***Icahn Braste***
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away.
A warm sun rises over the horizon of Savin Sextus, the sixth celestial body in the Savin binary system, along the Rimma trade route near the innermost edge of the Middle Rim. Despite the very unearthly hour, the streets of Mark'ar, a small agro-mining outpost located in one of the many valleys of the verdant planet, were already populated by the traffic of the many people who tramped through them, heading for their occupations. Between those preparing to descend into the depths of the planet and those about to climb the Canyon walls, bound for the more fertile valleys of the surface better suited for cultivation, the small community continued to survive and thrive for decades after its founding.
With the dawn of a new day and the movement of people, activities other than farming or mineral gathering would also get underway: the many small stores and bazaars of Mark'ar would open their doors, populating with people of, literally, every shape and kind. Of course, like any self-respecting farmers' and miners' paradise, Mark'ar housed a pub. Located in the shadow of one of the walls of the Canyon, the town's basin, the Screaming Bantha, that was the name of the bar, had been built directly in front of one of the 3 elevators that led from the town to the highlands of the surface. The bar occupied the ground floor of a small three-story building, the upper floors of which were divided into small apartments.
In one of these apartments, a trickle of sunlight filtered in through the window facing the street, gradually illuminating the room; almost responding to the intrusion of light into the room, its occupant slowly rose from the bunk in which he had spent the night; a lock of long raven hair, in complete disarray after sleep, obscured his deep green eyes, set off further by the olive complexion that contoured them; the remainder of his hair, on the other hand, rested on his broad shoulders, hanging without descending down his back. Still sore from waking up at such an early hour, he got out of bed wobbling a little. Heading for the bathroom he looked around, vowing to tidy up the room, still messy after his evening training session, after two or three rinses of his face he was finally able to rid himself of his morning fatigue. Tying his hair behind his head he dressed in his own uniform, it was a bit tight on his neck and shoulders: the previous bartender must have been considerably smaller in size than his. Leaving the room he pocketed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, closing the door behind him he descended the stairs to the level of the bar, which he entered through the access reserved for employees, after tidying up behind the bar and among the tables, he opened the main entrance, overlooking the busy street outside, officially beginning the day for the small pub.
After opening the bar and lighting a cigarette, a habit he had picked up years earlier to manage stress, he positioned himself behind the bar, waiting for the first patrons. Given the hour and the pace of work, there wouldn't be any for a while; in the meantime, he set about listening to the slow jazz playing from the speakers and the news of the day. Not much was happening in a system like Savin, which was so inactive and virtually disconnected from galactic affairs that many had not even sensed the change of management from the Republic to the half an hour after the bar opened, even before Savin I had had a chance to light up and warm up the valley, the doors of the bar swung open and an old Nautolan with a green and grayish complexion entered, limping in leaning on his cane "'Morning Icahn, how's my bar doing? ", "'Morning Knet," Icahn apostrophized him, "business is as usual, give it another half hour and the usual will start coming in, I already have the beer ready for the patrol," "Good boy, hand me that bottle of brandy behind you, and if anyone asks, I'm not in my office," the old man concluded, taking the bottle from the bartender's hands, heading into the small office hidden behind the stairs that led to the upper floors.
Having moved away from the Nautolian, Icahn continued to keep himself busy by cleaning the glasses in the club while continuing to smoke. Just as he was about to finish his cigarette, the doors of the small bar were opened and two figures entered; they were two men of medium height and sure-footed, the sunlight reflecting off their metal armor and helmet, dented in several places, while their once green uniform was smeared with mud in several places. Despite their confident stride and the rifle they wielded, the two had a cautious, but mostly tired look on their faces. Icahn knew them well: El and Tam, two imperial soldiers who, from the look of the dark circles, were about to end their night patrol. The older of the two, Tam, greeted him "'Morning Icahn, do you have the beers as usual?" "Two bottles, the usual" he replied, stretching him two large metal bottles "Thanks, here are the credits" said the soldier, sliding 2 thin metal sheets on the counter. "Cigarette?" offered the bartender, pulling his pack out of his breast pocket, extending it to the soldier. "Thanks kid" said the other personally lighting it as he extended one of the bottles to his colleague 'how's business?' asked Tam between puffs 'Bah' replied Icahn with a grimace "as usual, between the farmers and the miners we always manage to cover the expenses of the supply. How about you guys? How was the tour." This time it was the other, El, who replied, "A pain, as usual. Apparently some idiot is going around stealing our equipment; in response, the Planetary Commander has ordered that the patrols be carried out twice as often" 'Bad story, are they squeezing you for night shifts?' the bartender asked in response 'You don't know the half of it' El answered him between sips "Anyway, we've overstayed our welcome, we're five minutes behind schedule. Let's move Tam, or the sergeant will have our hide."
***Jean***
That morning the sun rose dull over the plateau, obscured by a few scattered clouds as the smell of ozone went wafting all around. Lying in a small indentation of a mountain in the range that rose on the edge of the Kabak Plain, dotted here and there by canyons housing mining and farming towns, Jean scanned the horizon with binoculars, she was particularly interested in a small imperial outpost that stood in the middle of the Plain. It was a small barracks flanked by a rudimentary landing pad carved out of the rocky surface on which the base stood, despite what previous scouts had reported, there was no sign of the small transport with which the base was theoretically equipped. This, however, was of little importance; what Jean was observing was not the structure of the base-they were familiar with that by now-but the movement of the men within it: the number, equipment, and schedules of the patrols. From what she had been able to observe in the last few days, the base was not supposed to contain more than about twenty men, divided into teams of two or three who were given the task of making patrols for the villages scattered in the canyons of the plain, just at that moment two men were entering the base, carrying in their hands two bottles that Jean had never noticed before. She noted all these things in her notebook and retreated from the ledge, entering a burrow carved into the wall, concealed by a camouflage tarp. Cautiously she began his descent down the small channel; after a few minutes she emerged into a small room lit by a lamp emitting a faint neon light, swaying at the mercy of the small currents generated inside the cave. She removed her hood, revealing her long red curls, and exited the room, stepping through the door that bordered it. The scene that greeted her was one to which she was accustomed: in the room next door, the largest of those caves they had explored, was the headquarters of their group: it was a simple table around which the band members busied themselves carrying maps, drawing diagrams, drinking and shouting trying to organize a plan of action: at that moment a large map of the Plain was spread out on the table, several red markers indicated the imperial outposts stood out on it, one of them, the one Jean had spent several days observing, was surrounded by additional markers. Around the table, as usual, the room was in a frenzy, all twenty members of the gang competing to come up with their plans, only one was silent in the chaos: old Ben, for all intents and purposes their leader. He sat at the head of the table in the chair of an old admiral, behind him the banner of the Republic hanging off the wall behind him.
He was the only one who saw her enter, and he was the only one and smiled at her, beckoning her to come closer. Jean slid along the wall, past Kaim and Lam, who were intent on discussing the best way to pull down the outpost wall with a rocket launcher. "Welcome back Jean" Ben greeted her with a smile 'it's been a while since I've seen you, or at least, that my good eye hasn't seen you' he said, hitting the scar where his left eye once was 'what did you find out from your observations?' "There can't be more than twenty men in all, and at any given time only 10 are always inside, the rest are spread out over rounds of more or less two hours. Lately they've been working more night shifts," Jean said clearing her throat and handing the chief her notebook, "I'd say the best time to strike is between two and three in the morning, if we do that we have more time to get in and out before the night patrols return." Old Ben took the notebook and leafed through it nodding then slowly raised his hand, commanding the whole room to silence "Thanks to Jean's work," he said, nodding to her "we have more or less an idea of what the structure looks like and how many men it has." as he said this he rested the notebook on the table, open to the page where Jean had made a small sketch of the outpost "As you can see it is basically an old cottage repurposed to serve as an imperial base. It has a small landing platform which, in recent days has not been used. The old mill tower has been reinforced with durasteel and, if I know the Imperials, houses some kind of turret or machine gun." at the mention of the possible presence of a fixed machine gun a tremor ran down the hall: no one cared about having to experience the feeling of being targeted by Imperial heavy artillery "now, according to what our sources tell us, the shipment of weapons and supplies that we are interested in was transported here a few days ago and, in all likelihood, is inside the facility, in some kind of storage facility. My proposal is: between two and three in the morning, which according to Jean is the best time to attack, we go in, mate the few guards who will try to prevent us from striking, take what we are interested in, load it onto a farmer's sled and disappear over the mountains." a murmur spread through the room and the buzz continued to grow until Kaim, one of the boys from the village where Jean had grown up, asked in a ringing voice, towering over the crowd, "And how do we get in, I mean, I doubt they're going to leave the door of that fortress of theirs open for anyone who wants to say hello" Old Ben looked at him smiling, winking with only his good eye "Well, we know the patrols' schedules and routes" he said, as his mouth opened in a sneer "I say we take one, we pair up the soldiers and take our uniforms, then we send a couple of ours inside, those pair up the guards at the door and let us in""
***Icahn Braste***
The sun was setting over Mark'ar Canyon, and with the return of farmers and miners, the Screaming Bantha had filled up with customers. For a few hours now the various bar employees had been scurrying back and forth to the tables while Icahn, at the counter, was busy preparing drinks and serving them to the patrons who had managed to find a seat; meanwhile Knet, phlegmatic and slacker as ever, stood at the cash register counting money, jotting down all transactions with stingy precision. Like every evening, the Bantha was full, occupied by all those who, after a day's work, wanted nothing more than a sip of alcohol and to watch the latest sporting events held in the major cities of the planet, broadcast in real time on telescreens of dubious provenance that Knet had had installed near the counter. That evening the patrons were particularly animated by a shucking contest in which the defending champion and his rival were going at it hard for first place. Icahn, too, was watching the telescreens with interest from the counter when he was not busy ordering: during his lifetime he had not had many opportunities to observe live sporting events such as the shucking contests, and he could say he was definitely fascinated by them. Above all, he had great admiration for those drivers who, despite being normal living beings, managed to keep their minds sharp and their reflexes ready at speeds that would have been fatal for anyone else.
As time passed more and more people said goodbye to their friends and returned to their homes until, at the stroke of midnight, only a handful of customers remained. These were the most regulars among the regulars, usually older people who had gotten to know Knet personally, although there was no shortage of youngsters who had managed to earn the Nautolian's sympathies. Just at midnight the latter beckoned to one of the waiters who closed the pub's doors and turned off the neon sign lights "Well gentlemen," said the old proprietor, "today is Wednesday so it's a fight, go out back and take your seats, the show will begin shortly," and as the few remaining made their way to the courtyard behind the pub, which was accessible from the corridor leading to the upper apartments, Knet turned to Icahn "Are you also not participating today or have you finally changed your mind?" Icahn puffed, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it "No, I'm skipping again today Knet, I'm not a particular fan of violence," he said, sucking in a puff of smoke, "Uhm" mumbled Knet, disappointed "too bad kid" he said squaring him from top to bottom "I know a trained physique, you would make a good boxer. In any case have a good night then, open tomorrow at the usual time" concluded the Nautolian as he walked toward the back yard, already happy thinking about the earnings the betting would bring him.
Icahn meanwhile went upstairs and, between puffs of smoke, to his apartment. IT WAS a humble studio apartment with a bathroom; opening the door one was welcomed inside a small living room equipped with a small sofa and a small table that also served as a holographic projector; on the other side of the room, recessed into the wall, was the bunk. Separated by a small wall from the rest of the room was a small kitchen, equipped with the essentials for cooking or heating a meal; opposite the kitchen countertop, leaning against the small wall, was a large rectangular window that extended the full length of the wall; at the corner between the two walls and near the end of the window was the entrance to a small bathroom. Icahn had not endowed his home with a great deal of furniture or personal items, his additions being limited to what little physical training equipment he had managed to scrape together or assemble and the small bundle he had brought with him when he arrived on the planet as a child. Just thinking about that fragment of his past caused them great pain, and for years Icahn had kept it relegated to a small compartment under his bed, not looking at it since Knet had hired him as a bartender.
Entering his small apartment, Icahn opened the window and set about cooking a quick meal while his cigarette burned down to nothing. He ate quickly, as he did every evening, not missing much anyway-he was not a particularly good cook. Having finished his meal and given the dishes a wash, Icahn moved into the living room, sitting on the floor between the sofa and the bunk, his back facing the latter. Slowly he began to regulate his breathing, slowing it down minute by minute, slowly closing his eyes as well, ridding himself of the deceiving sense that is sight.
***Jean***
Old Ben had been right: knowing the routes and schedules of the patrols, it had been easy to draw one of the pairs of soldiers into an ambush and kill them under the cover of darkness. The uniforms of the two soldiers were given to Kaim and Lam: they were good fighters, but more importantly, they were about the same age as the two soldiers to whom they had belonged, which would make it more difficult to recognize them at a glance, especially at night, this would give the gang those few seconds they needed to sneak into the imperial base. "Well," Old Ben said in a low voice, turning to the gang hidden in the tall grass, "the first part of the plan is done, now all we have left is to enter the base. Kaim, Lam, you two continue along the path, the rest of us will follow you hidden in the grass, once you get there, try to get the door opened as if you were normal soldiers and mind you, you are imperial, keep your back straight" having said this he dismissed the two and motioned the rest of the gang to duck down into the grass and follow the two camouflaged comrades at a distance. In fact, the imperial base was not particularly far away, but the march to Jean seemed to take an eternity: as she marched with her head down, clutching her rifle to her chest, her heart pounding wildly and her blood pulsing in her head, Jean did not know whether it was fear or excitement, or perhaps both. It was the first time since she had joined the gang a few months earlier that she had undertaken such an action; she had participated in a few ambushes against small convoys and had been trained in partisan guerrilla warfare by Ben and the rest of her comrades, but this would be the first time she had assaulted a fortified imperial position. At that moment she was second in line to her older and more experienced comrades: although she was a good marksman her lack of experience did not yet allow her to hold her own in a frontal confrontation against imperial soldiers who, despite being made up of conscripts, could rely on their training.
After a few minutes' march, Lam and Kaim arrived in the vicinity of the imperial base; as Jean had correctly surmised, it was an old farmhouse that had been repurposed to house a small military base: its walls had been covered with several plaques of plasticacciaio welded together, and the windmill had been removed from the tower, which had also been fortified. As Old Ben had surmised, a platform had been carved out of the top of the tower on which a heavy machine gun had been placed, probably carved out of an AT-AT turret. The entrance door had also been replaced; instead of a simple wooden door, an antiblaster metal door of the same type that was used to close watertight compartments on space ships had been installed. A small earthen clearing, marked at the four corners by flashing red lights, had also been created at the side of the cottage; it must have been an improvised landing pad, too small for a corvette to land there, but large enough to provide safe footing for a shuttle transport.
When Kaim and Lam reached the vicinity of the door, old Ben signaled to one of the gang members standing next to Jean. The one who might have considered himself in his own right the best marksman in the entire company, he slinged his rifle, an old carbine dating back to at least the Clone War, and pointed it toward the tower that once housed the order was clear: as soon as the door opened, he was to open fire and neutralize the machine gun operator, whose helmet barely protruded beyond the parapet. Meanwhile, the two camouflaged men had reached the door and, as instructed, knocked on it; after a few seconds the machine gunner was heard saying something over the radio and the door opened. Kaim and Lam entered the main hall of the cottage: what must have once been the living room of the building had been transformed into a kind of headquarters where the commanding officer was in charge of managing patrols and reporting any events to his superiors. At that moment four people were inside it: two guards stood on either side of the door, one was leaning against the wall and his rifle lay beside him, the other, whose rifle was slung over his shoulder, was standing; it was probably this one who had opened the door. Instead, in the center of the room stood the base commander, immediately recognizable by his noncombatant uniform and the rank he wore on his chest, who at that moment was leaning over the table with the last occupant of the room, another soldier. They were both intent on watching a gladiatorial show transmitted by a hologram, around it were a series of credits, which the two were probably betting on. The moment the two camouflaged men entered through the doorway the guard leaning against the wall looked up "Wait a minute, you aren't..." he did not have time to finish the sentence: outside the building the classic hiss of a plasma rifle was heard, for Kaim and Lam this was the signal. Before the guards could react, the two of them put their hands on the knives they had hidden in their sleeves and got rid of the sentries at the door, then, before the commander and the other soldier realized what was happening, they sling their rifles and, with a quick burst of red light, got rid of the last occupants of the room as well.
As soon as the lookout on the turret was hit by the shooter, the whole gang moved out, while Kaim and Lam got rid of the first guards, the members in the front line entered the room two by two, followed by the second this point, the house-cleaning procedure began: of the twenty members of the gang, Old Ben sent two teams of five members each to examine the other rooms of the house and get rid of additional soldiers alerted by the confrontation. In the meantime, the remaining members removed the corpses from the center of the room and took up positions behind the door and corners of the walls, also turning over the table so that it could be used as a limited form of cover in case other soldiers returned. After a short time, the two teams returned, informing their leader that, besides the dead body of the machine gun operator, there were no other soldiers in the cottage; one of the two teams had also found the base depot, which, as they hoped, was full of supplies, ammunition and explosives. "Well," said old Ben stroking his beard, 'the second part of the job is also finished, now all that remains is to load everything onto the sleds,' just as he finished saying this sentence, the officer's radio croaked in a masculine voice, "Operational Base 426731, this is Transport 45-T09 approaching your position, is the landing zone safe? ", at that moment all the crew members froze: a transport meant trouble, they had no way to bring down its shields, and if they noticed something was wrong, they would call for reinforcements "Ops Base 426731, come in" croaked the radio again "Captain, I think something is wrong" said another voice in the background. At that point old Ben picked up the radio "Transport, this is Ops Base 426731, sorry, we had a radio malfunction. Is the landing zone safe, should I prepare my men to transport your cargo?" at that moment no one inside the cottage ventured even to breathe 'Operations Base, who am I talking to now?' 'I am the officer in charge' 'May I know your name and rank?' at that moment the atmosphere grew heavier: of course they could have easily provided the officer's rank, but they did not know his name and if they lied the Imperials would have easily figured it out. Without answering the radio old Ben made a sign to Kaim "go upstairs, take command of the machine gun, if we are lucky they have the deflectors disabled." The boy made an affirmative sign with his head and went up the stairs to the tower. "Ops Base, come in," the pilot asked one last time before Old Ben crushed the radio under his boot. An air of dread hovered in the room, all looked at their leader awaiting orders, after a few seconds Old Ben looked up from what was left of the radio "Well, fuck" he cursed "listen up folks, we have little time, if we want to get out of here alive we won't have time to gather supplies, while if we stop to fill the sleds we are as good as dead. Even assuming the transport does not have its shields up I doubt that a simple laser machine gun would make its way past its hull, my conclusion is: we have to move and get out, and fast." At these words a frisson spread through the room, few wanted to abandon the mission just now that they were close to the objective, Jean herself was conflicted: sure, a transport was not an easy vehicle to shoot down, but it was not an armored vehicle either, surely among the garrison's weapons there would be a small anti-aircraft battery that would do the trick. As if echoing his thoughts, Lam replied to Old Ben, "I say we stay instead, surely we can find something in the garrison depot that can shoot down a simple transport." Old Ben seemed undecided about what to do, for the first time the gang saw him hesitate "Hm, you might be right, but it's too risky. I don't want to endanger everyone's lives for a fistful of-" before Ben could finish a vibration shook the ground, and shortly thereafter Kaim, coming down from the tower burst into the room breathlessly "Bad news, I didn't get a good look at it, but that definitely looks like an armored transport, I don't think they're carrying simple supplies."
At that moment silence fell in the room, everyone knew what this entailed: imperial troops were arriving at the base, probably to relieve their now fallen comrades. Before Old Ben could give orders, a new tremor was heard, followed by a thud: the transport had landed. "Okay, people!" shouted Old Ben, "we need to get ready. Barricade the door and you, Kaim, go back to the machine gun, as soon as they get close take out as many as you can." Jean and the other gang members hurried to carry out the orders, then taking cover as best they could. Meanwhile they could hear the machine gun's muzzle roaring at their assailants, interrupted suddenly by an explosion and the sound of a crash. For a few moments there was silence, then footsteps and a thud were heard outside the door and again silence. No one knew what to expect, until a roar ripped through the air as the door flew against the wall, ripped off its hinges by an explosion. Out of the smoke and dust emerged several white-armored figures, all slinging rifles, immediately the clash erupted: blaster shots flew from side to side as more and more gang members fell to the ground. After not even a few minutes of confrontation it became clear that Ben and his men were clearly outnumbered, Old Ben grabbed Jean by the arm " Listen carefully," he said, dragging her into the warehouse almost crawling, "I'm going to blow up these explosives now, take as many as you can and run." Before Jean could protest, Ben pushed her out of the room, armed a grenade and threw it at the explosives piled there.
The explosion was devastating: for a moment the roar overpowered the roar of the blasters, deafening everyone nearby. Jean's ears were ringing, and for a few seconds she was on the verge of losing consciousness from the force of the shock wave. The night breeze seeping through the gash in the wall and ceiling brought her back to herself, Jean forced herself to stand up, not even knowing when she had fallen to the ground. Fortunately, the Imperials had also been knocked off their feet by the blast, leaving time for Jean to shout to her still-living comrades to escape, before running out of the outpost herself. By the light of the planet's moon, Jean jumped into the tall grass of the surrounding fields, followed by some of her comrades. Jean knew she should stop, turn around and make sure her comrades were all right, but soon the blaster shots began again, and the sound of falling bodies around her fueled the terror that had already taken control of her body. So Jean ran, without looking back or thinking, until she reached the elevator that she knew led to the nearby mining town of Mark'ar.