THE QUARRY
By: Scatterheart a.k.a. Hallospacegirl
- - - - - - - - - - - -
CHAPTER THREE: FLIGHT
The late morning suns, coupled with the narrow Mos Eisley alleyways and the heat-emanating bodies of the hundreds of species of life forms hurrying home from market sent fire soaking into the black oven of his uniform. Kenobi pulled at the collar, wiped the sweat from his face, and turned to the woman beside him. "We should be nearing the spaceport soon, Lena." His voice sounded drained to his own ears. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Better than you, I suspect," she replied with a smirk. Her bronze eyes, glinting like gold in the sunlight, were openly running over him, searching into his face in a way he had not seen her do before. "You know, General, in that suit and without that beard, I can hardly recognize you now."
"One must do what's necessary when returning to the Empire," he replied.
"Even when it amounts to torture?" She flicked at the front of his jacket with her forefinger.
"It's unfortunate."
She laughed, and hooked her thumbs through the rope straps that crossed over her shoulders and under her arms. Prior to their departure, she had tried her armor together with rope that she had taken from his hovel, and was now wearing the durasteel bundle as a backpack, with the exception of the leg armor plate, which she had clasped tightly to her injured leg. "If there's sufficient time, General," she said, "I'd like to get a drink at that stall up ahead. Rumor has it the best juri juice in the galaxy is served in Tattooine. I'd like to try it before I leave this place forever."
He recalled the first – and last – time he had downed a glass of that pungently sweet drink, how the alcohol had shot through his brain and disconnected him from the Force and indeed from all semblance of coherent thought.
"It's strong, Lena," he cautioned.
"That's why I drink it," she responded, springing ahead in the crowded market street and knocking aside a grumbling hooded figure that stepped out of her way and folded its arms disapprovingly into its copious poncho. "Three glasses should be no problem. Maybe you can do with less—"
Kenobi felt the Force lurch in warning, saw the hooded figure behind her slide its arms from the poncho as the glint of something metallic in its right hand caught the rays of the sun…
"Lena, watch out!"
He ran to her in two strides, grabbed her shoulders and tackled her to the ground as a torrent of blaster beams scraped over the both of them.
And suddenly the crowd became a screaming frenzy, all frantic arms and legs as the hundreds of different life forms attempted to scamper away from the hooded man with the blaster pistol.
Kenobi pulled the woman to her feet; they both dodged another blaster shot that hit home in a green-skinned Rodian behind them.
"No, Darklighter! Don't get the woman – first get the officer in black!" He discerned a gruff, firm voice shout in Basic among the cacophony of screams. A tall, aging man in gray stepped behind the hooded one and aimed his own pistol at the Jedi master.
In the name of – !
The Rebellion. Kenobi found that he recognized the older man to be Jan Dodonna, an official from the days of the Republic that he had worked with on occasion. He sensed that Dodonna did not return the recognition. He stopped himself from shouting Jan's name, then ducked another beam that grazed a hair's width from his forearm. But perhaps it was all for the better that both Rebels believed him to be an Imperial officer – this was not the best place and time for Lena to discover his true identity. If she did, she was able to shrug off her armor in a flash, disappear behind a storefront, contact the other Imperials stationed in Mos Eisley, and, in time, return for a particularly vicious revenge.
"This way," he shouted, grabbing her wrist. He nodded toward a discreet, dark alley branching from the street. "Shortcut to the spaceport."
"I have a bad feeling about this, General!"
He pulled her through the thinning throng and into the alley just as sparks from a blaster shot crumpled the wall mere millimeters behind him.
The alley was narrow, quiet and deserted, save for several ancient female humanoids sitting on low benches outside of the shabby doorways. Above them, tattered canopies waved in the sultry breeze and cast uneven shadows on the equally uneven pavement below.
"Oh, no." Lena was pointing two hundred meters ahead, where the alley ended in a swathe of dark shadow. "No way out."
"There's a door at the end that leads outside." At least that was what Kenobi remembered from the last time he had been here, approximately five years ago. Well, there was no time to think about it now – the two Rebels had already turned the corner.
Kenobi and Lena tore past the old women and ran, blaster beams sailing past them and raining above them like fireworks.
When they reached the end, Lena skidded to a stop and drummed her closed fists furiously against the mud-brick wall – sans door – in front of them. Behind, Dodonna was shouting a hoarse warning about inevitability and surrender.
By the Maker, but he had been certain there was a door. Someone must have filled it in during the five years of his absence. But he could still break it down… with the lightsaber clipped into his jacket.
No, A-186 would see the weapon, realize he was not a General. Chaos would ensue – and somehow, he knew for a fact that a woman of her spirit would rather kill herself than hand herself unwillingly to three members of the Rebellion. He turned to her. "Check the doors on the sides. Maybe it's one of those."
He waited until her back faced him, then whipped the lightsaber out and activated the humming blue beam. He plunged it through the mud-brick material, carving out a large, burning circle. Then he kicked the circle to the ground on the other side and tucked the lightsaber into his jacket. "Lena, it's open now. Let's go."
She wheeled back. "How did you—"
"Never mind that. Let's go!"
She clambered through the opening; he followed her.
But something was not quite right. The rapid footsteps of the two pursuing Rebels had ceased to sound in his ears. He peered back into the alley to see the two men staring at each other in confusion. The last fragments of Dodonna's sentence floated to his ears: "… that was a Jedi lightsaber."
"I thought the Jedi died in the war," the younger replied.
"I thought so as well. It doesn't make sense. He looks like an Imperial officer, yet wields a lightsaber like an expert. I suspect he's a renegade Jedi, or he must practice the dark side. Likely both. Hey, you! Stop!"
They had seen him. Kenobi bolted away from the opening in the wall.
Lena was already many meters in front of him; she looked back at him, her black hair flapping wildly in her face. "What in damnation are you doing! Get over here! Don't be a martyr!"
He sprinted up to her just as he noticed the cantina on the other side of the street. "This way." He directed her toward the downtrodden, neon-lighted building. "They'll think we continued ahead."
They ran into the cool, smoke-filled room.
Behind the circular counter in the center of the bar, a corpulent young man was serving an array of variously vile smelling, bubbling, and multicolored drinks to the group of Ithorians, Aqualish, and Ortolans sitting around him on high barstools. A five-Klatoonian band in the corner churned out gritty music that reminded Kenobi of machinery being pieced together upon a conveyor belt, and the cracked neon orbs hanging above flickered weakly to the rhythmic poundings of the drums.
A moment later, Kenobi watched through the tinted window the two Rebels hurrying down the street and out of sight. He let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding, and slid into the nearest cushioned seat. "They've left."
Lena stood over him with her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were unusually dark, serious. "Whatever you did out there, General," she began.
Kenobi winced inwardly and felt the wound on his temple sting in apprehension. He realized that by carving the hole into the wall he had once more slipped his cover, and soon, a bloody fight would once more erupt between the two of them. He readied himself to begin the mind control session the moment she began her furious tirade, or seductive persuasion, or any other strategy she had planned this time to disarm him.
"Whatever you did to break the wall," she was saying, "I want you to know that I'm highly—"
"I'll explain later aboard the ship," he interrupted curtly.
She frowned. "What do you mean? I was going to say that I'm highly grateful, General, for what you've done. You saved my life. Again. I …" She cleared her throat. "Thank you."
Oh.
He blinked at her, watching her shift her weight to her good leg and fidget uncomfortably, and detected her embarrassment clearly through the Force. Evidently, both in the courts of Naboo and in the units of the Imperial army, she had not been accustomed to expressing gratitude. He held her gaze and smiled, somewhat sadly. "You're welcome, Lena."
She pivoted away from him, and was silent for a while as the horrendous music throbbed from the Klatoonian band. Then, "Hey, General. Since we'll have to stay here for a while longer just to be safe, I might as well get that juri juice I've been wanting." She walked up to the bar, and a moment later, sauntered back with not one, but two glasses of the translucent beverage. She slid into the seat opposite Kenobi after slipping off her armor and setting the pile at her feet.
Then she placed a glass firmly in front of him. "I'm treating you to the best in the galaxy, General. All attempts to talk yourself out of this one will be futile," she said, her lips widening into that peculiar, smirk-like grin.
Kenobi eyed the mixture skeptically, sniffed it, smelled no trace of poison – aside from the copious amounts of the distinct juri juice alcohol, of course. "This stuff gives a horrible kick," he warned.
"Only the best part. But the brilliant thing about juri juice is that effect will wear off in a few minutes. Then we'll be on our way. Drink up." Her grin widened as she raised her glass. "Come on, I'll race you."
He hesitantly mirrored her movement. Of course, the Jedi code stated no restrictions against alcohol, and even Master Yoda had been known to sip berry wine occasionally…
"On the count of three," Lena was saying. "One. Two…"
They drank on three.
The sweet liquid, though chilled, still managed to burn down Kenobi's throat; a moment later his head was spinning, and he forced himself to swallow the last few gulps, slamming the empty glass onto the table, squeezing his eyes shut against the kaleidoscopic colors that were swirling into his vision. Through the noise of the band and the roaring of blood in his ears, he heard Lena rasp, "You lost, General."
Then, oddly, he thought he heard the smattering of applause throughout the bar, and the stereo double-voice of an Ithorian proclaiming, "The human woman wins the match! Fifty credits!"
Credits? He squinted at Lena blearily, saw that she was intoxicatedly giggling at him. "What credits, Lena?"
"The extra strength juri juice – oh, your face is so red – the Aqualish over there – he thought I couldn't drink it – I bet him I'd race you and win – they owe me fifty credits now!" She reached across the table and, fumbling, took his hands in hers. "Sorry," she managed through her giggles.
"Extra strength? I can't believe it!"
"You're enjoying the kick – don't lie."
"You're the one who lied!"
But she was right. He leaned back in the seat and let the warm, dazzling alcohol course through his system. "In the name of the Force, Lena…"
"The what?"
"The – oh, never mind." He imagined the reaction of the Jedi Council if they saw him now, sharing near-lethal drinks with a first-class Imperial Stormtrooper – he imagined Ki Adi Mundi fainting backwards over his chair and Yoda's eyes popping out of his oversized green head. And suddenly everything just seemed so unbearably silly, the whole war that had passed and the whole Imperial militia and the Jedi Order and the Empire and the Rebellion. And the millions of lives that had been snuffed throughout the galaxy? All for nothing. For a joke. "Listen, Lena," he heard himself slur out, "Why don't we simply take Palpatine and Anak—Darth Vader, and put them in a room with Mon Mothma and the rest of the leaders of the Rebellion and leave the war to themselves? It should hardly matter to us."
"What are you talking – it sounds great – I'll help you."
"Then it's settled," he affirmed, and laughed. The alcohol was positively reeling through him. "Oh, Lena, this is too much."
She swayed to her feet, leaned over the table, and planted a clumsy, moist kiss on his shaven cheek. "Trust me, handsome – it's better than sex," she murmured, then hiccupped.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Five minutes later, the woman had gone to retrieve her fifty credits from the cantankerous Aqualish at the bar, and Kenobi had sufficiently recovered from the juri juice to arrange his crumpled uniform and even out his disheveled hair. Now he watched her stroll steadily back to him, easily shoving aside an inebriated blue humanoid who attempted to enfold her in his arms. The humanoid backpedaled into a stack of barstools amid the sound of derisive laughs, as Lena sat back into her seat opposite Kenobi.
"Everything's set. I have the credits, and I've drunk the juri juice. How do you feel, General? Care for another glass?"
He regarded her, regarded the traces of alcohol still glowing in her cheeks. She was information for the Rebel movement, he firmly told himself. Only information. Another glass of the intoxicant could potentially fry the crucial bits of knowledge in her brain.
He shook his head a little ruefully, and eased himself to his feet. "I feel that we should go, Lena," he said, and cringed as the Klatoonian singer howled out a particularly profane string of lyrics amid the noise of the band. "If not to board the ship, then to escape this infernal racket."
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The Imperial personal transport ship gleamed silver and red in the midday suns, like a jewel amid the dusty, broken junk ships and cargo planes that cluttered the vast, circular arena of the spaceport. It was an older, much smaller model from several years ago, she observed as she walked with the general down the wide staircase that led to the landing strip. Interesting that it seemed in such pristine condition; perhaps it was an auxiliary vessel that had been recently discovered from the warehouses and put to use. With the rapid expansion of the Empire's borders surpassing the expansion of its income, sectors were beginning to skimp on certain costs in an effort to keep the money flowing toward maintaining its active troops.
But, despite its size, it was still a very impressive ship, capable of maneuvering agilely and making robust jumps to lightspeed. "You've called up a good one," she remarked to the general behind her.
They reached the bottom landing of the staircase and began walking to the ship; Felth fell into stride beside her, waving at the pilot inside. "It surprises even me," he responded. "In any case, I'll be glad to enter the climate controlled interior."
She grinned at this and allowed herself to glance at him sideways from the corner of her vision. Covered in the shaggy hair and beard, he had seemed closer to fifty standard years old, but now she could see that he was on the early side of forty. If that. Take three steps back, and she would no longer be able to notice the subtle lines at the corners of his eyes that creased only when he smiled. Not that any of this was important to her duty as a Stormtrooper, of course. Merely the habit of detailed observation that the Academy had pounded into her.
They had reached the personal transport. The door at the side lowered open to form a miniature ramp, and she stepped aboard, with Felth following behind her and securing the door closed with a press of a button.
The interior of the transport was different than she remembered from her previous trips in this model. This one was more spacious, for one thing, and hummed pleasantly, as opposed to gratingly, with the sound of the climate control system. No loose wires hung overhead like spiderwebs, and few consoles and lights jammed the narrow enclosure.
Why would the sector possibly choose to spend its budget on modifying older models of ships rather than buying new fleets? She considered asking Felth, but due to his prolonged stay in the desert he probably wouldn't have known either.
She followed him as he made his way down a short corridor to the cabin. Settled into the pilot's seat was young, mustached man, who turned to them and held out his hand. "Pieter Corlis, license number 2090, at your service. Long live the Emperor."
"Long live the Emperor," she repeated his greeting, and firmly shook his hand. "A-186 is pleased to meet you, 2090. And this is my acquaintance, General Peregrin Felth, license num—" She gestured beside her, but found that the man had already left them and was settling into a seat at the other end of the control room.
He didn't exchange the formalities. He had breached protocol. That was her first thought. Her second thought was more of a wordless, vague welling of panic. The only people who dared to break protocol were the insanely suicidal and the people who didn't know of it. More often than not… traitors. Rebels.
She was still for a moment, staring at him, her heart lurching to her throat, when he looked up sharply. What was that she saw in his eyes before he covered it up with a flushed, apologetic smile? Fear?
"Long live the Emperor. I'm so sorry, Pieter Corlis," he was saying as he clambered up from his seat and stuck out his hand. "Living in the desert must have erased the civilized habits in me. I'm General Peregrin Felth, license number—" He bit his lower lip. "License number AA-014. I'm pleased to meet you, 2090. Once again, it wasn't my intention to offend you, nor the illustrious Empire."
She half expected Corliss to pull out a blaster from under his seat and shoot him on the spot – Maker knows, she probably would have – but the pilot only returned the handshake gravely. "I understand how anxious you must feel for returning to the militia for the first time in five years, General Felth. Please take your seat." He released Felth's hand and turned to her. "Please take a seat, A-186."
Why wasn't Corlis angry? Incensed? And more importantly, how did he, a general, manage to forget protocol?
Why did he forget?
She stumbled into the seat between Corlis and Felth, blindly buckled herself in as she couldn't help but gape at the older man. Ask him why. No – demand furiously why he had broken protocol. Go up to him, grab the front of his shirt, and shout at him, "Why are you frightening me?" Do it.
She couldn't. He was leaning into her confidentially, and she couldn't move as he whispered into her ear, his breath tickling her skin, "It was the juri juice." He straightened back in his seat.
"The juri juice?" she mouthed incredulously.
He nodded. "I drank it only once before."
"Oh."
She was frowning at this, yet somehow it made sense if she pondered over his words enough. She felt a slight, warm humming in her mind, and her panic faded as a nebulous suspicion wormed its way into her consciousness that he was doing that thing again – doing whatever it was that made her afloat and unguarded and completely vulnerable. But on the other hand, she reasoned, what he had said about the juri juice… come to think of it, perhaps she was still lightly intoxicated as well…
"All settled? This vessel's ready for takeoff."
She snapped out of her daze. Shook her head to clear the fog and frowned again in puzzlement. "I – yes. Yes, 2090, I'm ready."
As the transport lifted from the landing strip, sending up waves of dust from the rippling propulsion exhaust fumes, she still couldn't quite understand the hectic chain of events that had just happened. She gave up and focused her sights on the desert planet instead, watching the ships and buildings and spaceport and life forms below them shrink until they blended into the yellow landscape, and then disappear completely as the ship sailed through the stratosphere and into space.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Obi-Wan Kenobi realized he was gripping the cushioned handles of the passenger seat with much more force than he needed to, and he loosened his fingers, examining the half-moon dents on the faux leather covering gradually rise and disappear.
His grand entrance into the transport ship had been a disaster, and perhaps it would have cost both his and Nadine's lives if he hadn't managed to persuade Lena – through the minor influence of mind control – to believe the lie that he had frantically pulled from the air.
Breathing deeply, he turned his attention to the matters at present. It wouldn't do him any good lingering on that moment of shock when he had sensed Lena's panic over his unacceptable breach of protocol. The Jedi way advised one to remember the past and learn from one's mistakes, but to always stay in the present. To always calmly stay in the present.
He permitted himself one last reminisce of the unbearable heat of Tattooine, and of the little boy Luke, now hundreds of thousands of kilometers below him for the first time in half a decade, and of the narrowly avoided catastrophe he had created because of his unacceptable slip in perceptive concentration, then willed all the lingering traces of adrenalin out of his system. "I suggest you make the jump to hyperspeed as soon as possible, 2090," he announced to the pilot.
Nadine punched several buttons on the control panel, his brow furrowing at the images blinking on the radar screen before him. "I respectfully decline, General. There seems to be several starships stalling within the Tattooinian sector. Regulations state that I'm not allowed to make the jump until we've cruised safely out of the planetary sector."
Lena bent toward the viewscreen, scrutinizing the figures upon it. "The ships look abnormally large. What do you think they are? Military bases for the Rebellion?"
"I highly doubt it," Nadine replied. "Bases that size in open space would have been detected by the Outer Rim patrols in hours. They're most likely trade freighters. Nothing to be worried about."
"And what about that?"
"What are you pointing to?"
"The small red dot that just appeared in the corner – it's fast heading our direction. I think it's…"
A fighter ship.
The Force delivered the answer to Kenobi in a violent jolt to his brain; a split second later, the ship itself jolted as something smashed explosively into the stern. The light orbs above them spasmed, fiery sparks showering down from the shaking machinery overhead.
"Confound it! Someone just shot at us!" Nadine wrenched the steering stick to starboard just as another projectile skimmed by the side of the ship and slammed into the edge of the wing. The ship lurched violently, tiny pieces of silver and red debris hurtling out into the blackness of space.
"It's an X-wing," Lena unsteadily announced a moment later from the flickering viewscreen. "Short distance fighters. Couldn't have come from too far. Must be those Rebels we met earlier at Mos Eis—" Another explosion, and the viewscreen squealed, flashed white, and faded to gray static. She smashed her open palm furiously down on the malfunctioning panel. "Damn it! Damn them!"
Kenobi had unclipped himself from the seat and was now reaching for the communicator in front of him. The device was searing hot in his hand, almost as hot as the lavas of Mustafar, but a green light on its side indicated that it still operated normally. "Did our sector not notify all nearby patrols of our presence?" he demanded pointedly to Nadine before dialing up the frequency of the X-wing.
The pilot looked bewildered, lost. "Yes, General Ken – General Felth, we notified every single patrol system, but…" – another hit, another shower of sparks – "…but some members must not have received the message! Should we simply tell her that – you know?"
Kenobi understood. "No, Corlis. Just steer. Make sure we're not blown to oblivion," he answered as the communicator established contact with the X-wing in a buzz of static. "Stop your fire! I repeat, stop your fire! Our ship's captain is Pieter Corlis. Repeat, our ship's captain is Pieter Corlis – contact your nearest base leader and he will tell you to immediately cease fire!"
Lena had pushed her way up to him; was pulling at his arm. He could almost smell her confusion and fear and anger through the singed scent of burning metal, a good deal of which was directed toward him. "What good will this do, Felth!" she screamed into his ear. "Now is not the time for diplomacy!"
"Stop it, Lena!" He pushed her aside with more force than he had intended, sending her tripping over a wayward wire and sprawling into the control panel. He felt a twinge of regret at the impatient, uncontrolled action, but the feeling was immediately covered up by the situation at hand.
What could he do? Frustration overwhelmed him. He could declare outright the allegiance of this vessel to the Rebellion and risk Lena's fury during the flight to the Alderaanian base. Or he could continue with this now deadly charade – attempt to convince the Rebel X-wing to stop their shooting long enough for Nadine to bring the transport into hyperspeed. And once on Alderaan, he could file a serious complaint against the inefficiency of the Rebellion's mass communication system—
Pain exploded over his cheek, seared into his bruised temple.
She had slapped him, he realized, aghast. She had sprung up from the control panel and had slapped him. "What in the name of the Maker are you doing, Lena!"
She reached for the communicator in his hands and wrenched it away. "No – what are you doing?" Grunting, she snapped the communicator away from its cord and smashed it onto the floor, where it broke like glass into a thousand spare parts. "Do you enjoy delivering us to the Rebel scum?"
"I'm your superior, A-186," he pointed out, barely keeping his anger within the Jedi-allowed boundaries. "I make decisions and I expect you to follow them, not destroy the only hope of communication we have with the—"
She shook her head. "You're my superior? No, not now… General Felth. As far as they're concerned, the Empire considers you dead without me. Remember?" She shot him a glare that could incinerate kessel, then directed her attention to the controls. "Corlis – I suggest you take us into hyperspeed as soon as you possibly can."
"The hyperdrive is almost ready. Thirty more seconds, maxim—"
Another shot – closer this time – vibrated through the cabin, sending down more sparks, and somewhere toward the stern an alarm began wailing loudly, red emergency lights spiraling like windswept flames.
The pilot cursed.
"The air hatch has been breached. Pressure and oxygen levels
falling steadily. The breach is – damnation! Over there." He
pointed to the upper corner of the cockpit where a hole the size of a
fist had formed between the junction of the vessel body and the
transparent duraglass pane. A high hissing noise issued forth, and
crumbs of metal and glass sprayed out of the cabin like mist.
"General, pull the blue lever at your side to release the reserve
duraglass."
Kenobi found the lever, yanked it firmly down.
Somewhere within the belly of the ship came a clunking sound, but
after five seconds no spare duraglass slid over the broken pane.
Nadine cursed again. "The mechanism's disconnected too. We'll have to manually fix the lever wiring from the inside—"
"Bring us into hyperspeed," Lena interrupted.
"I can't," he responded. "The pressure will destroy the entire vessel. And besides, it'll take two hours to reach the base, but at this rate, all pressure and oxygen will be lost from this ship in ten minutes."
The ship lurched hard to port from another shot that had hit home; the lights on the control panel flashed epileptically for a brief second and went dim. The pilot turned to Kenobi, and the Jedi master could sense the real fear churning in the younger man's gut. The fear of death. The same repressed, sickening sensation he had felt emanating from Darth Vader as he had crawled burning from the banks of the Mustafarian river…
"General," Nadine was saying, his voice raw, "we'll have to tell them. Fly in the emergency signal formation. Admit that this plan is not exactly working the way we had intended it to, and tell them that we're Re—"
"No, Corlis," Kenobi said before he could go on any further. By the Force, the young man was right. Just tell them that they were Rebels and let Lena escape or kill herself for her own cause or do whatever it was she needed to do. There would always be another chance, another potential informer. Forget about A-186. Come out alive. Go back to Tattooine.
But somehow he couldn't. It didn't make sense – the vacuum of space was fast sucking at the ship and the X-wing behind them was gaining and shooting at their own men – yet he simply couldn't.
"Corlis, go and fix the duraglass lever. I'll fly in the meantime."
"It'll take me at least twenty minutes by myself. I'll need help. And you absolutely can't stay in the cockpit during the last few minutes or you'll suffocate—"
"No." It was Lena who spoke this time; he and the pilot both turned to her simultaneously. "Both of you fix the lever," she said, edging Nadine bodily out of the captain's seat and buckling herself in. "I'll fly." She maneuvered the steering stick in a nauseating ninety-degree tilt followed by a nosedive, and a moment later a volley of orange laser beams sailed harmlessly over them and disappeared in the distance.
Impressive, Kenobi couldn't help himself from noticing. Perhaps a skilled, borderline genius pilot like Anakin would have been able to avoid close-range shots like those – but Maker knows, he definitely wouldn't have. Nevertheless, as the pilot ducked out of the cockpit, he remained where he stood and said to the woman, "If you stay here, Lena, you'll suffocate before we're done."
"And if you stay here, all three of us will be blown to bits within twenty seconds!" she retorted snappily. "Better me than all three – I'm the better flier and you know it. Go help Corlis."
In the ensuing heartbeat of a moment, Kenobi surveyed the hissing, widening breach in the glass, the misty pieces tumbling out of the cockpit like glittering jewels. He unwrapped the red sash from his waist, balled it up, and stuffed it into the breach. The hissing subsided considerably, but mere silk would not be able to completely halt the vacuum. Only slow it down. "Lena—" he began. Caught himself. "Don't die, Lena," he finished, puzzled as to what exactly he meant by those words.
"Help Corlis," she repeated dispassionately. She did not divert her attention away from the controls.
He calmed himself with a trembling breath and turned away from the cabin and rushed down the corridor.
"If I die, Felth – whoever you are – it'll be because of you," he thought she called after him – or was that just the noise of the rattling machinery and wind?
He reached the open hatch in the wall at the end of the corridor. Nadine had crawled into the tiny, wire-filled space behind the hatch, and was flipping through the rows and rows of hundreds of wires above his head. An open, brimming toolbox was at his feet.
"There are three electrical wires that control the emergency lever," he proclaimed when Kenobi knelt beside him. "All have been short circuited. We'll have to replace them for the lever to function." He reached down into the toolbox and pulled out two voltage testers and handed one to him. "I don't know which three they are – the wires all look identical. We'll have to individually test and check for the red-lighted ones. I'll take the left half. You take the right."
"In the name of the Force, it's a forest of wires." Kenobi touched the nearest wire with the tip of the voltage tester. The tester flashed green. He moved to the next one. Green. The next. Green.
Very soon, they were both moving swiftly down the lines, but Kenobi could sense through the Force the life presence in the cabin wavering just slightly. A little out-of-breath wooziness, like one would feel after jogging a lap around the Jedi lightsaber practice arena…
"General Obi-Wan Kenobi?" Nadine softly broke the silence. "In all respect, sir, there are other ways to find the location of the Imperial planet. For now, we can fly the ship in the distress formation – we don't have to continue with this. In the future, we can deploy spies, informants, wiretaps—"
"No, Crix, we're so close," he whispered, a small flood of impatient annoyance filling him. He pushed it away. A Jedi shall not know anger. He continued testing the wires. Green. Green. Green. "Crix – listen. It's impossible for even the Empire's own to discover confidential information outside of his ranks. Is it not true that you were a commander in the militia and even you don't know the location of the Imperial planet?"
"Yes, it's true. Before I deflected, my license was B-004. I wasn't an A or an AA, so I couldn't know." Then, resolutely, he said, "It's also true, sir, that first-class Stormtroopers were handpicked for their undying loyalty to the Emperor. Even if we do succeed, she wouldn't easily give up the information of the Imperial planet unless some very drastic actions were undertaken by the Rebellion to get it out of her."
"What do you mean by that?"
Nadine let out a sardonic little laugh. "One thing I've learned from serving on both sides of the war, sir, is that most politicians are the same all across the galaxy, Imperial, Rebellion, or otherwise. Their ideals may be different and their goals may be different, but one thing remains. To them, the idea of 'aggressive negotiation' with the enemy is always a plausible option. Here – quick. I found one. Hand me the wire from the toolbox."
Kenobi retrieved the wire along with a miniature solder gun; Nadine ripped out the defective wire and soldered the new one in its place as Kenobi returned to testing his side of the ceiling.
"I believe in democracy and in the firm moral standing of the Rebellion," he said to the younger man. Green. Green.
"Is then the Rebellion movement the official stance of the—" Nadine's words were cut off as the ship spiraled violently and the sound of a laser beam scraping over the top of the transport reached their ears. However, no sparks fell from the ceiling, no lights flickered. Only the Force shivered and gasped.
Like two laps around the Jedi courtyard, Kenobi thought. He sensed that five minutes had passed. Green. Green. Green.
"Is the Rebellion movement the official stance of the Jedi Knights?" Nadine was asking.
"No, we Jedi are not officially affiliated with any political organization. My belief in the Rebellion is separate from my adherence the Jedi code. Why did you risk your life and career to deflect from the Empire?"
"Because the Empire promises nothing that I hold to be of value. No democracy, only stifling tyranny, dictatorship and subjugation."
The Force pulled at Kenobi like a vacuum. He took a deep breath to satisfy the sudden hunger in his lungs; forced himself not to think about her. Lena, A-186. He ignored the growing pain that seeped through the Force. "What did you mean when you said that aggressive negotiation with the enemy meant the same for every politician?"
"Well, doesn't it, sir? The Empire and Rebellion have their respective goals. For the Empire, it's dictatorship, for the Rebellion, democracy. Drastic action needs to be taken in order for one to rise above the other."
"But for us, this drastic action does not include tyranny." He held his ground as the ship careened in another impossible loop. "It doesn't include torture. We follow the galactic Just War Convention and the Codes of Moral Law signed over two thousand years ago."
"Of course. Noble Jedi Knights like yourself do – to the letter. But, sir, Bail Organa is not a Jedi. Neither is the rest of the Rebellion. We let ourselves feel anger and hatred and become propelled accordingly when it furthers our cause."
"Why did you join the Rebellion if you feel this way about the movement?"
Nadine smiled a humorless smile that seemed closer to a grimace. "I support democracy, General Kenobi. I didn't say I was a saint. Or a Jedi."
A red light blinked from Kenobi's voltage tester. "I found another one, Crix," he announced, pulling it out.
"Good. Here's the new wire." The younger man held out the replacement; Kenobi soldered it into place. One more, he thought. Just the last one remained. Eight minutes had passed, and there were two more minutes to go – perhaps more, if the sash was holding in the breach.
And it was then that the ship veered. But not to avoid a laser beam. Through the Force, Kenobi felt an actual, physical pain sear into him, into his muffled lungs and pounding heart. He clutched at his chest, cried out.
"General?" Nadine's hand was underneath his elbow, steadying him.
"The air," he gasped, pinwheels twirling behind closed eyelids. "The air…"
"Here?"
He willed the connection in the Force to break, then opened his eyes and cleared his throat. "No, in the cabin. Lena's suffocating – quickly, Crix, we don't have much time."
"You know you'll have to stay here if you want at least two survivors aboard this ship," the younger man gasped, tapping the wires above him with the voltage tester.
Kenobi returned to his task. Green. Green. Green. "I know." Green. The impatience coursing through him was overwhelming, mixing with the increasingly empty sensation in his lungs and the light, weightless feeling in his head.
Impatience. That was the first disapproving thing that Qui-Gon Jinn had chided him about, he remembered. Years – no, decades ago. Back when the Jedi temple still flourished in the bustling city of Coruscant. Whether he had been practicing attack moves with the lightsaber or rehearsing the subtle skills of levitation, the gruff voice would always repeat the same criticism over and over. Don't be impatient, Kenobi. Wait. Wait, and it will come.
Green. Green.
On Tattooine, time had been measured by the slow, burning trails of the suns as they trailed parallel arcs over the baking desert dunes. Patience had come naturally then. Now – now, the fate of that woman depended upon two minutes. A hundred and twenty heartbeats.
Lose her and lose… everything, he thought. The Rebellion would return to fighting shadows in the nebula that was the Empire, and he would return to watching the boy Luke grow up under the twin suns of Tattooine.
Green.
But was Luke Skywalker the prophecy anyway? The Force was astonishingly strong with him, yes, but no one had ever said he was the prophecy – no voice had ever come to Kenobi in the middle of the sweat-drenched night to whisper those words into his mind and soothe him with their security. No, because Anakin Skywalker was the prophecy. And Anakin was dead.
Green. Green.
Lose her, he thought, and he would return to protecting a lie…
Green. Green. Green.
His vision swam.
Red.
"Crix! I have it!" He shook his head clear of the suffering hallucinations and tore the malfunctioning wire from the ceiling. Nadine plugged in the replacement wire a split second later, and soldered it down unsteadily.
From the cabin came a loud sucking sound followed by the firm clank of duraglass meeting metal. The sharp hissing faded, and a steady, soft stream of cool oxygen poured out from the vents.
The young man Nadine was panting, inhaling great gulps of air and clutching at his chest. "It worked. I thought – for a moment I thought we weren't going to make it, General. We – General?"
"Follow me and fly the ship, Crix," Kenobi called behind him, bolting down the hallway to the cabin. "Bring it to hyperspeed. We haven't a moment to lose."
The small figure of the woman was crumpled over the darkened controls, one hand resting upon the steering stick and the other dangling limply at her side. He sensed that she was still alive. Alive, but not breathing. He unfastened her from the pilot's seat, carried her to an empty spot on the floor and laid her flat.
Her face was noticeably blue, even in the dim light – her lips, bluer. He took an icy, limp hand in his and held it tight. Then he leaned down and parted her cold, blue lips and placed his mouth over them and breathed for her.
In the name of the Force, don't die.
After the third breath, she coughed weakly into his mouth. He straightened, peered into her face, and found that she was observing him blearily through barely open eyes. "Is the lever fixed?" she murmured.
He nodded.
"Is Corlis all right?"
"Yes, he's fine. He's flying."
"Good. And are you all right?"
"I'm…" He looked up to the ceiling and blinked several times before he could meet her golden gaze again. "I'm – listen, Lena, don't lose consciousness again – yes, keep your eyes open and breathe deeply."
"I'm not going to die, you piece of Bantha fodder," she returned, a ghost of her haughty smirk fluttering across her features. "You're so worried. I'm touched. I'm glad you realize that I saved your skin, you know. Now we're even. Maybe you can take me for a drink when we reach the base, General."
He couldn't speak.
"I'll take that as a yes," she said when he didn't reply. "Just don't do any more stupid things and wake me when we're there." Her eyelids closed, and soon, the steady rise and fall of her chest signified that she had fallen asleep.
"General?" Nadine was calling from the captain's seat. "We're going into hyperspeed in ten seconds. Brace yourself. How's the Stormtrooper? Is she alive?"
"Yes, Crix. Unconscious."
"Good. It makes the little vixen much easier for us to handle on the trip …" Then the young man frowned at him.
"What, Crix?"
They stared at each other; the younger focused back on the controls, and Kenobi felt his flustered embarrassment through the Force. "I – never mind, General. Sir. I apologize for the comment, sir. It was out of line."
"I'll let it go," he said, quietly.
The ship lurched into hyperdrive, and Kenobi watched the stars fade from behind two panes of duraglass.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
To be continued. The music at the cantina was "Closer," by Nine Inch Nails. Personally, I like it, but I guess Obi-Wan doesn't. Thanks for reviewing, everyone. Keep those reviews coming! Thanks.
