A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates! Though I know it pains many of you (if there's much of anyone actually reading this), I can make no promises about future update schedule, especially once the school year starts. I need to make a couple minor updates to the first chapter of this story, but I want to get another chapter or two uploaded first. Please R&R- am I being too wordy and boring?
R2-D2 had no idea what to do. On the one hand, Threepio was yelling in six million forms of communication for him to put the ship down, and despite all outward appearances he was Artoo's friend; on the other hand, Artoo was in the pay of Star Tours, so delaying the flight would only detract from his standing with his erstwhile employers; on the third hand (if one had enough hands, or instrument arms as Artoo had in lieu of hands), his first duty was to the Rebel Alliance, and he was fairly sure they had an operative on board who needed to be ferried to Skynara as quickly as possible; on the fourth hand, there were security droids going around and checking every outbound ship, so the act of departing from the spaceport would put the Rebel at risk of discovery.
It was just then that the automatic takeoff sequence passed a critical threshold- the repulsors used to get the ship off the ground initially had begun to cool down, meaning that it would take an override of the whole procedure to touch back down now. An override which Artoo, as only the astromech equivalent of the "new guy on the job," did not possess. He had to be content with whistling frantically to Threepio in a vain effort to calm him down and taking control of the helm so his bumbling friend didn't wreak any havoc with a ship he had not a clue how to drive. Artoo had flown with Master Luke long enough to pick up a few tricks. He came to the conclusion that if the ship was indeed scanned and the Rebel found, he would by no means go quietly. Pity these passenger models were unarmed; if he was shot down, it would be the least he could do as a loyal Alliance droid to take a few TIE fighters with him.
Kyarra Nelik had to admit that she was worried. There simply was no way around it. Her fur was positively crawling now, as the screen between cabin and cockpit rolled slowly down and her fears were confirmed. There was a blue-and-white astromech in the proper socket, but where the driver should be, a golden protocol droid was dithering on about– oh, stars! The droid couldn't fly a ship to save his circuits! Kyarra's claws tightened around the edges of her seat, more as an aid to balance than for any sort of comfort. The ship was tilting and wobbling as it rose unsteadily into the air; hanging onto anything wouldn't help much if it crashed, and besides, Kyarra was a Cathar. She was strong, and brave, and she refused to bring dishonor to her clan by acting otherwise. Worried though she was, she knew better than to let that worry turn to fear. Especially when she had on crash webbing anyway.
Moff Obor Quesh was beginning to regret coming on this vacation. He definitely had more to complain about right now than at any other time in in recent memory. Besides the obvious, that he was now stuck on a ship piloted by a protocol droid that likely needed its circuitry checked, the astromech was beeping and whistling in a manner that could not mean anything good; the Rodian behind Obor was exuding a particularly nasty stench that no one else seemed to notice; the crash webbing he wore had been pulled unnecessarily tight, and would likely leave wrinkles all over his impeccably clean Imperial officer's uniform; and to top it all off, Sainor looked ready to cry. Confound that boy! He was the son of a Moff, for stars' sake! Couldn't he at least act the model citizen for all the other snotty little brats on this ship?
Well, at least the security droid now sticking itself to the huge front viewport and demanding that they stop wouldn't add to the ever-growing complaints list. Obor was constantly making sure his droids – and his personnel – were up to scratch. At least this droid wouldn't malfunction, or panic, or make sarcastic comments in Binary, or indeed do anything but its job. Which, at the moment, was to perform a face scan of the passengers, then let the ship go, because no sane Rebel would get on the same public transport as him in such a closely monitored spaceport...right?
"Security warning, Class Three! Rebel Alliance operative confirmed aboard this vessel! The Imperial Security Bureau demands that you stop immediately and return to the ground for boarding! Failure to comply is considered a criminal offense!"
Hera Syndulla felt something like ice flood her insides, leaving a leaden weight in her stomach and her brain full of frigid fog. How could this be happening? Could Zikri's intelligence have been wrong? She'd said the Imperials didn't have Hera's facial scan, that the false identity she'd created for this mission would hold up under any scrutiny short of torture, and Hera had never known Zikri or her wide network of Bothan spies to be wrong before. How could it have happened now, on such a crucial mission that could put the entire Alliance in jeopardy if it failed?
It was as if one half of Hera's mind was blank with panic, while the other half was working at a speed sufficient to propel it into hyperspace. She realized quickly that there was very little she could do to rectify the situation without giving herself away, if she hadn't been given away already by the two eternal seconds that her face had shown up on the side screens. Whatever cover she had left was all that stood between Hera and death...if she survived the ship crashing, of course. Because it would most definitely crash if that was truly Threepio up there in the cockpit.
C-3PO was quite positive that he was going to have a meltdown any second now. This had to be too much for any droid's wiring! How could that bleeping bag of bolts Artoo stand it? How could he stand all that Alliance work he did with Luke, all that flying and fighting and spying and constant horrific danger? And that selfsame droid, whose wires were most definitely crossed if he was on this mission, had just told him that it was too late to put the ship down and would he please hold on tight, because things were about to get even crazier if that security droid on the viewport found their 'special guest.' Great Maker! What was this galaxy coming to, if innocent protocol droids could be sent on suicide missions completely by accident?
Threepio decided to follow his friend's advice and hang onto something as the ship gave another lurch. Then, exactly 5.637 seconds later, he decided to hang onto two different things while prophesying death and destruction, because the security droid had just proceeded to find the 'special guest' and Artoo had taken the helm. The last part was the worst. Flying with Captain Antilles or Captain Solo was one thing, but flying with Artoo was another thing entirely! The minuscule fraction of his central logic processor that was not currently overloading with alarm signals noted that Artoo driving was probably for the best; if there was one thing Threepio was not programmed to do, it was fly a ship, and the passengers' crash webbing was locked, so help from them was out of the question. But that didn't mean Threepio had to like the pickle he was in. Because he didn't. Not in the least.
Ashaarla Kestahor knew something was wrong. That protocol droid shouldn't have been there; the ship shouldn't have been pitching and yawing like this (were the repulsors working right, or was that just bad driving?); there definitely shouldn't have been any lights flashing or alarm klaxons blaring or...holy stars, were those blaster bolts?! Were they being shot at?! Then, something clicked into place: the ship was rocking so much because whoever was piloting it now, possibly the astromech, was actively avoiding the shots now bursting all around them like tiny fireworks. It must be stormtroopers! She was in a real live battle!
Suddenly, an odd gray disk-like freighter lifted into the air not twenty meters in front of the viewport. Ashaarla was abruptly shoved back into her seat as the tour ship rocketed ahead, following the other ship– which, come to think about it, looked so old and dilapidated that she was amazed the thing could even fly! The pilot seemed to know what he or she was doing, however; the freighter dodged every shot, gaining speed all the time. Ship Number B-68 copied its movements, and Ashaarla found herself grinning with delight as the security droid was blown off the viewport by the sheer velocity of the chase. This was getting good!
Eeral Kei was struck momentarily dumb by the appearance of his savior's ship. It was all he could do to keep himself from blurting the smuggler's name aloud; Eesil was clearly struggling with the same impulse, albeit with a bit more success. Were Eeral to look over at his twin sister right now, he'd probably see her mouth hanging open in a mirror image of his, but as it was, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the viewport for even the barest instant! He simply stared, in silent awe, as the Millennium Falcon arced gracefully out of the hangar bay amid a hail of laser fire. It took Eeral a moment to deduce that the tour ship was following the Falcon, a good idea if he said so himself.
When the two mismatched ships emerged from the bay, it was into a scene of utter chaos. Laser cannon bolts were flying in all directions, missing them sometimes by inches. Eeral heard a scream, though whether it was his or Eesil's he couldn't begin to tell. TIE fighters were swooping by in dizzying patterns. The Falcon ducked and rolled, wove in and out between all manner of hostile things – fighters, security droids, troop speeders, all firing wildly – with Ship Number B-68 in hot pursuit. A Star Destroyer loomed suddenly out of the blackness, the maelstrom of colored light and flying death grew overwhelming, and with a jolt of fear Eeral realized that the Falcon was nowhere to be seen! Where had Captain Han and the nice Wookiee gone? That wimpy gold droid sure couldn't fly; what would happen now that they had lost their guides? Eeral reached over to grasp Eesil's hand, uttering a quick prayer to all the gods he knew to see them through this disaster of a flight. If Nautolans had possessed eyelids, he would have squeezed his shut.