THE CHASE

Little is as exhilarating as the chase.

—From An Empire of Lies
by Colonel Hiram Flynn, ISB, Retired

Dagobah Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY

"Skrag?" Mothma repeated without much inflection. "What is it?"

"Maker-damned, karking Imperial cruiser," Karrde explained, flipping switches on the Luminous Pincushion's instrument panels, shunting more power to the inertial dampeners and silently praying they didn't fail without any warning, as he pushed them well beyond their limits. He didn't think being turned into a thin red paste would be very pleasant.

Mothma seemed to handle the news better than Karrde. He nodded at the new problem, and said, "We run."

"Way ahead of you," the smuggler responded. The Galactic Empire wasn't overly fond of people in his line of work, and the best he could hope for would be thirty years in the pen.

Mothma nodded and stood up, moving toward the cargo hold his men had laid claim to. "Mount up," he said. "We've got bad guys incoming."

The announcement caused several heads to come up. "What are we going to do? Lean out the window and take potshots?" Daber asked, his carbine half-disassembled for cleaning.

"Maybe."

Back in the cockpit, Yoda leaned on his gimer stick with an expression of grave amusement that only he could have pulled off. "Outrun them, we will not," he said.

"Gonna give it our best shot, little guy," Karrde responded distractedly. In the background, a voice started crackling over the comm, as a Core Worlds-accented voice began asking them if they needed assistance. Karrde flicked the speakers off.

"They're making a run for it," a bridge staffer reported without prompting. Perin stifled a flash of irritation at the obvious report, but bit his tongue while he waited for Rothfuss to acknowledge it.

Fittingly, the Fang's CO said, "Thank you, Ensign," in a tone dry enough that the staffer's obvious excitement at the chase withered and died with an embarrassed clearing of his throat.

Rothfuss didn't even look at the embarrassed staffer, and instead turned his attention toward the ship's tactical officer. "What's it look like, Guns?" he asked. He'd already asked the signal officer if the little ship was responding to their hails, and been informed they weren't.

"They'll be in turbolaser range in two-four-eight seconds, Captain," the TO responded. "Tractor range in two-nine-one. It's possible they think we're hostile, judging by their acceleration."

"Very well," Rothfuss said. "Draw up an engagement plan and pass it on." Both he and Perin were past believing this distress signal was a run-of-the-mill blue milk run. This ship—presumably the same one that had sent the message they had received—wasn't acting right. They should have been falling over themselves to accept the Fang's assistance, if the message had been legitimate.

"Sir," the tactical officer said after listening to his earpiece for a moment, "just got a wave from the CIC. They're eighty-percent sure the ship has a modified . . . well, everything—their reactor's throwing out way more emissions than is legal, for a start."

"Well," Perin said in response, "this is getting more interesting all the time."

Unlike what uninformed people might believe from cheaply-written holovids with bombastic special effects, there wasn't anything about most naval battles that one could call fast-paced. When distances are routinely measured in the millions of kilometers, even a flight of missiles accelerating at thousands of gravities took minutes to find their mark.

Even superheated plasma contained within magnetic bolts took tens of seconds to hit, and men had little to pass the time except work in conditions no sane man would put himself in, worry, feel the tingling excitement that comes with near-death, and pray that he made it through the slugging match.

Of course, the terror was magnified when one side of the slugging match was a light freighter and the other was a purpose-built warship.

The Luminous Pincushion didn't have anything in the way of armament—save for four antiquated battledroids magnetically fastened to the outer hull of the ship, intent on firing anything and everything Karrde had in the way of expensive, handheld armament—and was running all-out.

Given enough time, the light freighter would pull away, but the curse that was orbital mechanics meant that the Pincushion had a much lower initial velocity, while the Fang had the massive advantage of being close to her flyby's periapsis. The extra initial velocity meant that she had a full nine-minute engagement window with the light freighter.

Clanker stood on the ventral plating of its master's ship, a surface-to-air missile launcher much like the one Rusty had used on the surface held in its mechanical grippers. "Master," it said, voice coming over the comlink, "I don't see how this is going to work."

A staticky voice came back over the same channel. "Less talking, more shooting."

With a mechanical shrug, Clanker depressed the firing stud.

"They have missile tubes," the Fang's tactical officer said, slightly surprised that a missile tube could be laid into the hull of something so small. "Multiple fast-movers, coming in ballistic."

"Return fire," Rothfuss said calmly, glancing at Perin. Everything had gone geh up in record time, and both of the career officers were reacting by instinct and training now. "Try not to kill them, though—we want these bashards alive. Can't kill people your supposed to be rescuing—isn't proper."

Despite the situation, a brief flash of amusement flicked across Perin's face, and he nodded in approval of the orders.

The tactical officer nodded. "Aye, aye, Captain."

The twelve missiles the droids managed to fire sliced through the void. Their smaller fuel allotment, designed to only reach a few tens of thousands of meters into an atmosphere, meant that they rocketed through space on ballistic courses until the very last second, where they then burned madly for an intercept.

But small, slow missiles meant for downing gunships didn't have much of a chance against the point-defenses of a dedicated warship. Anti-missile missiles flew out from the tubes laid into the Fang's hull, while plasma cannons took care of the few repurposed SAMs that survived.

In retaliation, Fang's four light turbolaser batteries spoke, plasma streaking through the void. Though the young TO at the tactical station was sorely tempted to respond to the missile attack with one of his own, he realized—rightfully so—that a missile barrage from even the few tubes aboard the light cruiser would likely leave their much smaller foe a collection of scattering atoms.

Bolts of superheated plasma slammed into the aft shielding of the freighter, making lights aboard her flicker as power was diverted to recharging capacitors. Excess heat made the radiators glow a dull red.

The droids on the hull of the Luminous Pincushion discarded the expensive missile launchers, and clambered back down to an airlock. There wasn't much they could do now.

"Talk with them, we must," Yoda said.

"Cha-kupi," the mouse agreed.

The Lieutenant nodded emphatically, watching the shield status from across the cockpit with morbid fascination. He'd long-since realized—in the way a punch-drunk man might realize he's not winning a bout; with a muddled thought process that meanders until it's too late—that he wasn't in control of the mission anymore. Not that he'd ever been in command, anyway. Shell shock had rather removed him from Mothma's list of immediate problems.

Both Mothma and Karrde scowled at the suggestion. "If we can weather another few minutes—" Talon began to say, before the ship suddenly lurched around them, the inertial dampener letting out a sudden tortured scream. Karrde lunged for the throttle column just as the dampener gave out with one last exhausted sigh.

Gravity shifted with sudden, painful force, throwing them all toward the rear of the ship for just a fleeting moment before the engines cut out.

Mothma pulled himself out of a tangle of loose gear and limbs. Everything felt bruised, and he moaned just like all of his comrades were doing. What happened, smuggler?" he demanded. Nothing felt broken, just bruised. Of course, a bad bruise could be more painful than a proper break.

"Inertial dampener gave out."

"Skrag."

"Yep."

Neither one of them mentioned how close they'd come to an instant and rather anticlimactic death.

"Talk now, we will," Yoda's muffled voice said from beneath the heap of droids that were trying to right themselves.

The mouse let out a pained, "—kupi," as a general protest to the universe as a whole.

Perin smiled at the report. The ship was disabled—seemingly from an engineering failure on their part—and helpless; the chase was at an end.

"Take them into tow," Rothfuss commanded. Once his order had been confirmed, he turned to Perin. "Got 'em, Commodore." Though his face was fairly composed, the tone of satisfaction was obvious, as it well should be. The light cruiser had stood to an unexpected battle shockingly well, and he could tell the Commodore's report to the Admiralty was going to be glowing.

"So it would seem," Perin agreed. "Please let Major Iskan know I want a boarding team assembled as soon as possible."

"Of course, sir."

Major Iskan had never entertained notions of childish fancy. Strinkles, snarks, and Jedi were all labeled as 'Amusing Nonsense' to him. Thus when the breaching charge blew open the airlock of the light freighter, he didn't expect anything less than a crew of hooligans he could either gun down or take back as prisoners.

He hadn't been expecting a little, green alien to be waiting for him and leaning on a cane. "Hands up," Iskan commanded. He was really too senior—and old—to be taking a boarding team onto a hostile ship, but the thrill was hard to replace.

His troops fanned out behind him, hugging the little cover the cargo bay of the freighter offered.

"Talk we must," the alien said, not even bothering to respond to Iskan's orders.

Though a rational part of the Stormtrooper officer wanted to repeat the order—or, possibly, just shoot the alien and be done with it—he instead repeated what the alien had said: "Talk we must." The words surprised him, but as he thought about it he realized that yes, talking was good.

"Yes, yes," the alien said, chortling to himself at something remarkably funny. Iskan's men shifted a little, waiting for their commander to either make a move they could interpret as an unspoken order, or to give a verbal one.

"Take myself and friends to your Captain," the alien said, "you will."

"Take you to the Captain," Iskan said, the words coming out as he thought them over. "I will, sir."

A confused voice came out of one of his men's helmet speakers, "Uh . . . sir?"

The alien seemed to adjust his attention to the rest of the troopers. "Accept this, you will."

A mumbled chant of "Accept this, we will," was the only response he got.

Yoda chortled and turned to look back at where Jobin and his men were waiting, down the corridors of the Luminous Pincushion, just out of sight. Heavily armed, and keyed-up barely scratched the surface of their current state, though Karrde merely looked keyed-up.

"Come, come!" Yoda said to the hidden SpecForce operators and the single smuggler. "New friends, found I have!"

Rothfuss looked at the party of Rebels smugly—for they were Rebels, judging by their uniforms—while Perin stood beside him, slightly confused. None of the prisoners had weapons—as one might expect, given they were prisoners—but none of them were bound either. That was enough to send warning bells ringing throughout the flag officer's mind.

Before the Captain of the Fang could open his mouth to gloat, Perin said, "Major, why are the prisoners unbound?"

For a second, the Stormtrooper Corps officer hesitated, before a look of dreamy ease came over his features. Instead of answering for himself, Iskan let the green alien speak for him: "Misunderstanding there has been." The alien chuckled. "Appreciate a ride, we would."

Perin didn't see the subtle wave of the four-digited finger, nor feel the gentle massaging of his mind and thought process. Artificial tranquility and peace threatened to overturn reason. . . . "Major, bind the prisoners and take them to the brig," he said, the tranquility refusing to take hold. "Do so, and perhaps I won't report your . . . 'lack of judgment.' "

Iskan looked at Perin dumbly, before turning his gaze to Rothfuss, who looked very confused at what was happening. The Rebel prisoners shifted in acute unease that bordered on panic, and started to reach for blasters they'd hid on their persons.

Perin's eyes widened in surprise as he saw the blasters appear, and let out a choking sound of disbelief while he reached for his own sidearm. The blaster seemed to appear and raise of its own volition, and he leveled the sidearm at the little green alien, who just looked amused and gave one of his ears a flick. "I don't know what this is," he said. "But you tell your men to put away their blasters." He still didn't understand why Iskan would have turned traitor on them all so quickly (and with such a good Party record too!) but he felt himself begin sweating suddenly from the position he'd found himself in.

"Arrest this man, you will," the alien said to Iskan and Rothfuss both.

"Well, I—" Rothfuss said, confused.

Perin squeezed the trigger, but didn't have time to note his accuracy before something hit him in the chest, bowling him over. The smell of ozone and burnt flesh hung in the air for a moment, and he raised his head painfully.

The green alien looked at him with an expression of sadness, his stance unaffected by the fact that someone had just shot a bolt of superheated plasma directly at him. Perin was too tired all at once to wonder what miracle had saved the alien.

"Good shot," Mothma said simply. The holster his sidearm normally rested in was empty, and the smoking blaster sat in Karrde's palm.

"Huh," the smuggler said, genuinely surprised he'd been the first one to shoot, or that he'd managed to grab Mothma's sidearm without being knocked on his winba by the sergeant.

Yoda looked at Perin as the man died, before turning to Iskan. "This man, take away," he ordered.

"Yes, sir." Iskan gestured to Perin, and two Stormtroopers picked him up and began carting him to the infirmary.

Turning to Jobin, Yoda said, "We going, where?"

Jobin took a moment to decipher what the alien had said, before responding, "Mon Calamari. I think."

Yoda nodded. "To Mon Calamari, take us," he said to Rothfuss.

"Cha-kupi?" the mouse asked rhetorically.

"Yes, yes," Rothfuss responded dreamily. Taking out his comlink he said, "Helm? Put us on a new course; Dac. . . . Yes, I'm really sure."

THE END OF PART THREE

A/N I must apologize for the long, long delay. Rest assured this story has not been abandoned, and that I am still working on it. (In fact, it has now been finished, and there are about 40k worth of chapters to be uploaded here on FFN.) As I have said before, I have changed my primary repository to AO3, and if you wish to read more current versions of stories published here, please go there.

Sorry again.

Blessings.