, probably what was left of the underground lava system when a local volcanic eruption had drained the tunnels eons ago. Whatever had formed them, he was profoundly grateful for their presence.
All too soon, he heard the sound of more blaster fire behind him. Dammit. The stormies had already managed to round up some speeder bikes, and were following him through the cave network. Wes cursed again under his breath and tried vainly to coax more speed out of the repulsor chair he rode.
From a different position, he might have been able to see the humor in his situation. Here he was, trying to remain undercover, and yet he was fleeing stormtroopers on speeder bikes, riding no more than a chair with a repulsor bolted to the bottom. It was quite ridiculous; the chair was certainly designed for neither speed, maneuverability, nor combat situations. Clearly the Imps had the advantage in this chase.
Their advantage became manifest seconds later, as a blaster bolt zoomed past Wes' left ear. That was too close. They were gaining on him faster than he thought. It was obviously time for some fancy flying. Wrapping his fingers more securely around the repulsor chair's pitiful excuse for a steering stick, he hauled hard to starboard just as a new branch in the tunnels came into view, wrenching his body around to fire behind him with his blaster pistol before disappearing behind the wall.
That dodge gave him a brief respite from the Imps' blasters, and, holstering his blaster, he dug his comlink out of its pocket at his waist with his free hand. Skidding around another tight turn to confuse the Imps on his tail, he tuned the comlink to a known Imperial band and grinned at his success.
His smile was not for the enemy bolt that sizzled past him, but for the curse that accompanied it over his re-tuned comlink. He'd managed to find the band the stormies were using, and now he could use that to his own advantage.
Wes clipped the comlink to his collar and yanked his blaster free once again, dodging behind fallen rocks and corners, shooting behind himself whenever he had the chance. None of his shots scored, but none of theirs did, either, and they weren't quite the hot hands flying as he was. This had been a stupid plan, he knew, but with a little more luck, or favor from the Force, he might actually be able to pull it off.
He began looking for a likely escape route from the cave tunnels when he heard new voices issuing from his comlink. His dark brows knitted together, and he listened intently over the whine of his laboring repulsorlift. It didn't take him long to figure out where the new men were coming from; the stormies chasing him had called for backup, and more speeder bikes were coming the other direction, from up ahead.
Sithspawn. Of course they would know these caves better than I do. Better do something quick, Wes Janson, before you're a flaming grease spot on the wall.
Cursing himself, he pulled off a few more quick shots. The movement painfully pulled the scorched skin on his shoulder, but that was better than being caught or killed. And if the dual pursuit wasn't bad enough, his blaster's power pack was running low--a hazard of being a hotshot. His ears were filled with the echoes of engines reverberating off of the dun-colored stone walls of the pseudo-caves, accompanied by an undertone of the stormtroopers' orders on the comm band.
His eyes caught on the frequent, jagged openings in the ceiling and sides of the caves. If they had him trapped, he had but one chance to get himself out of this alive. It was slim, but it was the only chance he had--even if he managed to evade both groups of bike-mounted stormies, there was a chance that the cave network could begin to go deeper underground.
Engine sounds from all directions grew louder, and a gruff, nameless Imp voice gloated over the comm, "We've got the Rebel scum!" That sounded like as good a cue as any to Wes, and he pulled back hard on the stick, punching up the repulsor coil, and shot straight up through a ragged hole above him.
His sudden movement pressed him hard down into the scantily upholstered seat, but he ignored the slight discomfort, concentrating on re-calibrating lift and forward thrust in a workable balance once aboveground. The comm was overwhelmed with expletives from the Imps--they'd just come up close enough to see his getaway, but their bikes were too large to duplicate his maneuver. Wes permitted himself a brief smile, imagining the two speeding squads meeting each other with no Rebel in between, veering to miss each other and milling around in confusion.
The terrain he'd escaped upon seemed barren, but was really far from it. Life abounded, but in a muted form, for he had made his way far into the lava-flow desert surrounding the city. Grass was everywhere, but scraggly; trees and bushes hunched over, gnarled and wizened by heat and little water. Wes zoomed by one of the larger trees, snagging a rough branch as he went past and breaking it off. It wouldn't take the Imps long to regroup, but by that time, he'd need to be long gone. And far from the repulsor chair; he imagined such rudimentary vehicles weren't common out here, and it would be the first thing his pursuers would be scanning for.
Wes used the branch to jam the throttle of the chair's thrusters, wedging it in securely to ensure his escape. Then, certain he'd done the best he could under the circumstances, he took a deep breath, glancing briefly at the ground speeding by beneath him, then dove off the chair.
He hit the ground with a hefty whuff, all the breath knocked out of him by the impact with the scantily-covered ground. The short, sparse patch of native desert grass in which he'd landed had not done much to cushion his fall. He winced, glad he hadn't landed on his injured shoulder, which hurt anyway from the fall; then he glanced back up, satisfied to see the chair hurtling off by itself, just like he'd planned. Listening intently to the comm--upon which the commanders of the two different stormtrooper units were arguing about the best exit from which to pursue the Rebel aboveground--he crawled painfully behind a desiccated-looking bush. As he collapsed to the dry ground behind it, he hoped his drab clothing would blend well into his surroundings. Lying low for a while would be a good idea.
***
Several hours later, Wes sat in a circle of mixed humans and aliens on the floor of a warehouse deep in the middle of the city. Some were Rogues, some were natives of Ord Novaak; all were members of the Rebel Alliance. And all were watching Wes as he related his adventure.
". . . So, anyway, I laid there for a couple of hours until it sounded like the stormies were calling off the search." Wes grinned around at his comrades. "Apparently each commander was at fault for losing me, according to the other. The reports on this little incident oughtta be interesting. Especially since they didn't get a clear enough look at me to be able to put out an arrest warrant for me."
"As if you need another one." Wes' lover, Jenna Starr, turned to them from beyond the circle. A makeshift bar had been set up atop a stack of weapons cartons, and Jenna set down the whiskey bottle she'd been utilizing amid the array of bottles scattered there. She walked to the group of Rebels, several of whom also nursed drinks, carrying her full glass carefully as she strode the several steps across the warehouse to join her friends. Of medium height, the survivor of Alderaan wore her light brown hair long, but gathered in an elaborate braid wound around her head. Her loose, nondescript clothing suited her well, draping effortlessly, and clinging to her in strategic spots enough to distract Wes momentarily.
He cleared his throat, glancing away from Jenna and back to the circle of Rebels. "A warrant wouldn't have been worth the trip into town anyway. The dead-drops were empty, again."
Jenna sighed, saying nothing to the disappointing lack of news as she settled herself on the floor behind Wes, her glass of whiskey in front of her. She stretched out on the plascrete floor, laying on her left side with her head next to his left hip. She propped her head on her hand, peeking into the circle between Wes and Kypria, the petite Mon Calamari female sitting next to him. Wes turned briefly to grin at her, snagging up her glass to take a long swallow. The floating feeling at the top of his head that the whiskey induced dulled the pain of the shoulder Jenna had treated with their rudimentary supplies. It also helped him calm the last of the shakes he'd experienced while in hiding. He was already repeatedly reliving that child's scream as she was coldheartedly gunned down.
Directly across the circle from Wes, Derek Klivan snorted acidly. "And here I thought you'd just gone off hot-rodding and totally forgotten about our intel."
Jenna's brown eyes narrowed as her hand came up to caress Wes' arm. "Come off it, Hobbie. As if you would have done any better," she retorted for her lover in a sweetly snide tone. There had been an unspoken competition between the two ever since she had left Hobbie for Wes, and Jenna was getting sick of it. Hauling herself up into a sitting position, she took up the drink she'd been sharing with Wes and finished it in one long swig. "It's been a long day," she announced, "and I'm going to turn it in, since I don't have to stand watch tonight." Standing, she reached one hand down to take Wes' and pull him to his feet.
Several of the group members groaned as they were reminded of late-night watches they were standing over the Rebel hideout. So far, their security hadn't been threatened, but constant watches were the best way to stave off discovery that much longer.