This is one of my older stories. I hope you enjoy it.
I do not own Star Wars.
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."
-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
The vent was a steep vertical shaft. The service ladder was designed for maintenance droids, with small recessed footholds and a central rail. Jaing looked up, assessing it.
"Let's cheat," he said, and fired his rappel line high into the shaft. The grappling hook clattered against the metal, and he tugged to check the line was secure. "Stand by . . ."
The shaft could only take one line at a time. Jaing shot up the shaft with his hoist drive squealing, bouncing the soles of his boots against the wall in what looked like dramatic leaps and bounds until he vanished.
The hoist stopped whining. There was a moment of quiet punctuated by the clacking of armor plates.
"Clear," his voice echoed. Mereel shot his line vertically; it made a whiffling sound like an arrow in flight as it played out. Metal clanged, and the fibercord went tight. "Line secure, Mer'ika."
Mereel winched himself up the shaft with an ungainly skidding technique. Ordo waited for the all-clear and moved to follow him, but paused.
"You next, Sergeant," he said, all professionalism, gesturing to the shaft. Skirata shook his head and took a step back, gesturing for Ordo to go ahead.
"I'll be right behind you, son."
Ordo gave Skirata a hard three-beat stare that had no effect through their helmets.
"Fine," he said at last. "But you follow me right up." Skirata nodded, and Ordo followed Jaing and Mereel up the air shaft. As Skirata waited for the all-clear, he became aware of the sound of droids marching down the hall, accompanied by the less tinny sound of guards' boots. Skirata activated his helmet comlink.
"Ord'ika, looks like I've got a bit of a prob-" At that instant, the security droids came around the corner, followed by the guards, and opened fire. A hail of blaster bolts filled the corridor as Skirata wedged himself into a corner by the vent for some cover and returned fire. Ordo's voice crackled over the com.
"Sergeant, what's going on down there? What problem? Hang on, we're coming back for you."
"Negative," Skirata snapped. "Don't come down here, I can handle it. Just get to the surface and I'll meet you there."
"Sorry, Sergeant, but I'm overriding that order. We're coming back down for you. Sit tight." Ordo's voice sounded remarkably steady, but there was a clipped tone to his words and a tightness at the back of his throat that belied his outward calm.
Skirata didn't have time to answer, he was to busy trading blaster shots with the droids. But he'd be dammed if he let his boys get hurt just to rescue his sorry hide. Keeping up a steady stream of fire, he reached out and grabbed the vent covering that the Nulls had left leaning against the wall. He dragged it over to the shaft and slammed it over the opening, grunting in satisfaction as the magnetic clamps activated, holding the covering firmly in place.
Skirata had always told his young commandos that one instant, one fraction of a second, could change everything. In that span of a few seconds when he was securing the event covering, he let his guard down. One of the guards was carrying an old Mark-VI Z2 blaster rifle that shot projectile rounds coated with a thin layer of tiberian-benzite which, when absorbed into the bloodstream, almost instantly began shutting down the vital organs. In that one instant when Skirata was distracted, the guard sited down the Mark-VI's barrel, took aim, and fired.
The Mark-VI's projectile found the unarmored area under his right arm and slipped through, piercing his body and sending the tiberian-benzite racing into his bloodstream. Skirata staggered, letting out a choked gasp at the sharp cold pain suddenly invading his body. He was distantly aware of sudden shouting over his helmet link. He couldn't make out anything distinct aside from the odd curse when Ordo's voice, all traces of calm lost, broke through the background chaos and thundered inside Skirata's helmet.
"Buir? Buir! What happened? Are you all right? Hang on, I'm almost there!"
An instant later, a hollow thud echoed from the air shaft as Ordo's boots made contact with the bottom. The sound of the grate rattling was followed by Ordo's violent cursing as he realized that the magnetic clamps were locked in place. They could only be removed by computer override or a burst from an EMP grenade, neither of which the Null had access to.
Skirata kept up a steady stream of fire, but he could feel a chill spreading through his body, invading his lungs and reaching for his heart. His vision began to blur and smear, and he fell heavily against the grate before sliding to the floor, still firing. He felt the grate jerking violently at his back as if a crazed rancor were trying to escape. He could just hear Ordo screaming, almost mad with panic, over the roaring that was filling his ears and the inside of his scull.
"Shab, Buir, open this shabla vent! Open it! Open it!"
Skirata could only smile faintly as his shooting arm faltered and finally fell to his side. Yes, he was going to die, but at least his boys would be okay. They were smart lads, they could take care of themselves. And now, just maybe, with the data that they had come here to recover, they would have full lives ahead of them. It was the least he could give them in return for saving him from himself all those years ago on Kamino.
"Sorry, Ord'ika," he murmured, "but it looks like you won't be getting your way this time . . ."
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mad'ika