The prisoner wiped his forehead with a rag, allowed elastic bands to pull the mask against his face, and checked the seal. The air left a coppery taste in his mouth. The comm set was part of the head gear — and the factory-issued voice was part of his life.
"That was an unauthorized break, Unit 136. Twenty-seven seconds will be deducted from your next rest period."
The prisoner looked back over his shoulder and saw that a detainment droid had approached from behind. It looked like a floating garbage can and had a personality to match. "My name is Obota — Alfonso Obota — Al to my friends."
"No," the droid replied unemotionally, "that's who you used to be and may become again. At this particular moment you are Unit 136 —and the most likely member of my crew to be disciplined. Please return to work."
Obota started to object and thought better of it. He had enough trouble without making more. The prisoner took the handlebars and made the hammer dance. The comm mast required six anchors, each sunk into the subsurface strata and fused in place. His task was to drill down through a three-meter-thick mantle of fused glass.
The drill rattled dully, the noise muffled by the thin atmosphere. Glass projectiles peppered the lower part of Obota's legs. They stung, but he knew better than to stop. The hole was a little more than one meter deep when the voice boomed into his ears. "They want you in the admin hut, Unit 136 . . . on the double."
Surprised, but happy to get off work, Obota started to jog. Everything the prisoners did was carried out "on the double." Failure to comply would almost certainly result in punishments that the nearly identical detainment droids dispensed with machine-like consistency.
The base hadn't existed three months before and consisted of sixty-three prefab buildings. It was a sprawling affair that included a landing strip, repair facility, surface-to-air missile batteries, barracks, and a military detention facility.
Normally busy, the place seemed even busier in the aftermath of the battle, as ground personnel struggled to service battle-scarred starfighters, a somber-looking burial party made their way toward a row of recently excavated graves, and an infantry company marched the width of a lavender parade ground.
Building twenty-three served as headquarters for the Military Correction Facility, or MCF. It, like the structures on either side, had an external air lock, inflatable walls, and a protective berm.
Obota waited for the lock to open, shared the chamber with an admin droid, and cycled through. The interior was standard-issue puke green. A long list of things you weren't supposed to do scrolled across a reader-board, and the floor, which some other prisoners had buffed to a high gloss, stretched left and right.
The droid, who had privileges the human didn't, chose the hall to the right. The machine's foot cleats made a squeaking noise and left black skid marks on the otherwise immaculate floor. Obota removed his mask, attached it to his belt, and approached the fiberboard door. The sign read:
MCF 63
HONOR THROUGH DISCIPLINE
Knock before you enter.
Obota knocked three times, shouted "Prisoner 272-20-136 reporting as ordered, sir!" and waited for a reply.
"Enter."
Obota opened the door, stepped through, and crashed to attention. A weary-looking officer nodded, consulted his datapad, and looked up again. "Take a left in the hall . . . fourth door on the right. Move it."
Obota yearned to ask "why" but knew better than to do so. "Sir! Yes, sir!"
Obota did a smart about-face, passed through the door, and marched down the hall. The officer watched the door close, wondered what the cloak-and-dagger types wanted with the poor slob, and returned to his work.
Obota marched down the hall, located the proper office, and discovered it was empty. "Hurry up and wait." A phrase that could have served as the real motto for the MCF.
There were chairs, and Obota felt the strong urge to sit in one of them but knew it was against the rules. Rules enforced by holo cams mounted high in each corner of the room. That being the case, the prisoner went to parade rest, chose a spot on the perfectly blank wall, and forced himself to stare at it.
A minute passed, followed by five, followed by ten more. Had they forgotten him? Obota was just about to conclude that they had when he heard voices and felt the fiber foam deck vibrate under his boots. He came to attention as the tech sergeant and two civilians entered the office. Not because they rated the courtesy — but because prisoners honored everyone.
Obota decided to ignore the tech sergeant and focus his attention on the civilians. They were the ones who had summoned him — or so he assumed — and they were the ones to worry about. Why had he been summoned? What did they want? There was no way to tell. Both wore nondescript flight suits and neutral expressions. And what was that hanging at the man's side? A lightsaber? Now that was unusual.
The sergeant nodded in Obota's direction. "There he is . . . anything else you need from me?"
The woman shook her head. "No, sergeant, we'll take it from here."
The noncom nodded, left the room, and closed the door behind him.
The woman consulted a handheld datapad, looked up, and met Obota's gaze. "My name is Jan Ors — this is Kyle Katarn. You are Alfonso Luiz Obota, service number 272-20-136, originally from the Adega System. You graduated fourth in your class from the Merchant Academy, qualified as third officer on a freighter, and resigned to join the Alliance. That was more than a year ago. You accepted a commission as second lieutenant, became the second officer on a Special Operations transport named the Pride of Aridus, and led a mutiny six standard months later. True so far?"
Obota remembered Captain Nord's face, the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead, and the way his hands shook. The Aridus, now bearing the name Spirit of Solaris, had made ground fall and, under the cover of discharging a completely legitimate cargo, had landed a Special Ops team. They'd been gone for six hours and two minutes, two minutes longer than the insertion plan called for, and Nord wanted to lift. Lift and leave twelve men and women stranded on a planet swarming with Imperial troops. Obota forced his mind to the present. "Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"
Jan nodded thoughtfully. "The transcript from your court martial says that you refused a legal order, confined your commanding officer to his cabin, and seized control of the ship. True?"
Obota remembered the explosion that momentarily turned night to day. The sound of sirens and the comm call as the Commandos raced for the ship. He remembered Nord screaming at the crew shouting, "Lift! Lift! Lift!" — and his fist connecting with the older officer's chin. It was all a matter of record, captured on the control room recorders and witnessed by the bridge crew. "Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"
Kyle watched the emotions play across the prisoner's face. He himself was a renegade, a deserter with a price on his head, and could imagine how Obota felt. The conflict between the oath he had sworn and what he knew to be right. Or was it more complicated than that? Captain Nord claimed his second officer had been insubordinate from the start. A self-serving lie? Or a statement of fact?
Jan looked up from her datapad. "The records say that while three of the commandos made it to the Aridus and were successfully extracted, TIE fighters attacked your transport above the atmosphere. Five of your fellow crew members were killed during the battle. The ship suffered serious damage and barely made it to hyperspace. Three lives for five ... a rather poor trade, wouldn't you say?"
Obota remembered the fear, carnage, and smoke. He saw the faces of those who had died, knew they might have lived if he had obeyed orders, and wished he had died in their places. "Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"
"So," Jan said quietly, "knowing how the whole thing turned out, would you make the same decision again?"
"Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"
"Why?"
Obota knew the answer — had lain awake countless nights thinking about it — but hesitated. Who were these people? They were covert operations types, that much was obvious, but doing what? And for whom? Knowing would give h
im an edge, but he didn't know and had no way to find out. That being the case, he settled on the truth. "Because it seemed like the right thing to do."
There was silence for a moment. Jan looked at Kyle — and the Jedi considered Obota's words. No complicated excuses, no fancy rationalizations, no self-serving explanations. He smiled. "At ease, Lieutenant Obota, we need an experienced deck officer, and you fit the bill."
The High Hauler dropped out of hyperspace and probed the out-of-the-way solar system for ships. There were plenty to find, including a screen of picket ships, a Star Destroyer, numerous escorts, and an alarming number of TIE fighters. Most were centered around the fourth planet from the sun.
Obota, a newly restored lieutenant, but packing the honorary title of "captain," felt something heavy hit the bottom of his stomach. Yes, he'd been expecting to find an Imperial Battle Group and would have been disappointed if he hadn't, but the sight of all those blips on the detector screens still scared the heck out of him.
The challenge was nearly instantaneous. "This is the Imperial Star Destroyer Vengeance ... identify yourself or be fired on."
"Fighters closing fast, sir," a tech interjected. "An escort frigate broke orbit and is coming for a look-see."
Obota checked the Imperial uniform to ensure that the closures were properly snapped, adjusted the bandage that encircled his head, and scanned the bridge. The bridge crew wore grimy uniforms, blood-stained bandages, and carefully applied makeup. They looked exhausted.
Even the untrained eye would see the makeshift hull patch, the dangling cables, and the fire-blackened control console and know what they meant: The High Hauler had been in a fight.
A warrant officer, who bore a striking resemblance to Kyle Katarn, intercepted Obota's glance and gave a cheerful thumbs-up. The deck officer winked, turned toward the holo pickup, and touched a button. "The Vengeance? This is Lieutenant Hortu Agar — engineering officer for the Imperial Transport High Hauler. I assumed command when Captain Drax and the majority of the bridge crew were killed."
The holo swirled, and a real captain appeared. He had narrow-set eyes, a beaklike nose, and a slash-shaped mouth. "Listen carefully, lieutenant whoever-you-are . . . I want recognition codes and I want them now."
Would the Destroyer actually fire on them? Obota had pooh-poohed the idea earlier — but had started to wonder. The desperation in his voice was real. "I don't know the codes, sir! They're issued on a need-to-know basis, and engineering officers aren't cleared to receive them! We were on a run to Byss when the Rebels jumped us. We fought — but it was no use. The bridge took a direct hit. So, given the fact that we're carrying a full load of proton torpedoes, I thought . . . "
"Did you say 'proton torpedoes'?" the Imperial inquired.
"Why, yes," Obota replied innocently, "two hundred and fifty proton torpedoes to be exact, straight from the factories in the Corporate Sector. That's why . . . "
"Enough," the officer commanded. "A boarding party will inspect your ship, and, assuming that the facts match your story, emergency repairs will be made. You and your crew performed well, lieutenant .. . and the Empire knows how to show its gratitude."
Obota tried to look modest. "Thank you, sir."
"One more thing," the officer added.
"Sir?"
"What sort of condition is your docking bay in?"
"Fully functional, sir."
"Excellent. We can use those torpedoes . . . Have your crew prepare them for transshipment. A shuttle will take them off."
Obota nodded obediently. "Sir! Yes, sir!"
The Imperial said, "That will be all," and the holo snapped to black.
Obota touched a button, checked to ensure that the comm was truly off, and turned to applause. "A sterling performance," Kyle said admiringly.
"Couldn't have been better," Jan said as she emerged from the shadows. "You missed a career on the stage."
"Thank you," Obota said, bowing from the waist. "But that was little more than the first act. The second act is about to begin, and the audience is on its way."
More than an hour passed between the time the High Hauler left hyperspace and the assault shuttle entered the transport's launch bay.
The crew, who had already been through more than twenty simulated boardings off Milagro, were in their places. They had counterfeit IDs, family bolo stats, ticket stubs, miscellaneous receipts, and all the other junk people keep in their wallets.
All were human because nonhumans were a rarity on Imperial military vessels, and, with the exception of Jan Ors, all were male, since very few women had been allowed to serve in the Empire's armed forces.
A ship's complement that was supposed to number twenty-five had been reduced to twelve, a number intended to reflect heavy casualties as well as the fact that it had been a long time since the Empire's navy had enjoyed the luxury of full crews.
Yes, Obota thought to himself, details are important. Did we think of everything? The next hour will tell .. .
Hatches closed and the bay was pressurized as the assault shuttle settled onto the repulsor-blackened deck. Obota waited for the green light, heard the klaxon sound, and opened the lock. Air hissed as pressures equalized. The Rebel slipped through the opening, spotted the officer in charge, and hurried to greet him. "Lieutenant! Are we ever glad to see you! Welcome aboard."
The lieutenant, who saw the entire thing as something of a lark, smiled and shook hands. "Looks like you've been through a lot . . . sorry about the formalities."
Jan watched the interchange from the Crow's darkened cockpit and fiddled with a jury-rigged comm set. Obota and the lieutenant were getting along just fine . . . but how 'bout the rest of the boarding party? Their faces were hidden behind armor and visors. The only way to know what they were saying was to monitor their conversations . . . and that's where the comm set came in.
The inspection was cursory at best — and lasted about forty-five minutes. After a quick tour of the bridge, a stroll through the engineering spaces, and a glimpse at the recently patched holes, the boarding party had returned to where they started.
The Imperial was a talkative sort — eager to trade gossip and brag about his trips to Ruusan's surface. And Obota, who knew that such information could come in handy, listened carefully. The two were thick as thieves by the time they passed out through the lock.
The bay was pressurized, so Obota accompanied the lieutenant all the way to the assault shuttle and was already congratulating himself on a job well done when the other officer noticed the Crow. He pointed, and Jan, who was watching via the ship's holo cams, felt her blood run cold. The Imperial turned to Obota. "What in the world is that thing?"
They had anticipated the question of course, but Obota had expected to hear it earlier and was thrown off balance. He struggled to recover. "Not much to look at is she? We lost our shuttle about three months back, the captain requested a new one, and that's what they gave us."
The lieutenant nodded sympathetically. "Everything is in short supply — which is why the CO is so happy to get his hands on those torpedoes. The Group has half the ordnance it's entitled to, which would hurt during a full-scale battle. Blast! I should take a look — but it's such a nuisance."
Kyle, alerted by Jan and still disguised as a warrant officer, burst onto the deck. "The lighter is alongside, sir! They're ready to land."
The bay was too small to accommodate three vessels all at once, so something had to give. Obota half expected the lieutenant to proceed with his inspection anyway and was relieved when he didn't. "Thanks, captain. I've seen enough. Hope we meet again sometime — and here's wishing you a safe trip home."
Obota couldn't help but like the other man. He shook the lieutenant's hand and entered the lock. Kyle did likewise.
Jan watched the proceedings, gave a sigh of relief, and wished it was over. But no sooner had the air been pumped out of the bay, and the shuttle allowed to depart, than a box-shaped lighter took its place.
The lighter c
arried two humans and twelve load lifters. The droids didn't require any oxygen, and it was a straight shot to the holds, so Obota left the bay open to space. This had the meritorious effect of speeding the process along while simultaneously isolating the pilots.
The lighter made three trips before the last torpedo had been removed from the transport's holds and it was cleared for departure. The moment the Imperial vessel was gone, Obota signaled his intention to carry out what repairs he could and dispatched the Crow on a series of errands. There were parts to pick up, rations to secure, and a "training" mission that allowed the agents to pass over Ruusan's northern hemisphere.
Such activities entailed some risk, but they provided the Rebels with an excellent opportunity to familiarize themselves with the Imperial operation and established the Crow within the overall pattern of the Battle Group's comings and goings. The landing, and all that followed, came sixteen hours later.
Having received the necessary clearances, the High Hauler separated from the Imperial Battle Group and prepared for hyperspace. No one paid much attention to the evolution since it qualified as both routine and boring.
And while the fleet operations officer did make note of the fact that the transport passed through a Class I security zone on its way through the upper reaches of Ruusan's atmosphere, he wrote it off to the commanding officer's lack of experience. Some things are best ignored . . . or so it seemed to him.
Nonetheless, it was during that brief moment when the freighter swept past the planet that the Moldy Crow left the security of the larger ship's launch bay and plummeted through the stratosphere. Jan had the controls. She scanned the instrument panel, waited till they were well inside the atmosphere, and fired the drives. "So far, so good."
Jedi Knight Page 5