Rebel Stand: Enemy Lines II (21 page)

“Hush. Where to now?” She handed him the datapad.

He checked the datapad screen and turned in the approximate direction they’d been running while in the tunnel above. “There’ll be a metal door there giving us
access into a metal scrap compactor. We take a left and get out the door at the end.”

“No, Han. Not another compactor. Once in a lifetime is enough.”

The map on the screen suddenly blanked, replaced by words: I INITIATED A POWER SHUTDOWN ON THE COMPACTOR. IT CANNOT BE ACTIVATED UNTIL IT GOES THROUGH A FULL START-UP PROCEDURE. IT WILL BE THREE HOURS AT LEAST.

“Well,” Leia allowed, “that’s all right, then.”

More shapes blocked the hole above. Han and Leia ran before they could begin firing.

   Seeing through the
Falcon
’s holocam eyes and sensor screens, R2-D2 sent the transport up on repulsorlifts. The transport wobbled like a plate being balanced atop a stick and he marvelled that humans, with their reflexes that crawled in relation to the speed of droid calculations, could learn to pilot vehicles so well.

He managed to get the
Falcon
clear of the bay before its ceiling panels began to swing down again. His trill was a little like laughter—the spaceport authorities had noticed just a little too late. Now that he was above the bay, he was clear of whatever comm-jamming equipment they had put in place; he could once again detect and interact with Han and Leia’s datapad.

Now he had to make sure he got the
Falcon
to the prison. Not just to the prison, he reminded himself, but to the prison and
in one piece
.

   Furious, Han kicked at the pile of metal scrap leaning against the exit door from the compacting chamber.
“Artoo, you didn’t say anything about having to dig our way out!”

SORRY. THE COMPUTER SYSTEM DIDN’T MENTION THAT THE COMPACTOR WAS HALF FULL. THEY ARE IN VIOLATION OF THEIR OWN REGULATIONS. THAT IS PROBABLY WHY THEY DO NOT HAVE THE LOAD LISTED.

“Leia, can you cut through this? Or through the wall?”

Leia bounced her lightsaber blade off the glossy blue wall of the chamber and shook her head. “Magnetically sealed. I can cut through the pile. In a few minutes.” Then she heard the sound of mechanical voices from behind her. She spun. “Which we don’t have.”

A security droid entered through the door Han and Leia had used just moments before. The droid fired as soon as his barrel cleared the door and continued to fire as he sprinted to the wall opposite the door, where he took up position, laying down covering fire.

Leia batted the first blast out of the way as she and Han got behind cover. The cover was good—heavy steel scrap that easily absorbed the energy unloaded by blaster rifle shots. But missed shots ricocheted off the walls, propelled by the magnetic shielding, and inevitably one would bounce down into Han’s or Leia’s back.

Then a second droid entered the chamber, and a third, and a fourth, all of them firing.

“We’re sunk,” Leia said.

“I don’t think so.” Han glanced around, found a more protective niche in the scrap, and sidestepped into it. He rose high enough to return fire for a moment. “Six, seven, eight of them. The more, the better.”

“The more, the better?” Leia slid into place beside him.

“Yeah, when we get enough of them in here, we can’t possibly lose.”

“Now I know why you never want to be told the odds. Because you don’t know what they mean!”

Han grinned at her. “Nine, ten, eleven. That’s good enough to start with. Can you get me a couple of those blaster rifles?”

“You planning on shooting our way out of here?”

“That’s right. Please, Leia. Two rifles.”

Leia hesitated, caught off guard by Han’s rare use of the word
please
, then said, “Cover me. Go.”

Han popped up and squeezed off several quick shots. Leia stood from behind cover a moment later, saw several of the droids aiming to return fire. Some of them had to hold off firing to avoid hitting more droids charging into the chamber.

With the Force, Leia reached out toward one of the late arrivals, a droid who held his rifle in a loose grip. She yanked toward her and the rifle came sailing to her hand. Before it landed, she repeated the trick on the next droid entering the room, and his rifle, too, leapt from his possession and into Leia’s.

She ducked down with Han. “Now what?”

“Battleship tactics.” He hauled on the heaviest plate of scrap metal in their vicinity, toppling it so that it covered the two of them almost completely. Their improvised fort was now lit only by the red glow from Leia’s weapon.

Han indicated two spots on the plate. “Holes here and here. Fist-sized.”

Leia complied, burning two apertures in the metal.
The air now stank with the odor of superheated durasteel. “You won’t be able to see to aim.”

“Who needs to aim?” Han picked up one rifle in each hand, switched each to full autofire, inserted the barrels in the holes, angled them up more toward the ceiling, and began firing.

Leia switched off her lightsaber and crowded back as far away from the rifles as she could, holding her hands over her ears. The roar in this confined space was deafening. Han rocked the weapons back and forth, slowly changing his angle of fire left to right, up and down.

The metal plate shuddered as it began sustaining hits. Han turned to Leia and flashed her a manic grin, then closed his eyes and kept firing.

First one of his rifles clicked down to zero and stopped firing, then the other. But the sound of ricochets continued as shots bounded from one end of the compactor chamber to the other, bouncing again and again until they hit something not protected by the chamber’s magnetic seal.

Such as scrap metal. Such as droids. Such as droids being transformed into scrap metal.

When there were no more blasts or impacts to be heard, Han maneuvered the metal plate aside and peeked. Leia also leaned around the plate to look.

The droids weren’t completely destroyed. She saw one walking back and forth with half his head gone, clicking the trigger of a rifle that was missing its middle section. Another droid spun around, his upper half turning one direction and his lower half the other, causing him to roll erratically across the floor. But most were down, motionless.

“I’ll watch the other door,” Han said, “if you’ll cut through the pile here and get us out.”

“Love to.”

   The exercise yard guards looked up as the
Millennium Falcon
awkwardly maneuvered into position above the yard.

The guards raised their blaster rifles and opened fire. R2-D2 saw their assault through his link with the transport’s holocams, and felt a momentary thrill of dismay and an anticipation of damage before his probability calculations indicated that their shoulder arms would not be able to harm the ship. He brought the
Falcon
down several meters until the keel was just above the ground, and hovered there.

Han and Leia emerged from a side door in one of the walls bounding the exercise yard. They drew the guard-droid fire from the
Falcon
, but Han fired with his blaster in one direction, keeping droids harried and defensive there, while Leia deflected each and every blaster bolt aimed at them from the other direction. R2-D2 lowered the starboard boarding ramp, and in moments, Han and Leia rushed up to the cockpit. R2 raised the ramp.

Leia gave R2-D2 a pat on the dome before settling into the copilot’s chair. “Well done, Artoo.”

He wheetled at her, sent one last message through the dataport, then unjacked himself.

Han peeled off his piratical tunic and scrubbed at the false scar over his eye as he looked over the control boards. “Threepio’s on foot north of here. Get into the topside laser turret. We’ll scoop Threepio up and then punch out of here.”

“To space, I assume,” Leia said.

“To the forest.” Han flashed her a lopsided grin. “Trust me on this.”

   The spaceport was protected by a quartet of aging Z-95 Headhunters, venerable predecessors of the X-wing. While they made cautious runs in the distance, unwilling to strafe a transport so close to the ground, Leia helped keep them at bay with judicious use of the
Falcon
’s top turret.

Han guided the
Falcon
north over the base, swooping down once, just long enough to lower the boarding ramp and give C-3PO time to hurry aboard. Then Han kicked the thrusters in and headed northwest, the direction with the nearest heavy stand of forest. As he neared the leading edge of old-growth trees, some of which reached to the height of twenty-story buildings, he rotated the
Falcon
until the ship was perpendicular. The
Falcon
slid into the forest like a vibroknife into blue butter. The pursuing Headhunters broke off pursuit, scattering, climbing above the treetops to look for the
Falcon
from an altitude. After a few hundred more meters of nerve-jangling maneuvering through the trees, Han tilted the transport back onto her belly and settled down in a shadowy glade.

“If I may ask, sir,” said C-3PO as he desperately clung to the restraining straps on his seat, “why do we not just go into space?”

“Because someone was aboard the
Falcon,
” Han snapped. “And do you know what happens every time someone I don’t like comes aboard?”

“No, sir.”

“They sabotage something! Usually the shields, or especially the hyperdrive motivator. I
hate
that. Leia, take over at the controls while I see what they did.”

“Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain.” Leia trotted into the cockpit, took the pilot’s seat as Han vacated it, gave him a kiss as they made the transfer. “You know we’re only going to have a few minutes here before they find us and bring in the heavy guns.”

“Then let’s hope I’m as good as mechanic as I know I am.”

“Anything I can do while we’re waiting?”

“Get on the comm board and see if you can find their comm traffic. That may give us an idea of how much time we really have.”

“I’m also going to put in a call to our smuggler contacts. Let them know we have to leave in a hurry.”

“Very polite of you. Very proper.”

“Oh, shut up.”

   Han didn’t take long to find it. The hyperdrive motivator had indeed been sabotaged. Someone had installed a simple fuse that would hold up to a system check but would blow the first time real power surged through the system. In the hyperdrive motivator compartment, the saboteur had also wired a tracking device. Han rerouted the hyperdrive power the way it was supposed to be, then threw the tracking device out an airlock.

He returned at a run to the cockpit and slid into the pilot’s chair as Leia, still in her comm unit privacy headset, vacated it and took her own seat.

They watched as, in the distance ahead and to port, a
long-nosed flying vehicle edged through the trees. “What
is
that?” Han asked. “Vong, or local make?”

“Can’t make it out,” Leia said.

“Well, let’s just outfly it and identify it later.” Han powered up the repulsorlifts and stood the
Millennium Falcon
on her stern. He heard noises of unhappiness from C-3PO and a wild squeal of dismay from R2-D2. As he accelerated up through the treetops, he grinned over at Leia. “Forgot to tell them we were taking off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Leia, you have to admit, that was fun.”

“Fun. Getting kidnapped, jailed, threatened with torture, shot at—fun.”

“That’s right.”

Leia felt her face twist into a smile she had no control over. “All right, all right. Despite everything, it was fun.”

“Welcome back, Princess.”

Tam awoke in a hospital ward bed.

Again.

He didn’t like doing that. It was happening too often.

This time, his left shoulder ached, and he remembered how it got that way. The first time a member of the medical staff walked past the foot of his bed, he motioned the man over and said, “Can I get a message to someone?”

“Let me get someone for you first,” the man said.

Minutes later, visitors appeared from beyond the blue curtains to one side. Tarc barged right up to stand beside Tam. Wolam was content to stand at the foot of the bed, smiling. And Intelligence head Iella Wessiri positioned herself between them.

“Which arm hurts?” Tarc asked.

“No, no, no, Tarc. Protocol.” Tam gave him a little mock-glare. “The visitor who is most socially important, or who has the greatest demands on his time, gets to talk first. Which one is that?”

“Me,” Tarc said.

“Try again.”

“Well, her, I guess.”

“That’s better.”

Iella smiled at the boy. “I was available, so I thought I’d stop by in person to give you some news. You did a very important thing last night. You prevented a Yuuzhan Vong spy from getting away with some, well, very significant information.”

“Information you
didn’t
want them to have. Unlike the stuff I gave them.”

Iella nodded, not contrite.

“What information?”

“I shouldn’t say. You shouldn’t ask.”

“I think I can guess.” When still under Yuuzhan Vong control, he’d stolen records of a project being developed at this base, something about a superweapon involving laser weapons focused through a giant-sized lambent crystal, a living crystal normally bioengineered only by the Yuuzhan Vong. The spy’s torture of the Bothan, asking about such a crystal, suggested that the Bothan’s chamber was where it was being kept or monitored. But there had been no giant lambent crystal there—only the wreckage of some sort of mock-up.

There was no giant crystal. It was a fake. The whole Starlancer project had to be a fake. In a moment of clarity, he understood that the Starlancer project was nothing more than a ring in the nose of the Yuuzhan Vong commander, something to tug him in one direction or another.

“What’s your guess?” Iella asked.

“I shouldn’t say. You shouldn’t ask.”

“Good man.”

“How’s the Bothan?”

“Alive. Which he probably wouldn’t have been, without your intervention. He’s a few beds down; you can talk to him if the doctors say it’s all right. Anyway, I just wanted to stop by and say thanks.”