Chapter 2: Trust Issues
"Hmmm?"
"Eschlan!" The smell of his air filter filled Wren's nose. "Trooper Eschlan, move it! Mount up!"
Wren started awake, and before he came to his senses he was thrust into a dark durasteel coffin. There he lay in terror, until his reactor ignited. The suit came to life, spilling a glowing heads up display across his face. He felt a jolt as he was lowered, and remembered where he was; aboard the Praetor-II battlecruiser Spitefather, being loaded into an assault shuttle. It was 11ABY.
"Listen up," came platoon lead over the comms. "Target asset is a prototype droid brain, housed in a research station the Rebels captured from us, in orbit of the second moon of Velabri. Spitefather and task force will clear the path, we'll extract the asset, exfiltrate, and then blow the whole station. This action order came straight from the Emperor on Byss; the New Order needs us to come through with this."
Wren fixed his eyes to the tactical planner, the empty field at the bottom left corner of the HUD with a blue triangle, the Spitefather, in its middle. He felt the soft jolt of realspace translation, and watched the fleet spill across his planner. Six Star Destroyers flanked the Spitefather; four Imperial-IIs and two hangarless, uparmored Tector-class vessels. Heading them was an Allegiance-class battlecruiser, itself very much an overgrown ISD. This group of heavy vessels clustered around the Spitefather as the picket screens materialized around them, a smattering of Ton Falk escort carriers, Lancer-class frigates, and Vindicator heavy cruisers. Wren dialed up his scanner range to include the station, already a nest of activity as Rebel warships mustered to respond to the approching Imperial fleet, which rapidly became a seething hive of TIE fighters.
Capital vessels bearing the crimson starbird charged ahead; sleek Correlian gunboats, skeletal frigates, and the lumpen forms of Mon Calamari heavy warships, spewing their own squadrons. Swooping Rebel fighters rode out ahead like birds of prey to challenge the clouds of droning TIEs. Slashes of dueling colors cut through the inky void as the fighter screens thrashed against each other and the pickets began exchanging volleys of heavier weaponry.
Wren could hear the discharge of Spitefather's guns through the hull of the assault shuttle and his own void armor. One by one, smaller vessels began to fall off the board on both sides. For the beleaguered New Republic, each loss was devastating so late into the Emperor's return. For the Empire, each vessel was irrelevant. The only assets that truly mattered were the assault shuttle, it's team, and their target. Kilometer by kilometer the Imperial fleet battered its way through the Republic defenses, leaving drifting, burning wrecks in their wake, clouds of spilled gasses, fields spinning hull plates and frozen, lifeless bodies. Spitefather's thrusters flared higher, and his cadre of capital vessels followed, pounding away mercilessly with their heavy armaments. The rebels pressed on. One of the Mon Cal vessels, a newer MC90 model, loosed a volley of massive ship-to-ship proton torpedoes alongside its thick red turbolaser fire. Assorted fighter squadrons added their own projectiles, and one of the Tector-class star destroyers fell, spewing thick explosions out of its drive compartment and shield generators. The Allegiance battlecruiser shifted to fill the hole in the attacking line, blasting away with its extended broadside batteries and spherical dorsal and ridge turrets.
The rebel battle line was now fully arranged; the MC90, three blunt and wide arrowheaded MC80Bs, and four older MC80s, actual militarized passenger liners. A meager squadron of several gunships and two remaining frigates hung about the frontal arc, struggling to hold back the whirling clouds of TIE fighters.
A new alarm tickled his ear, a steady repeating group of three tones. The assault shuttle fired up its drives, ready to power out of the hangar as Spitefather burned drives towards the spindly, multi-armed urchin of the research station, Kuati and Mon Cal ships destroying each other on all sides. "Ninety seconds to voidwalk!" shouted the platoon leader.
It seemed to last forever. The electronic thump of energy weapons leaving the shuttle's turrets and impacting against its shields. The assault shuttle vibrated from the discharge, and Wren fought down his fear; it was a product of the vessel's small size, but its stout shields were designed to endure for the sake of its precious cargo. None of it could hide the blood rushing through his head within the confines of his void assault armor. Then, the dreaded three tone, three screeches, and then the only thing he could hear was his own body, and his comrades over the comms. Through his HUD the research station loomed; the assault shuttle, secured tightly with its power harpoon, traded volleys of fire with the station's defensive guns. Already those guns were directing thick columns of green energy at the ambling cloud of Spacetroopers.
"Eschlan!" It was Gayn Fiers, one of his squadmates back at the academy on Carida. A tough, well-fed youth from Corellia, Gayn and Wren had little in common but had overcome much together. "Increase your dispersion, you're too close. We'll both show up on sens-"
He was gone in an instant; a turbolaser bolt consumed him entirely. In one moment he was there, at Wren's port side high. Then the bolt washed out Wren's visual feed with an emerald flash. By the time he could see again, there was nothing left but motes of green, charged particles of tibana gas torn from the energy blast by its collision. Wren watched the fairy lights fade, the only remains of his friend.
The platoon touched down on the outer hull of the research station, Wren and his comrades igniting their cutting lasers. Directing the tool against the durasteel, they breached the vessel's body inch by inch. With every moment Trooper Eschlan felt his pulse pound harder, till he felt like he was going to burst his heart.
Then came the moment of action; the cuts had been made, and with a word, the fight would be on. The Rebels had their chance; now, in the bowels of the station, the Spacetroopers would have the crushing advantage of their heavy armors to wield against the softer infantry within. Platoon lead trained his blaster cannon and fired, blasting the selected breach to slag. They surged forward on their thrusters, cutting down a room of spacesuited troops. Having claimed the airlock, they began a crushing march through the station; each room would be breached and cleared. In each room, a volley of grenades would crush resistance before blaster cannons cut down the survivors. Heavy weapons they encountered were given the dubious honor of a wrist-launched proton rocket. For hours Wren gleefully partook in grim vengence in Gayn's name, until at last they found the laboratory housing the objective. But as they began the back to their assault shuttle, the noises began. Distant at first, like grinding gears a ways off. But they grew in strength, nearer and nearer till the din was unbearable.
"Huuugh!" Wren, shuddering and gasping, bolted up to a seated position. Scrambling out of his bed he groped desperately at his nightstand, seizing a slender ELG-3A blaster pistol from a holster between the stand and the wall. His chest heaving, Wren slumped against the wall, gripping the blaster tight. He stayed there for what felt like hours, waiting for his adrenaline to burn out, until finally he could force himself to stop shaking. He wearily slipped the blaster back into its holster, flopping back onto the bed for another half hour before hitting the fresher.
Wren ambled out of the fresher, slipping into a pair of his uniform pants and a grey wifebeater. He rolled up a cigarra of marcan herb, lighting it as the spacer moved from his bedroom fore to the cockpit. "SENA?"
"All steady, nothing new here," came the response. Wren nodded sleepily, staring out into hyperspace for a moment before turning about and heading into tbe lounge to eat breakfast.
The spacer made a beeline for the kitchen. From the couches to the left, he heard the Mando call out, "Briikase tuur."
"Morning," he mumbled, not even bothering to look as he went immedilately for the caf pot, pouring himself a tall mug. He stood there for a moment, alternating between his marcan and caf, a standard start to his day. "SENA, double the atmospheric refresh rate," he said; last thing he wanted was for his unplanned passenger to complain about him smoking on his own ship.
"Don't bother, I'm fond of a Shento every now and then," came the call from the den. "Nau'ur!"
Wren had collected himself to the point he realized that the Mando wasn't speaking through a voice filter, and moved to hang in the doorway, so as to better berate. "You know I'm not sure this has really struck you yet, but I really don't speak..."
Wren tried his very best, but he couldn't quite keep his mouth shut. The Mando was a she. A gorgeous she. She had a cold weather morphology, fiery haired and fair skinned with a dusting of freckles about her face and shoulders. Her eyes were a soft mossy green, and she was dressed much like he was; grey uniform pants, black tanktop, lush copper braid. Her figure was something Wren didn't allow himself to analyze; oogling a Mandalorian woman at first meeting was a mistake he wasn't quite dumb enough to make. "You seem to be speaking plenty," she said, smirking as she sipped at a mug.
"I mean... I mean, I meant..." Wren groaned, and took another drag of his cigarra. "Just forget it. What's your name, anyhow?"
"Shana Tor'kad," she said. "And you?"
"Wren Eschlan." He sipped his caf, regaining his composure mouthful by mouthful.
"Well, Wren, it's a remarkable ship you've got, if a touch dusty. Makes the Millenium Falcon seem like a youth shuttle."
Wren snorted. "I wouldn't go that far. I've seen the Falcon, and its a good deal faster than my Lady. Despite the name, we're built for firepower and staying power, and then speed." He turned towards the wall, where he knew the room's microcam was located. "SENA, would you have one of the astromechs tidy up a bit?"
"Well color me impressed, captain. Do you mind if I ask about our route?"
"Mon Gazza is next," Wren said, heading back into the kitchen but leaving the door open. "We're going to pick up a load of legitimate cargo, both as a cover to shift attention away from our charter, and because I like money. We may also pick up an associate of mine, an Abbysian named Hakyo. He's a good shot, pretty much unstoppable in a brawl, and can take blaster bolts with a moderate amount of discomfort; he'll come in handy, trust me."
"All I've ever heard of Mon Gazza is that it's a bines osik, a dung heap." Wren couldn't help but find the crestfallen look on her face adorable.
"Force, you really found one," he thought. "If it's too dirty, you can always stay on the ship."
Shana snorted. "Fat chance. I can't let you go and haggle with a brute like that without some backup," she said, slapping her bicep.
Wren didn't know what to say to that bit. "Beautiful. But trusting. Too trusting for her own good." The former Spacetrooper was a shady type and knew it; what kind of hardass was this bombshell that she didn't have the sense to see that?
"I appreciate the sentiment," he said, hiding his internal considerations. It wouldn't do to go ruining whatever good graces he may have with this strange creature that had practically stumbled out of empty space and into his life. "We're definitely gonna have to go strapped up. Get your kit ready."
Wren absconded, picking his way back to the cockpit with the plate of Nerf sausage, fried Hubba root, and Therix eggs over easy that he'd made for himself. Hakyo, as much as he'd assist in keeping the paying passenger safe, also served as an insurance plan in case Shana's good graces moved elsewhere.
Trust was not something Wren had in great supply.
