A/N: I'm back. Let's do this.
Chapter 11: Getaway
In which Bastila has another bad day.
o.O.o
Trask returns around dusk, carrying a bag of food and looking more than a little shell-shocked to Carth's eye. Sen abandons the datapad she's been tinkering with and stands up, frowning in concern. "You okay?" she says.
Trask sets the bag down on the table. "I looked up my aunt and uncle," he says dully. "They're dead."
Carth hates this war. He hates the Sith. Haven't people lost enough already? "I'm sorry," he says. "The Sith are animals—"
"It wasn't the Sith. 'Least, it happened before the invasion." Trask rubs at his reddened, puffy eyes. "Think it was a rival family from back home. I mean, I never thought they'd try something this extreme, but—shit." He laughs weakly and sniffs hard. "Gods, I didn't even like them all that much and we have more important things to worry about . . . Sorry." Straightening, he puts on a clearly pained smile. "I'll be fit for duty, sir."
"They were your family," Carth says. "You don't need to apologize for feeling loss."
"And, well, you brought dinner, so you're obviously fairly functional," Sen says.
It's probably meant as a joke, Carth knows. It's probably meant to lighten the mood. It still raises his hackles to see Sen being this . . . callous.
But Trask gives another broken-sounding laugh and waves a hand at the bag. "Fill your boots," he mumbles.
o.O.o
To Bastila's relief, the Vulkars leave her alone throughout the night, giving her the peace and quiet she needs to formulate an escape plan. For whatever reason, Brejik has decided to wait to turn her over to the Sith—but she cannot afford to delay, as he might change his mind at any moment. Add in the complication presented by Marrel, and she has her work cut out for her.
Part of her wonders, coldly, if perhaps it might be better to simply make her escape without hte girl. It would certainly be easier that way. And—and is her own life not vastly more valuable to the Republic than that of some Force-null slave girl? Isn't that why Chena sacrificed herself aboard the Endar Spire?
Why should Bastila put her life at risk for the sake of complete stranger when someone who was almost—who could have been—a friend, had to die?
Bastila scowls to herself. No. She will not use her grief as an excuse for cruelty or apathy. She will do what Chena would have wanted, what Master Owyn would have wanted—she will do what is right, even if it is difficult.
All life is sacred, whether it's that of a Jedi Knight, a Sith Lord, or a frightened child.
Besides which, if she does not help Marrel, who will?
(She could not save Daen Owyn, and she could not save Iylos, and she could not save Chena. No more.)
As the dark hours crawl towards dawn, Bastila casts out her senses, getting a feel for the currents of the Force in this place. She believes she's far underground, though she can sense those awful ravenous things somewhere below, as well as a hazy distant ocean of thoughts far above. Her immediate surroundings remain polluted by petty avarice and violence.
She can work with this. Greedy, grubby little minds are among the simplest to manipulate.
Marrel returns early in the morning, bearing another tray of prison slop. Bastila catches her eye as she turns to leave and gestures for Marrel to stay; the girl hovers, casting an uncertain glance at the guard outside the cell.
Bastila rises gracefully to her feet and glides towards the open cell door. The guard, a whipcord-thin Rodian with an absurdly large blaster pistol, glares at her around the corner. "(Don't make me shoot you, Jedi,)" he says.
"We're just having a friendly conversation," Bastila says calmly, putting gentle pressure on his mind to soothe and lull him.
"(You're . . . you're just having a friendly conversation,)" he echoes.
Marrel's eyes go wide under her flossy fringe.
Bastila smiles. "That," she says, "is how we're going to escape this place."
Marrel gapes for a moment. Then she whispers, "You mean it? You'll really get me out?"
"You will be free. My word as a Jedi."
Hope rekindles in her eyes. "What do you need me to do?"
o.O.o
Sen heads out of the apartment just in time for some judicious people-watching, perching atop a storage container near the door with an excellent view of the elevator. As people leave their homes to go to work, they by necessity must pass her—humans, yes, in various states of wakefulness and hygiene, but also a group of Ithorians, two Duros, a Twi'lek. From what she remembers of Taris, that's unusual, the upper levels generally restricted to humans alone.
Most of the passers-by ignore her, but as the flow of people tapers off, she's left in the hallway with an elderly human pushing a floor cleaner along and humming to himself, and the Twi'lek man, who has parked himself on the other side of the elevator doors and set up a stall displaying various odds and ends—tech parts, mostly, with a few articles of clothing and prepackaged snacks stacked neatly nearby. A few of the residents have stopped by his stall on their way out.
Sen stands up, strides forward, and goes to introduce herself to them. Maybe not introduce, she never actually gives her name, but she certainly gets theirs, and some other useful information.
The janitor, she discovers, is called Kadir. He's friendly enough, willing to pass on the local gossip at the slightest prompting and clearly concerned for the welfare of total strangers. "You should head on down to Dr. Zelka Forn's clinic," he says with a glance at her shoulder. "He'll patch up just about anyone as comes in looking for help, Upper or Lower City, and he don't charge a credit."
Directions tapped into her datapad, Sen hesitates. "Kadir—"
"I ain't saying a word to the landlord or the Sith about you and your friends," he says. Then he scowls, jabbing a threatening finger at her. "But if you make a mess of my floors they'll be on you like stink on a rancor, got it?"
". . . Understood." At least his priorities are clear.
Larrim, the Twi'lek merchant, is much cagier around her, casting darting glances at her without ever quite making eye contact. And when Carth and Trask emerge from the apartment a few minutes later, Larrim's expression goes thoughtful and shrewd.
"(I hear the Republic base has fallen,)" he says in conspiratorial tones.
"Should we care?" Carth says, a little too nonchalant to be entirely convincing.
Larrim shrugs. "(Just thought it was the kind of thing you might want to know . . . Lieutenant.)"
Carth stiffens, Trask twitches, and Sen leans forward, showing teeth. "Is there a point to this?" she says.
"(Watch yourselves,)" Larrim says. "(I can't be the only one to have noticed your unexpected arrival, and others may not be so altruistic as to remain quiet—)"
"If you think we're just going to let you walk up to the Sith and—" Carth starts.
Larrim snorts. "(Did I say altruistic? I meant having slightly more self-preservation instinct than a drunken, concussed rock slug. You may have noticed that this isn't exactly a wealthy area. Or an entirely human one. We don't want trouble from the nobles, or from the Sith.)"
"Why talk to us, then?" asks Sen.
"(Because I remember the Mandalorian Wars. I remember what Republic soldiers did for us, then, and what Taris made of the opportunity. You gave us a chance and those in power wasted it. Don't waste—)"
Blasterfire. Shouting. Sen's hand drops automatically to her side, where a lightsaber hilt should be. Her fingertips meet only air. She switches sides and checks the vibroblade. "Is this normal?" she says quietly.
Larrim looks tense. "(No . . .)"
"Because those sound an awful lot like Sith guns," Sen continues.
Carth and Trask have both gone on-edge, weight shifting, stances changing in preparation to fight or flee. Larrim begins to sidle away from the trio of fugitives. "(Ah. Of course we would be a perfect location for certain Republic personnel to hide in, wouldn't we . . . And the Sith would know it.)"
"Is there some way out besides the front door?" says Carth.
"(A side entrance, little-used by the residents—I believe Kadir is the only one who uses it with any regularity.)"
"Where?"
Larrim jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "(Take the service elevator from the third floor down to the first sub-basement. Follow the down signs. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an arrest to avoid.)"
"Thanks," Carth calls after him as he vanishes around the hallway ring.
"Well, the Sith sure are moving fast," Trask mutters. "We should probably go . . ."
"Better grab what gear we can," says Carth. "I doubt it'll be easy to find anything on this planet."
They duck back into the partment and set about stuffing the rucksack with supplies. Carth slings it over his shoulder, nods decisively, and says, "Let's go."
He makes as if to walk out the door, then stops dead on the threshold as a voice shouts, "Up against the wall! Now!"
Sen hits the activator on her stealth field generator and draws her blaster as Carth and Trask, caught in the Sith trooper's line of sight, slowly move to obey. She peers around the door frame. One human soldier, three war droids, all armed with blaster rifles. Civilians standing with their hands up and their faces to the walls of the corridor. A pair of Duros—one gesturing angrily at the Sith trooper, the other trying to pull him back as he says, "(We've done nothing wrong, why are you harrassing us, you have no right—)"
The trooper shoots the Duros dead. His friend makes an anguished noise but doesn't resist as a war droid shoves him into the wall.
"You bastards," Carth growls.
"Why, hello, there, Lieutenant Onasi," says the trooper.
"Wow, didn't realize I was so popular with you people . . ."
"Lord Malak will surely commend me for your successful capture," the trooper sneers. Fantastic. A gloater. Sen does love it when enemies waste time talking about how victorious they're about to be.
(She remembers . . . something about putting a limit on melodrama, and Malak laughing—)
She moves into position, using the door frame as partial cover. Here and now.
Sen takes aim at the first war droid and opens fire.
o.O.o
The midday meal brings an ideal opportunity to put her plan into motion. Bastila waits for Marrel to return, awareness extended, almost in a Battle Meditation trance as she prepares herself mentally for the challenge ahead.
Then the cell door hisses open. "Master Jedi," Marrel says, her voice shaking. To the guard outside, Marrel likely seems her usual brand of terrified. No indication that her nerves are for an entirely different reason now.
Bastila accepts the tray, then drops it with a cry. She allows her knees to fold and brings her hands up to clutch at her temples. "I—no! NO!" she shrieks.
The guard rounds on them as Marrel backs away, wringing her hands in a convincing imitation of stark terror. "What the hell is wrong with you, Jedi?" she demands, stalking into the cell to poke Bastila's head with her rifle.
Bastila smacks the barrel away with the flat of her palm. She surges upright, ramming the guard's nose with her skull, and reaches out with the Force to shove down any thought of resistance in her mind. The guard goes limp, face slack and empty of expression, and Bastila relieves her of her weapon before settling her in the corner of the cell nearest the door.
"Stay close," she tells Marrel, handing the girl the blaster.
"Okay," Marrel whispers.
Bastila exhales and clears her mind once more. This is not quite Battle Meditation, in that she has no intention of altering anyone's emotional state. But she does need to affect many minds simultaneously, alter their perceptions, smudge their awareness of her and Marrel's presences. It's not true invisibility—just an impression of vagueness, utterly unremarkable, not worth pursuing or thinking overmuch about. Somebody else's problem.
They creep out of the cell and round the corner, silent and slow. And for a time, nothing disturbs their progress. Marrel leads the way through the unfamiliar complex. Most of the Vulkars seem to be out of the base running errands at this time of day.
Most, but not all.
A group of humans in battered body armor blocks the doorway into the main room of the complex. Their backs are to Bastila and Marrel and they're busy chatting amongst themselves, but they're arranged too closely to sneak past without having to go between them. Bastila can feel the sweat gathering at her hairline, crawling down her temples. She meets Marrel's eyes as the girl glances back at her, frightened; she nods to Marrel and takes the lead.
Step by step they approach the Vulkars. Bastila raises a hand, gestures gently. Over there, she presses into their thoughts, careful and quiet. Isn't it interesting on the other side of the room? Maybe you should take a look.
For a moment, the Vulkars waver. Then one of them takes a step away from the doorway. And with that, one by one, they drift off, still engrossed in their conversation.
Bastila allows herself a tight, triumphant smile, and gestures for Marrel to lead on once more.
Out of the hallway, into the main room. Skirting the armory, lurking just outside a security droid's line of sight as it picks its way across the chamber—then deeper into the base, down a sloped corridor to a room protected by a reinforced blast door.
Brejik's office, where, hopefully, he keeps the remote to Marrel's shock collar.
This is where things become dangerous. Well—more dangerous. There's really no way to open the door without a key card that doesn't involve a certain amount of noise and property damage, not without a talented slicer on hand. Bastila glances up and down the corridor. It's clear—she sinks ever deeper into the Force, lets her awareness drift through the door mechanisms—there.
She glances at Marrel. "Ready?" she says softly.
The girl sets her jaw, eyes hard. "Ready."
Metal screams against metal as Bastila tears the upper and lower segments of the blast door apart.
And then an alarm begins to howl.
o.O.o
Sen keeps squeezing the trigger until the first war droid goes down in a heap of sparks and scorched durasteel. The Sith trooper and the other two droids whirl and open fire into the apartment but she's already darting in the hallway with them, stealth belt giving her a few precious seconds of maneuverability before the droids lock onto her.
She blasts one in the midsection. It lurches sideways as its stabilizers give out, falls into the other droid, fouls its aim. As they stagger and the trooper swings his rifle around, she jinks sideways—he overshoots, can't correct fast enough to prevent her from unloading another salvo into his chest and gut.
The remaining droid recovers, straightens—and gets a faceful of plasma for its trouble.
Sen slowly lowers her blaster pistol. She hasn't felt this—this steady since the Crusader. Carth, Trask, and the Duros are staring at her. Well, at the smudgey blur of her silhouette. She holsters the weapon and deactivates her stealth belt. "Everybody all right?"
"My hero," Trask says faintly.
"(We should hide the droids and the . . . bodies,)" the surviving Duros says, voice shaking a little.
The four of them haul the evidence of the battle out of sight—once they're all piled inside the apartment, Sen kneels beside the trooper's corpse and goes through his pockets. It's not like he's going to be using his credits anymore. Blaster rifle could be useful, but it isn't subtle, and it might draw more attention than it discourages. She stuffs the credits into her jacket and stands up again.
She considers for a moment, then starts blasting the droids' heads to slag. The Duros jumps, and Carth and Trask round on her, startled. She shrugs. "Last thing we need is for the Sith to salvage their memory cores."
"Will you be all right?" Trask asks the Duros.
"(I—I think so . . .)" He takes a deep breath. "(Yes. Good luck.)" He vanishes out the door.
"We have to get out of here, fast. The Sith will send more troops to investigate once these guys don't report in," says Carth.
"They're already crawling all over the Upper City. I don't think we can stay up here much longer without getting caught."
"Then we lie a little lower," says Sen. "Let's go."
o.O.o
Bastila and Marrel duck into Brejik's office as the howling alarm echoes up and down the corridor. "Where would he keep the remote?" Bastila says urgently.
"I—I don't know, maybe in the desk—"
Bastila starts tearing through the drawers and cabinets, all too aware of the approaching Vulkars—too far away to hear, even without the noise, but close enough to sense. They have less than a minute before they arrive, and though the office isn't large, there are any number of places Brejik might be hiding Marrel's leash. The girl's growing panic gnaws at Bastila's mind—or perhaps that's her own fear threatening to overwhelm her.
She closes her eyes for a few precious seconds. Breathes. There is no emotion, there is peace.
And in the shaky calm she manages to achieve, the Force gives a sense of—emptiness. Absence.
Bastila opens her eyes, looks at Marrel, stricken. "It's not here."
"What?" Marrel says, voice climbing high. "How—how do you know, it has to be, it has to be—"
"He must keep it with him," Bastila says softly.
"But—aaaah!" Marrel shrieks as the shock collar crackles, a jolt of electricity surging over her limbs. She collapses, twitching, whimpering.
Bastila catches her, winces as her hands and arms prickle with static. She—she has to get Marrel out of here, they're cornered in this room and—and if Brejik has the remote and is within range to use it then he must be very, very close—
She drops the cell guard's blaster and scoops Marrel up in her arms, letting the Force flow down her limbs, augmenting her strength. She can't keep this up for long, but—she has to try. Bastila starts running, her semiconscious burden's head lolling and bouncing against her shoulder with every stride. Back the way they came—she remembers seeing a hall just off the main chamber that might lead to an exit, and if she can reach it, they might have a chance.
She runs straight into half a dozen Vulkars. Without missing a step, she snarls and pushes. A near-explosive wave scatters the gangsters, leaves her way clear. She keeps running. The wide main room swallows her, painfully exposed—Vulkars are pouring out of every door leading into it and the ones behind her could recover any moment. Some take aim with their blasters, others charge towards her with their crackling stun batons.
Fools, she thinks distantly, without quite knowing why until she's already acting.
The Force sings through her, clearer and deeper than she has ever felt. Battle Meditation has never come so easily before. She melts into the Vulkars' minds and gives a tug here, a nudge there, twists perception and reflex just so—
The blaster wielders open fire before the ones with stun batons reach her. Bolts shriek past her and Marrel—a concussive crossfire that leaves them unscathed but mows down charging melee fighters and confused shooters across the room alike. The remainder continue firing wildly but can't seem to land a hit on anyone but their compatriots.
And it's . . . exhilarating. Intoxicating, despite or even because of her fear. Past the adrenaline and the worry and the dread, like a crack in a dam, something terribly powerful strains to burst free.
Powerful, and dark—
Bastila gasps and wrenches herself out of the heady trance. She stumbles under Marrel's weight. There are mercifully few Vulkars left standing but without her influence they regain their senses, their shots coming dangerously close. She forces herself to keep going. What she wouldn't give for her lightsaber—
Marrel's shock collar crackles again. They both spasm; Bastila drops with a cry, falls badly trying not to let Marrel's head hit the floor.
"Hold fire."
Footsteps. A pair of boots come to a halt just inside her wavering field of vision. Bastila looks up. Brejik shakes his head at her, condescending, collar remote in hand, thumb poised above the activator. "I told you what would happen if you tried to escape," he says.
She can't regain her focus to reach for the Force. All she can do is glare up at him and clutch at Marrel and—ah.
Marrel is still alive, slowly recovering, and Brejik will not kill her. Not as long as Bastila can still be controlled by the threat of her death.
So . . . what? What can she do, unarmed and alone and outnumbered, too unbalanced to pull another Force trick, besides surrender?
No. She will not let these—these two-bit gangsters, these nobodies, be what ends her.
She lifts her head. Summons the memory of a cold rage and a colder smile, black ice and dead stars. She sets Marrel down, not too gently, inwardly apologizing. But she needs the thump of bony flesh on gritty concrete for punctuation as she stands once more and stares Brejik down, Revan's cruel smile now her own mask to wear.
"Tell me, Brejik," she says, "what did you think would happen if you did kill her? What would then prevent me from utterly destroying each and every one of you?"
He laughs, high and nasal. "You could barely hold your own against a few of my men. You don't intimidate me, girl."
Revan's smile widens on her face, revealing a few more teeth. Bastila says, calmly, "The Jedi path is one of self-denial. We are not meant to relish slaughter, and some would say this holds us back, makes us weak. But the most dangerous Jedi of all is one with nothing left to lose. Do you really want to be the one for whom I cast aside the Code, all those rules and strictures? Do you honestly believe that I would not?"
A flicker of unease. Not much, but enough to work with. Behind her mask, Bastila can steady herself and refocus upon that flicker, tease it into a spark. Brejik blinks once, twice. "You're bluffing."
"Am I," Bastila breathes. "Brejik, Brejik, Brejik. You do not want to see a Jedi fall."
And in the split second of Brejik's hesitation, she extends a thread of thought to the remote in his hand and wrenches it free. It thunks into her palm. She presses the release button and tugs Marrel to her feet before Brejik can do more than draw breath to shout.
"Go!" she says, lashing out with a wave of the Force to knock down the Vulkars between them and the door.
"GET THEM!"
They run. Marrel's breaths come in great whooping sobs. The shock collar peels loose from her bony neck, jarred by their strides, and clatters to the ground. The main door is so close, they're so close—
The stun bolt hits her square in the back. Bastila chokes with the pain of it and drops to her hands and knees, skidding a few painful inches, leaving her palms raw. Marrel realizes she's fallen behind, slows, looking back.
"GO!" Bastila screams. "Just go, go!"
Marrel hesitates, but turns and flees, smacking the blast door's access panel and slipping through the crack before it can groan fully open. Bastila grunts as a Vulkar tackles her from behind and begins dragging her backward. She grits her teeth. Reaches out one last time. The door mechanism shimmers bright and electric in her awareness. She rips at it, and it jams, too narrow a gap for anyone in the Vulkars' full body armor to pass.
By then, it's too late to do more than writhe and claw at her assailant. Assailants. Two of them, pinning her down as a third presses a stun baton to her side and activates it.
Bastila's vision greys out, then goes dark.
o.O.o
tbc