Sunday 25 March 2018

Star Wars: Old Wounds (4)

With the TIE fighter formation in tatters, Wedge and Wes made short work of the stragglers. On the bridge of the transport, the captain seethed with barely contained fury. His complexion had transitioned through various shades of red, until reaching its current sickly purple hue. Thick, bulging veins pulsed across his damp brow while his left eye twitched incessantly, like some malfunctioning droid with a faulty processor. His crew had failed him, he reasoned inwardly. Ineptitude and incompetence amongst his feeble pilots, a pathetic bridge crew, he felt surrounded by the dregs of the Imperial war machine. How could he be expected to fight back against rebel scum and saboteurs in these conditions? While the assault continued, he turned his attention towards blame, beginning to piece together the report he would send to the admiral, and how best to absolve himself of recrimination.

Meanwhile, Dak's mission was not yet completed. With the freighter now unguarded, he could concentrate on disabling its shields. He readied his craft's ion bombs as he passed over the transport, before dropping his payload. Eight glowing balls of blue energy spewed forth from the underbelly of his Y-Wing, and arced towards the vessel below. The first pair of orbs collided with the forcefield projected by the freighter's shield generators. Upon impact, the bombs spread a large electrical discharge across the shield, causing it to flare brightly before flickering and fading momentarily. A moment just long enough for the remaining bombs to slip through and impact the hull. The freighter's surface sparked as ionized tendrils of electricity danced across it. The charge spread throughout the vessel, conducted through its metal frame. Throughout the ship, power conduits, energy couplers and electrical fuses blew out as the ship's systems were overloaded. Even the main reactor shut down, stranding the transport and rendering it as immobile and defenceless as a junked husk.

Aboard the bridge, the lighting dimmed before switching to the dull, red glow of the emergency illumination. The backup generators were used in such scenarios to provide essential systems such as lighting and life support. The captain scowled in the half light, disturbed by the scarlet tint surrounding him. He hated the colour, it always seemed to him as if the bridge was suddenly coated in blood, and he hated blood. He grew faint even when he cut himself shaving, for Sith's sake. 

"How long until full power is restored?" he asked his first officer, his voice quavering oddly with a mix of anger and anxiety.

"Ten minutes until the reactor is re-primed sir. Full operational capabilities will take longer, until the service crew patch the fried systems. It's over sir. The Rebels have us dead in space."

The captain thought of retorting, admonishing his officer for admitting defeat, until he caught himself. Such patriotic zeal was unlike him, all the excitement of the battle must have gone to his head. Instead, he resignedly said "Open a comms channel. We have no choice but to surrender."

Wedge smiled to himself as his comms board lit up, signalling an incoming transmission on an open frequency. 

"Okay, R5. Patch it through."

"Rebel pirates, this is Captain Atticus Wurmley of the Gozanti-Class Cruiser Exigious. Please state your intentions."

"Ah, Captain. What a pleasure it is to hear from you." fawned Wedge, exaggeratedly. "As you are painfully aware, we have disabled your vessel and have you at our mercy."

"Yes, but to what end, exactly? If you plan on destroying us, then I hope you don't expect me to beg."

"We have no desire to attack you further, provided you follow our instructions."

"Oh, and what is it that you demand of us?"

"Your entire cargo."

"And how exactly do three snubfighters  plan on hauling such a cargo?"

"We don't. That's her job."

There was a sudden shimmer of movement at the edge of the system, as a Corellian freighter entered realspace. A momentary blur appeared and contracted into a recognizable shape, as the craft emerged from lightspeed. It was a YT-1000 model, nearly a century old and practically a museum piece, the precursor to the more popular (if still outdated) YT-1300, of which the Millennium Falcon was the most infamous. The YT-1000 bore a lot of similarities with its successor, though in a more primordial implementation. Like the YT-1300, it was shaped like a saucer with two forward facing angled protrusions jutting outwards. The YT-1000 however, had much stubbier cargo mandibles. Its cockpit was nestled between these mandibles, along the centerline of the ship, unlike the side mounted cockpit of later models. Overall, this gave the craft the look of a paddling turtle when viewed from above. At the helm sat Rebel mechanic Lara Ashanto, and her co-pilot, a Sullustian male called Teebo-Neit. Lara was wearing a set of navy overalls, whose upper half was tied around her waist, allowing her greater movement of her upper body, along with a shirt which must have once been white, now stained by years of grease and carbon dust. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbow, revealing equally filthy arms scored with various nicks and scrapes from her duties. Over her shirt she wore a black waistcoat, its multitude of pockets and pouches bulging with an assortment of tools and instruments. Her hair was short, a brunette mop and unevenly cut.

"Right Red Leader, we can handle the transition from here." she announced to Wedge, her voice lightly accented. "Imperial transport, prepare to be boarded."

***

Some time later, the Rebel raiding party had returned to their moon base in the Grebb System. Tucked away in a nondescript cave nestled in the desolate, umber landscape of crumbling crystalline crags, the base was about as remote as feasibly possible. It was only a staging post, converted from an old smuggler's hideout, and used to coordinate raids and take stock of the bounties captured before shipping them to more significant Rebel locations. In the hanger bay, Wes and Dak leaned against a stack of crates observing Wedge and a loader droid remove the last of the liberated supplies from Lara's craft. Lara meanwhile was tapping on a datapad, generating a log of the supplies.

"So that's 2,500 ration packs, enough to keep a few Corvette crews flying for over a month at least." she said aloud, while continuing to type. "Plenty of bacta and other medical sundries..."

"And what's in this last one?" grunted Wedge, struggling to lift the final crate. "It's heavier than a Bantha!"

Wes and Dak struggled to contain their giggling as Wedge continued to strain against the crate, while the droid admonished him for his inefficient lifting techniques.

"Fine. You two have had enough fun at my expense." Wedge announced, with a smirk. Wes' face fell suddenly. He knew that look, and from experience, it never ended well for him. "Move this crate. That's an order."

"Is that all?" Dak asked, either oblivious to, or uncaring of, Wedge's tone.

"Yeah. That's all. The loader droid and I have both earned a break though, so don't count on his help." The two pilots groaned as Wedge stepped over to Lara.

"Good move. Those two were starting to grate on me." she said, with a grin.

"They're good guys, really. When they're quiet. So, what's in the mystery container, anyway?"

"Just mining equipment, according to the ship logs. Tool heads, saw blades, that sort of thing."

"Worth anything on the black market?"

"Ordinarily no, there's no big demand for industrial tools. But this is some high grade kit, doonium tipped. Just selling the metal will give us enough to cover months worth of fuel."

Wedge pondered for a moment, his brow furrowed quizzically. "Why would Andriss need such specialized gear?"

"Who knows? Maybe they found a new vein of a more difficult to mine mineral, or the local Moff just had to use his quarterly budget?"

"Or it's not actually doonium. Could be some Imperial bureaucrat hiding a credit swindle with a false manifest." Dak interjected as he rejoined the conversation, followed closely by a slightly panting Wes.

"Spoken... like a true.... scoundrel..." Wes wheezed.

"Takes a crook to spot one." Dak admitted, before turning towards Lara. "By the way Smudges, I noticed the door hydraulics could do with replacing. There's some shoddy patchwork on display. You better not be running my ship into ruin."

Lara jabbed a finger into his chest, causing him to recoil with surprise.

"Firstly, that's your darn patchwork. Secondly, the Centurion is mine now, shock-jock. You gave it to me, remember?"

Wes clapped his hands with smug glee, having caught his breath.

"Gramps, you gave her your ship? I mean, as grand romantic gestures go, it's not bad, but don't you think Smudges here is a little young for you?" Wes had faced down countless TIE fighters, and gazed at so many barrages of deadly laser fire, yet not of it felt quite so fatal or frightening as the look Lara was giving him in that moment.

"It wasn't a romantic gesture, fly-guy. If anything, Dak is like a father to me. I inherited the Centurion when he took to a Y-Wing. But don't go getting any ideas Wes, your time would be better spent trying to chat up my loader droid." With Wes suitably admonished, she made her exit, striding gracefully toward her quarters. As she passed Wes by, she whispered one final declaration.

"And if you ever call me Smudges again, I will personally feed your organs to a Sarlacc." with that, she gave him a wink and continued on her way.

Sunday 11 March 2018

Star Wars: Old Wounds (3)

"Bloody Rebels..." muttered the Imperial captain, as he adjusted his cloth cap, attempting to mop his damp brow with limited subtlety. "Draw our fighters in close. Form a protective screen around us." he declared, shouting to his nearest officer, who complied with a nervous squeak. Meanwhile, the captain fought to repress his anxiety: there had been no response from either the mining base, nor the Admiral's flagship. He had the terrible feeling he'd been abandoned, left to die having outlived what little usefulness he had once offered. Not today, he vowed. Today  he would emerge victorious. Perhaps it was time he earned that promotion after all.

"It's no use!" Wes exclaimed as he broke off from his latest attack. "The eyeballs are too densely packed. Can't get a lock on one without becoming a target for two more."

"So, you admit defeat, youngblood?" scoffed Dak, as he too spun off in a barrel roll to avoid enemy fire.

"I don't see you doing any better." Wes replied, struggling to dodge a flurry of green energy bolts.

"I'm in the bomber, not the dogfighter. What's your excuse?" said Dak, taking aim at the nearest TIE, though his shots missed his target by a wide margin.

"Enough!" declared Wedge, angrily. This was no time for bickering. Their window of opportunity was ever decreasing, and they needed to break this deadlock now. He considered their options, various coordinated formations that could mitigate the TIEs' collective advantage. Even if he could rely on his wingmen to pull together, which seemed unlikely, they would still lose out on numbers. But, he thought, there was one option that could work...

"I have a idea, but you're not going to like it Dak." stated Wedge, bristling in anticipation of the reply.

"Oh, this'll be good." Dak replied, cautiously.

"I want you to fly directly into the centre of their fighter group."

"And what might you two be up to while I'm flying into certain doom? Or is just an excuse to get rid of a troublemaker?"

"Wes and I will approach from the sides. As you draw near the fighter group, loose a couple of proton torpedoes into their centre. Either they hold position and get fried, or they bolt, allowing us to mop up while you get a crack at the freighter."

"Just like hunting swamp duck on Vindal." said Dak as he considered Wedge's proposal. He'd spent a few days on Vindal some years ago, while on a poorly judged job for one of the Hutt cartels, and had happened to witness a group of hunters in action. They ventured in groups of about two dozen, lead by a point-man. When they found a suitable location, the point-man would fire a warning shot, the sound of which would startle the resting flock and cause them to scatter, allowing the remaining hunters to pick off as many as they could in the confusion. Dak didn't like to dwell on that particular adventure however, as it had ended with him being chased by one such hunting party across half a continent.

"Fine." he said, after a few moments of contemplative silence. "Suicide missions are kind of my specialty."

"Just try not to get blown up on your approach." Wes added, displaying a brief flash of genuine concern before once again slipping behind his mask of flippancy. "It'd be far too boring without someone to constantly harass my abilities."

"Wes, even if I die, I'll make it my solemn duty to haunt you for the rest of your days. Someone has to keep your ego in check." Dak laughed, before saying, "Right, making my attack run now. Better get in position and prepare for fireworks boys."

From behind his cockpit, Dak's astromech droid, R3-T3, warbled an anxious beep.

"Don't worry, little guy." he said, reassuringly, "We've  been in worse situations."

R3 issued a deep, terse, tone of derision.

"Well that's not fair!" protested Dak, while he diverted all shield power to the forward generators. "Besides, I replaced your dome with a shiny new green one, didn't I?"

The droid replied with a cacophony of digitized profanity.

"I said I was sorry, alright? Look, when we get back to the base I'll book you in for an oil bath. How about that?"

R3 blooped quizzically.

"Yes, IF, we get back to base." Dak sighed, while R3 chirped with mirth. "Divert all excess power to the engines, and ready the torpedo launchers." he commanded, as he began his attack. The TIEs quickly spotted his lone approach, and turned to face this new assault. He'd barely begun before hearing several frantic beeping alarms blaring simultaneously: multiple missile locks on his Y-Wing.

Dak immediately instigated evasive maneuvers as several silvery projectiles streamed forth from the gathered TIEs. He had to maintain his trajectory if this plan was to succeed, which hampered his defensive options. Behind him, his droid screamed in alarm.

"Relax, buddy. I've got this." he said reassuringly, his hands dancing across the controls like a musical maestro mid-concerto. This was his element, one of the few places he could find respite from the dark dreams and remorseful regrets which preyed upon his weary mind. A lifetime of melancholic memories dulled only when he found himself in the heat of battle or at the bottom of a bottle. In such moments, he operated on instinct and adrenaline, where moments of time slowed and stretched before him. The missiles streaming toward him seemed to crawl forward, as easy to dodge and avoid as static objects. Dak let out an enthused cheer while closing in on the TIE group, until R3 chirped another warning.

"Yeah, that was too easy, even for me." he quipped, locking his jaw with mild frustration. On the sensor screen, he watched as the missiles began to turn and re-aim toward his Y-Wing.

"Homing missiles, I see it R3. Deploying countermeasures, you just make sure my torpedoes are ready."

Hundreds of shining metallic squares blossomed from the Y-Wings twin engine cores, forming a protective cloud of chaff in its wake. The reflective debris acted to break the missiles homing lock and provide an alternative target. Dak watched  his instrumentation light up as missile after missile detonated in the silvery cloud behind him. All but two of the rapidly approaching projectiles were destroyed, but two was still two too many. Dak's mind raced, trying to figure his next move, until his R3-unit uttered a determined series of squeals. On the craft's central body, directly behind the astromech droid slot, a creaky turbolaser cannon jerked into life. A relic of the Y-Wing's history as a two pilot craft, this cannon would typically be operated by the gunner, allowing 360 degree motion at the cost of reduced firepower. While Dak had long since modded out the second seated position, the cannon itself remained in place, operable by an astromech navigator, an opportunity R3 always relished.

"No pressure R3, but those missiles are gaining on us. Feel free to fire, anytime." Dak said with trepidation, as he tried to coax more speed from his screaming engines. The droid replied with a low toot that could have been considered condescending, before firing the turbolaser. His first shots struck true, destroying the leading missile in a burst of purple fire, though the second (and last missile) soon took it's place. The droid's second shot went wide, leaving the remaining missile unscathed.

"R3, you're a better shot than that. I should know, I programmed your combat modules.", chided Dak. The droid's response was enough to make Dak wince. "Unfortunately, I also removed your profanity filters. That hurt, by the way."

With a final determined burst of searing red laser fire, the last trailing missile vanished from the Y-Wing's tail. R3 beeped with relief and no small amount of smugness, which Dak failed to listen to as he was focused on the TIEs ahead.

"Nearing range. Switching to torpedoes now." he declared, as he sped into targeting range. "Here goes nothing, Wedge. Hope your plan works." With a strong, determined click of his joystick trigger, two glowing spheres lept from the nose of his fighter and arced towards the group of TIEs. The two fighters nearest the launched torpedoes immediately fled outwards, away from their position guarding the transport. The remaining three jittered in place, unsure whether to hold the line or evade the attack. One unfortunate pilot had a momentary, if fatal, lapse in judgement and belatedly tried to bank away from the projectile. In his confusion, he cut into the path of one of his remaining allies. In the ensuing collision, one craft lost its hexagonal wing, sheared off at the strut while the cockpit spun off to crash in The Narrow. The other mostly held together, though the cockpit window shattered, venting its pilot into the cold vacuum of space.

"Like a gundark in a womp rat nest!" Wes yelled, surveying the chaos unfolding before him.

"Gotta hand it to you Wedge, it worked." Dak admitted, begrudgingly.

"Don't celebrate yet. You still need to disable the freighter. Wes and I can handle the few remaining eyeballs."

Tuesday 6 March 2018

Star Wars: Old Wounds (2)

The Imperial freighter most closely resembled a flying brick, with short, stubby wings at the rear of the craft,  tapering off towards the bridge located at its nose, giving it a thin, triangular profile from above. Each wing housed an embedded engine core, whose apertures were approximately the same diameter as the wingspan of an X-Wing. Extending vertically below each wing were three small tubes, each connecting to a docked TIE fighter, giving them the appearance of chicks protected by a mother bird. The entire design of the transport was purely functional. The engines seemed tacked on almost as an afterthought, while the fighters were protected from stellar winds and cosmic dust collisions only by the forcefield of their parent craft. Such vessels were not designed for military combat; as such they relied on a minimal fighter screen, a moderate shield generator and a thick hull to repel pirates and other attackers. It was a product of minimised costs and maximised profits, reflecting the economic heart of Imperial control. This vehicle was strictly utilitarian, far removed from the intimidating war machines built to instill fear in the denizens of the Galaxy and soothe the overcompensating egos of Imperial Moffs.

Wedge watched with mounting anxiety as the freighter drifted ever closer to his hidden vantage point. He had to wait for the optimal moment to launch the assault: too soon and the transport could turn tail, yet too late and the Imperial base below would have time to scramble reinforcements. With each passing moment, the chances of a rebel fighter being detected by passive scanners or even visually grew larger. As a Corellian, Wedge never much cared to hear the odds of a scenario, yet he could not escape the rising tension. He wiped a bead of sweat from his determined brow as the vessel drew in line with his position. It was now or never.
"Red Group, time to engage." he said, giving the signal to his two wingmen. He flicked several switches in quick succession; firing up the main power circuit, priming engines, disengaging maglocks, cycling shields. His X-Wing drifted lazily from the asteroid it had been perched on, until his engines burst into life. With a hard left pull of his flight stick, he spun himself around to face the incoming freighter.

"Lock S-foils in attack position." he ordered, toggling his own wings into their split, combat ready, form which gave an X-Wing its signature silhouette.

"I don't have S-foils. Please advise." Dak added, in a tone which put the smug into smuggler.

"Not the time, Gramps." Wes bit back, before asking, "What's our first target, Wedge?"

"First pass, we go for the docked TIEs, maybe get the Imps with their trousers unbelted." Wedge declared, as he led the attack run. Wes and Wedge were both approaching the vessel from the same side of The Narrow, with Wes trailing slightly, while Dak's Y-Wing was on the far side of the transport.

The freighter's bridge was a frenzied flurry of frantic energy. Multiple voices called out, speaking over each other, relaying status updates from various subsystems.

"Captain, enemy starships detected."
"Proximity alerts port and starboard, sir."
"Sensors indicate three snubfighters."

The captain of the vessel stood firmly at the fore of the bridge, surveying the vista beyond the transparisteel window. He shifted uncomfortably, trying vainly to redistribute his corpulent bulk within the confines of his overly constricting uniform. His bushy moustache twitched involuntarily, as he wondered whether the attackers were pirates or rebels. Not that it would matter, he supposed. Either way, the end result would be the same.

"What are you bloody waiting for, an invitation?!" he barked to his subordinates,  "Raise the shields, launch all TIEs. And somebody contact the admiral!" He continued to stare outwards at the planet Andriss, his sharp tone and steely gaze in sharp contrast to the fear growing in his core. This wasn't the life he wished to live. He wasn't built for combat, it's why he'd refused himself promotions, sabotaged his own results, maintaining a carefully curated level of mediocrity to ensure he never rose above his current rank. Captaining a transport afforded him all the benefits of authority, without the tedious politics of the Imperial Court, or the responsibility or risk of commanding a militarized vessel. He vowed that these rebels, or pirates, or whatevers, would pay dearly for ruining an otherwise agreeable morning.

"Making my attack run." Dak said, lining his crosshairs against the middle of the three docked TIEs on his side of the freighter. With a short squeeze of the trigger, he unleashed a burst of scarlet plasma bolts at the TIE, and waited for the satisfying cloud of a vaporised enemy.

"Karabast!" he exclaimed, angrily, as he pulled away from the transport. "Their shields are already up. I can't penetrate it."

"I've heard that before. Leave it to the young and virile." Wes quipped.

"Charming." replied Wedge. "OK, Wes, front TIE, on my mark. Synchronous fire." Given their guerilla tactics and limited resources, Rebel strategists had to be particularly inventive with methods of waging war against a vastly superior foe. Wedge  was more than just a skilled pilot, he had an instinctive tactical grasp and had a created a number of unique maneuvers, including a method of piercing the shield of a capital ship. Multiple fighters could synch their targeting computers, allowing them to focus all their firepower on a single point. Both X-Wings fired simultaneously, each laser striking the shield at the same exact location. Under such sustained fire, the shield flickered, momentarily. Just enough to allow a couple of blasts past the defences. Wes hollered with delight as the first TIE exploded in a shower of smoke and shrapnel.

"Nice move boys, but don't get cocky." Dak said, swinging his Y-Wing around for a second run. "You've just woken the hive." The remaining TIEs began to detach, entering the fray.

"We won't be able to focus on disabling  the freighter with eyeballs on our tail." Wes warned, as he looped away from the transport.

"Then choose your targets, fire at will. We have to clear this space before the freighter gets away." Wedge ordered, as he twisted his X-Wing towards the nearest enemy fighter.  This was the moment he lived for. All three of them did. The exhilarating thrill of combat, flying by instinct alone, free from life's distractions, pinning your life on the strength of your skill. Nothing gives a rush quite like a dogfight, which explains why the life expectancy of a pilot is one of the lowest in the entire Alliance.

Dak watched as a TIE came into his view, banking to the right across his cockpit canopy. He toggled his throttle, matching its speed, and fired in its direction. His plasma shots overshot by a large margin. The TIE turned suddenly, angling upwards to escape. The pilot was panicked, Dak thought, exactly as he'd planned. He cut his throttle and pulled his flight stick forward, killing his forward momentum and allowing him to maneuver tightly. He primed his trigger as he drifted on his axis, waiting to line up with the evasive TIE. Dak chose his moment, and loosed a single shot which tore through the hull of the unshielded TIE, shredding the cockpit as its wings spun off in opposing directions, propelled by the rapidly expanding cloud of gas and fire blooming from the destroyed cradt.

"One down, four to go!" laughed Dak, as he accelerated through the vaporised remains of his target. Never one to leave a pithy comment unsaid, Wes responded, "Good job with the straggler, fancy giving us a hand with the rest?"

"If you ask nicely, I'll consider it." Dak said, with a wry smile blossoming on his bearded face.

"So glad you two are getting along, but need I remind you that time's running short?" Wedge sighed, feeling like a substitute instructor trying to manage an unruly classroom.