Star Wars - Cloak Of Deception

by James Luceno

Dofine turned to the navigator. "Enable defense systems!" "Central

  control computer reports continued blasterfire in the starboard hangar. Eight

  security droids destroyed." "Destroyed?" "Defense system has the Nebula Front

  starfighters in target lock. Deflector shields are raised--was "Starfighters

  firing!" Intense light exploded behind the rectangular viewports and shook the

  bridge hard enough to rattle a droid off its feet.

  "Turbolasers responding!" Dofine swung to the viewports in time to see

  hyphens of pulsed, red light streak from the freighter's equatorially mounted

  batteries.

  "Where is our closest reinforcement?" "One star system distant," the

  navigator said.

  "The Acquisitor.

  More heavily armed than the Revenue." "Send a distress call!" "Is that

  wise, Commander?" Dofine understood the implication. Rescue was always a

  belittling event. But Dofine was certain that he could offset the humiliation

  by protecting the Revenue's cargo.

  "Just do as I say," he told the navigator.

  "Starfighter elements are forming up for a second run," the Sullustan

  updated.

  "Where are the starfighters? Why aren't they moving in to engage?" "You

  recalled them, Commander," the navigator reminded.

  Dofine gestured wildly. "Well, relaunch them, relaunch them!" "Central

  control computer requests permission to isolate zone two of starboard hangar."

  "Seal it!" Dofine sputtered. "Seal it now!" The masked group that had

  infiltrated the Revenue were a diverse lot--as varied as the starfighters that

  were flying support- - humans and nonhumans, male and female, stocky and

  slender. Protected by camouflage suits and matte-black armorply, and sporting

  gripsole deckboots and combat goggles, they emerged from behind the battering

  ram that had afforded them an element of surprise, firing state-of-the-art

  assault rifles and shoulder-slung field disrupters.

  The handful of security droids that were still standing collapsed to the

  deck, limbs splayed or hopelessly entwined.

  The human OLR-4 had nearly gotten the drop on strode fearlessly to the

  center of the yawning hangar, checked a readout on his wrist comm, and tugged

  the rebreather and goggles from his face.

  The firefight had left a vagrant tang in the air, the smell of ozone and

  scorched alloy.

  "Atmosphere is ena4," he told the rest of his band. "But oxygen levels

  are equivalent to what you'd find at four thousand meters. Off your masks, but

  keep them handy--especially you t'bac addicts." With some muffled laughter,

  the team complied.

  Beneath the apparatus, the human's dark-complexioned face was still a

  mask thickly bearded with coarse black hair, and rashed from temple to temple

  with small diamond-shaped tattoos. His violet eyes surveyed the damage with

  obvious dispassion.

  There wasn't a security droid in sight, but the deck was littered with

  their remains. Labor droids of several varieties continued to route a few pods

  to berthing spaces.

  A human member of the team kicked aside the severed arm of a security

  droid. "These things could be dangerous if they ever learn to think straight."

  "Shoot straight," the bearded man amended.

  "Tell that to Rasper, Captain Cohl," another said--Boiny, a Rodian. "It

  was a droid that sent Rasper on his way." A green - skinned and round-eyed

  male, Boiny had a tapered snout and a crest of pliant yellow spines.

  "A lucky droid, a luckier shot," a Rodian female remarked.

  "That doesn't mean we treat this like an exercise," Cohl warned, eyeing

  everyone. "The central control computer will be deploying backup units soon

  enough, and we've got a kilometer to go before we hit the centersphere." The

  infiltrators glanced down the curved hangar toward a bulkhead that loomed in

  the distance. High overhead were massive box girders and I-beams, cranes,

  maintenance gantries, and hoists, a puzzle of atmosphere and vectoring ducts.

  A human female--the only among them--whichistled softly. "Stars' end, you

  could hide an invasion force in here." As dark-complexioned as Cohl, she had

  short brown hair and an elegantly angular face. Even the mimetic suit could

  not camouflage her shapeliness.

  "That would mean spending some of the profits, Rella," a male human said.

  "And the Neimoidians don't do that unless they can spend it on new robes."

  Boiny loosed a high-pitched laugh. "You grow up a half - starved Neimoidian

  grub, that's what happens." Cohl raised his bearded chin to two of his band.

  "Stay with the pod. We'll make contact when we have the bridge." He swung

  to the others. "Team one, take the outer rim corridor. The rest of you are

  with me." The Revenue shuddered slightly. Muted explosions could be heard in

  the distance.

  Cohl cocked an ear. "That'll be our ships." Sirens began to blare

  throughout the hangar. The labor droids stopped in their tracks, as a basso

  rumble gathered underfoot.

  Rella gazed at the far-off bulkhead. "They're sealing off the hangar."

  Cohl waved a gesture to the first team. "Move out.

  We'll rendezvous at the starboard turbolifts.

  Set your suits to pulse--that ought to confuse the droids--and use the

  concussion grenades sparingly. And remember to monitor your oxygen levels." He

  took a few steps, then stopped. "One more thing You get blasted by a droid,

  bacta rehabilitation comes out of your pay." Daultay Dofine stood rigidly on

  the bridge's walkway, watching in arrant horror as the Nebula Front showed his

  ship no mercy.

  The motley starfighters fell on the Revenue in full force, pick ing away

  at the freighter's fat arms and triple-thrustered hindquarters like ravenous

  birds of prey. Many of the unshielded droid ships were annihilated as soon as

  they emerged from the vessel's protective force field.

  Emboldened by their effortless mastery, the enemy craft violated the

  embrace the hangar arms threw about the centersphere by strafing the command

  tower at close quarter. Ion cannon fire from the gunship sent waves of

  aggravation through the Revenue's deflector shield. Violent light washed

  against the bridge viewports.

  It was all Define could do to keep himself rooted on the walkway, as he

  cursed the terrorists under his breath.

  In return for having been awarded what amounted to exclusive rights to

  trade in the outlying star systems, the Trade Federation had pledged to the

  Galactic Senate on Coruscant that it would content itself with remaining a

  mercantile power, and refrain from becoming a naval power through the

  accumulation of war machines. However, the further the giant ships traveled

  from the Core, the more often they fell victim to attacks by pirates,

  privateers, and terrorist groups like the Nebula Front, whose broad membership

  had grievances not only with the Trade Federation, but also with distant

  Coruscant itself.

  As a result, the senate had granted permission for the freighters to be

  equipped with weapons of defense, to safeguard them in the unpoliced systems

  strewn between the major trade routes and hyperlanes. But that had only forced

  the raiders to upgrade their armamen
ts and, in turn, prepared the way for

  periodic strengthenings of Trade Federation defenses.

  Skirmishes in the Mid and Outer Rims--throughout the so - called free

  trade zones--had since become commonplace. But Coruscant was a long way off,

  even by lightspeed, and it was not always easy to ascertain who was at fault

  and who had fired first. By the time matters reached the courts, it often came

  down to the word of one party against the word of another, without resolution.

  Things might have gone differently for the Trade Federation but for the

  Neimoidians, who were as penurious as they were avaricious. When it had come

  to fortifying the giant ships, they had sought out the most cut-rate

  suppliers, and they had insisted that protecting the cargo was their paramount

  concern.

  Against all sound judgment, it was the Neimoidians who had dictated the

  placement of quad laser batteries around the outer wall of the hangar arms.

  While the equatorial arrangement was adequate for repelling lateral

  attacks, it proved completely ineffective for countering attacks launched from

  above or below, where nearly all the freighters' crucial systems were located

  tractor beam and deflector shield generators, hyperdrive reactors, and the

  central control computer.

  Thus the Trade Federation had been forced to invest in bigger and better

  shield generators, thicker armor plating, and, ultimately, in squadrons of

  starfighters. But starfighter allotments were subject to senate sanction, and

  freighters like the Revenue frequently found themselves defenseless against

  fighter craft piloted by seasoned raiders.

  Well aware of these shortcomings, Daultay Dofine saw the ship and its

  cargo of precious lommite rapidly slipping from his grasp.

  "Shields holding at fifty percent," the Gran reported from across the

  bridge, "but we are imperiled. A few more strikes and we'll be disa4." "Where

  is the Acquisitor?" Dofine whined. "It should have arrived by now!" A volley

  from the Nebula Front's gunship--Captain Gobi's personal gunship--rocked the

  bridge. As Dofine had learned in previous engagements, sheer size was no

  guarantee of protection, much less victory, and the freighter's three-

  kilometer diameter only made it a target that couldn't be missed.

  "Shields marginal at forty percent." "Quad lasers one through six are not

  responding," the Sullustan added. "The starfighters are concentrating fire on

  the deflector shield generator and drive reactors." Dofine firmed his fleshy

  lips in anger.

  "Instruct the central control computer to activate all droids, all ship

  defenses, and prepare to repel boarders," he brayed. "Over my dead body will

  Captain Cohl set foot on this bridge." In the starboard hangar arm, Cohl's

  team had barely made it through the bulkhead door when every device in zone

  three conspired to prevent them from getting one meter closer to the

  acceleration compensator shaft that connected the centersphere to its

  embracing arms.

  Overhead cranes threw grappling claws at them; towering derricks toppled

  in their path; binary loadlifters dogged them like mechanical nightmares; and

  oxygen levels plummeted. Even worker droids joined the fray, brandishing

  fusioncutters and power calibrators as if they were flame projectors and

  vibroblades.

  "Central control's turned the entire ship against us," Cohl yelled.

  Rella squeezed off bolts at a posse of hydrospanner-wielding PK droids.

  "What did you expect, Cohl--the royal welcome?" Cohl gestured Boiny,

  Rella, and the rest of his team toward the final bulkhead that stood between

  them and the centersphere turbolifts. Sirens shrieked and howled in the thin

  air. Crisscrossing and ricocheting blaster bolts created a pyrotechnic display

  worthy of a Republic Day parade on Coruscant.

  Cohl fired on the run, losing count of how many droids he had dropped and

  how many blaster gas cartridges his weapon had expended. Two of his band were

  pinned down by droid fire, but there was little he or anyone else could do to

  help them. With luck they would get to the rendezvous point, even if they had

  to drag themselves there.

  Pursued by three binary loadlifters, the team raced through the final

  bulkhead door and fought their way to the closest bank of turbolifts.

  The hatch that accessed the transfer tubes was locked down.

  "Boiny!" Cohl shouted.

  The Rodian holstered his blaster and hurried forward, eyeing the hatch up

  and down, then moved to the control panel set into the wall. Preparing to

  slice the code, he rubbed his palms together and cracked his long, suction-

  tip-equipped fingers. Before he could lay a hand on the panel keys, Cohl

  slapped him in the back of the head.

  "What is this, amateur night?" Cohl asked with a menacing scowl. "Blow

  the thing." Define was pacing the walkway when the bridge hatch blew inward,

  loosing a brief storm of paralyzing heat that tumbled him to the deck.

  Cohl's band of six hurried in behind a roiling cloud of smoke, their

  mimetic suits allowing them to blend even with the burnished bulkheads of the

  bridge.

  Quickly and efficiently, they disarmed the Gran and shot restraining

  bolts onto the chest plastrons of the droids.

  Cohl waved one of his men towar d the communications station.

  "Contact the Hawk-Bat.

  Tell them we've secured the bridge. Have the starfighters deploy for

  defense, and stand by to cover our exfiltration." He waved another of his

  cohorts toward the Gran's duty station. "Order the central control computer to

  stand down. Have it open all bulkheads in the hangar arms." The human nodded

  and dropped down below the walkway.

  Cohl tapped a code into his wrist comlink and raised it to his mouth.

  "Base team, we have the bridge. Move the pod into zone three and set it down

  as close as possible to the inner wall hangar portal. We'll be here soon

  enough." Cohl zeroed the comlink. His eyes roamed over the faces of his five

  living captives, settling finally on Dofine. Then he drew his blaster.

  Spreading his arms wide in a gesture of surrender, Dofine took two

  backward steps as Cohl approached.

  "You would shoot an unarmed individual, Captain Cohl?" Cohl pressed the

  barrel of the weapon to Dofine's ribcage. "I'd shoot an unarmed Neimoidian -

  comand I'd sleep better for it." He glared at Dofine for a long moment, then

  holstered the blaster and turned to the Rodian member of his band.

  "Boiny, get to work. And be quick about it." Cohl swung back to Dofine.

  "Where's the rest of your crew, Commander?" Dofine swallowed and found

  his voice. "Returning by shuttle from Dorvalla." Cohl nodded. "Good, that'll

  simplify things." Repeatedly poking Dofine in the chest with his forefinger,

  Cohl moved him backwards along the walkway until they reached the navigator's

  chair. A final poke sent Define off the walkway and into the seat.

  Cohl jumped down to face him. "We need to discuss your cargo, Commander."

  "The cargo?" Dofine stammered. "Lommite--destined for SluisVan." "To the

  depths with the ore," Cohl snarled. "I'm talking about the aurodium." Dofine

  tried to keep his red eyes from bulging
. His nictitating membranes spasmed,

  and he blinked half a dozen times. "Aurodium?" Cohl leaned toward him. "You're

  carrying two billion in aurodium ingots." Dofine stiffened under Cohl's gaze.

  "You--you must be mistaken, Captain. The Revenue is carrying ore." Cohl raised

  himself to his considerable height.

  "I'll say it once more. You're carrying aurodium ingots--butribes

  proffered by Outer Rim worlds to ensure the continued blessing of the Trade

  Federation." Dofine sneered, in spite of himself. "So it is currency you seek.

  I had always heard that the notorious Captain Cohl was an idealist. Now I see

  that he is a simple thief." Cohl almost grinned. "We can't all be licensed

  thieves like you and the rest of your bunch." "The Trade Federation does not

  deal in violence and death, Captain." Cohl grabbed two fistfuls of Dofine's

  rich raiment and yanked him halfway out of the chair. "Not yet you don't." He

  pushed Dofine back into the seat. "But we'll save that for another day. What

  matters now is the aurodium." "And should I refuse to submit?" Without taking

  his eyes from Dofine, Cohl pointed to his Rodian comrade. "Boiny, there, is

  affixing a thermal detonator to the Revenue's fuel-driver control system. As I

  understand it, the device will trigger an explosion large enough to destroy

  your ship in... Boiny?" "Sixty minutes, Captain," Boiny shouted, holding aloft

  a metallic sphere the size of a stinkmelon.

  Cohl pulled an object from the thigh pouch pocket of his mimetic suit and

  slapped it against the back of Dofine's left hand. Dofine saw that it was a

  timer, already counting down from sixty minutes. He raised his eyes to Cohl's

  steadfast gaze.

  "About the ingots," Cohl said.

  Dofine nodded. "Yes, all right--if you promise to spare the ship." Cohl

  laughed shortly. "The Revenue is history. But you have my word I'll spare your

  life if you do as you're told." Again, Dofine nodded. "That way I'll at least

  live to see you executed." Cohl shrugged. "You never know, Commander." He

  straightened and grinned at Rella. "What did I tell you? Easy as--was

  "Captain," Cohls man at the communications station cut him off. "Vessel

  emerging from hyperspace.

  Authenticators paint her as the TradeFed freighter Acquisitor." Rella

  made a plosive sound. "You were saying, Cohl?" The look Cohl directed at

  Dofine was one of genuine surprise. "Maybe you're not as thick-skulled as you