Part 4 (1/2)
”I propose to go there, with Jan if she's willing, and find a way to stop him. We did it on Danuta... and we can do it again.”
Mon Mothma considered the mission to Danuta. It had been a long shot, but the agents had located the Death Star plans and brought them out. An accomplishment that, when combined with information secured by others, enabled the Rebels to win the Battle of Yavin. The twosome had been lucky, very lucky, and the odds were against them being that lucky again.
”I admire your bravery, Kyle, not to mention your dedication to the Rebel cause, but the odds are stacked against you. You can bet that Jerec has a Destroyer, who knows how many support vessels, and plenty of troops. No, what we need is a fully equipped Battle Group.”
”A nice thought,” Leia said gently, ”but where would it come from? We're stretched thin as it is.”
”True,” Mon Mothma acknowledged thoughtfully, ”but consider the alternative. How would Kyle and Jan make their way past the picket s.h.i.+ps? And even if they did, what would they do on the surface? Very little is known about the planet, but one thing is for sure: There's no civilian population in which to hide.”
Luke had a distant almost dreamy expression. It was he who broke the ensuing silence.
”Everything Mon Mothma says is true... but truth has many levels. The power that Jerec seeks to control flows from spirits trapped within the Valley... spirits who must be freed. If Kyle freed the spirits, the threat would disappear. All without the use of a Battle Group. Easy? No, but there is a flow to such things, a flow with power of its own.” The Jedi eyed those around him.
”I am told there is a species of sentients on Ruusan, a species with a long history, much of which has been captured in something they refer to as the poem of ages. There are numerous prophecies toward the end of the poem, including one that reads, And a knight shall come, a battle will be fought, and the prisoners go free.' They believe that it refers to the Valley - and I agree.”
Kyle had heard those words before, but he still felt a chill run down his spine and wondered if he should feel proud or very, very frightened. The second possibility seemed more logical.
Mon Mothma sighed. Yes, she knew that there was more to life than what she could hear, touch, taste, feel, and see. She knew that certain individuals, Luke being an excellent example, had what might be described as additional senses. But knowing it, and being comfortable with it, were two different things. She preferred direct access to relevant data where important decisions were concerned - and this decision was extremely important. Still, if Luke said something was so, it generally was.
She forced a smile. ”Okay, given the problems mentioned earlier, how would Kyle and Jan reach the planet's surface?”
Han cleared his throat. His voice was hoa.r.s.e after more than twelve hours of giving orders.
”While it's true that the picket s.h.i.+ps would stop one of our vessels, an Imperial s.h.i.+p would make it through.”
Kyle was quick to seize on the idea.
”Han is right! We could stow the Crow on one of the captured transports, deliver some supplies, and slip away... It's perfect!”
”Not so fast,” Mon Mothma said cautiously. ”Give the Imperials some credit. The transport would be challenged and, lacking the proper recognition codes, searched.”
”True,” Jan put in, ”but every commanding officer wants all the supplies he or she can lay their hands on, especially where munitions are concerned. If a transport drops out of hypers.p.a.ce and offers them a load of proton torpedoes, the Imperials will jump on it. Especially if the s.h.i.+p and crew seem legit.”
Mon Mothma raised an eyebrow.
”'Proton torpedoes'? You've got to be kidding... How 'bout field rations instead?”
”Some field rations are just as lethal,” Han said jokingly, ”but I understand your concern. How 'bout some special torpedoes? The kind that explode in the launch tube?”
”Exactly what I had in mind,” Jan agreed.
”Is it settled then?” Mon Mothma looked around the table and saw each head nod in turn. She added her approval to all the rest. ”One last question. Who's going to crew the transport? And even more importantly, who will command it?”
”I volunteer to command,” Han responded quickly.
”This could be fun.”
”And time consuming,” Mon Mothma added cautiously. ”We can't afford to let you go right now.”
Leia, conscious that she was more than a little biased, nodded in agreement. Han looked in her direction but chose to remain silent.
”I'll find some volunteers,” Jan put in. ”Folks with Special Ops experience.”
”Fine,” Mon Mothma said, glad to delegate at least one task to someone else. ”Final comments?”
”Just one,” Kyle responded soberly. ”Wish us luck... I have a feeling we're gonna need it.”
Sunlight rippled across a sea of s.h.i.+mmering gla.s.s. Gla.s.s that had once been part of iridescent domes, towering minarets, soaring archways, vertical towers, and all the other structures that const.i.tute a city. A city reduced to a sea of manmade lava, as Imperial laser cannon carved swathes of destruction through the once-beautiful metropolis. The resulting slag was thicker where buildings had been cl.u.s.tered and thinner out toward the suburbs, where the military base had been established.
The past could still be seen, on a hill where a nearly translucent temple glittered with emerald beauty, on a rise where a half-melted statue stretched a hand toward the heavens, and out on the silicone plain where isolated groups of dwellings remained untouched.
Prisoner 272-20-136 released the T-shaped handlebars and waited for the impact hammer to fall silent. Then, careful of what he was doing, the man took air deep into his lungs and pulled the mask away from his face. Milagro had a thin atmosphere, which was why he and the other prisoners were allowed to work without leg irons. There was nowhere to go - not without air.
The prisoner wiped his forehead with a rag, allowed elastic bands to pull the mask against his face, and checked the seal. The air left a coppery taste in his mouth.
The comm set was part of the head gear - and the factory-issued voice was part of his life.
”That was an unauthorized break, Unit 136. Twenty-seven seconds will be deducted from your next rest period.” The prisoner looked back over his shoulder and saw that a detainment droid had approached from behind. It looked like a floating garbage can and had a personality to match.
”My name is Obota - Alfonso Obota - Al to my friends.”
”No,” the droid replied unemotionally, ”that's who you used to be and may become again. At this particular moment you are Unit 136 - and the most likely member of my crew to be disciplined. Please return to work.”
Obota started to object and thought better of it. He had enough trouble without making more.
The prisoner took the handlebars and made the hammer dance. The comm mast required six anchors, each sunk into the subsurface strata and fused in place. His task was to drill down through a three-meter-thick mantle of fused gla.s.s. The drill rattled dully, the noise m.u.f.fled by the thin atmosphere. Gla.s.s projectiles peppered the lower part of Obota's legs.
They stung, but he knew better than to stop. The hole was a little more than one meter deep when the voice boomed into his ears.
”They want you in the admin hut, Unit 136... on the double.”
Surprised, but happy to get off work, Obota started to jog. Everything the prisoners did was carried out ”on the double.” Failure to comply would almost certainly result in punishments that the nearly identical detainment droids dispensed with machine-like consistency. The base hadn't existed three months before and consisted of sixty-three prefab buildings. It was a sprawling affair that included a landing strip, repair facility, surface-to-air missile batteries, barracks, and a military detention facility. Normally busy, the place seemed even busier in the aftermath of the battle, as ground personnel struggled to service battle-scarred starfighters, a somber-looking burial party made their way toward a row of recently excavated graves, and an infantry company marched the width of a lavender parade ground.
Building twenty-three served as headquarters for the Military Correction Facility, or MCF.
It, like the structures on either side, had an external air lock, inflatable walls, and a protective berm. Obota waited for the lock to open, shared the chamber with an admin droid, and cycled through. The interior was standard-issue puke green. A long list of things you weren't supposed to do scrolled across a reader - board, and the floor, which some other prisoners had buffed to a high gloss, stretched left and right.
The droid, who had privileges the human didn't, chose the hall to the right. The machine's foot cleats made a squeaking noise and left black skid marks on the otherwise immaculate floor. Obota removed his mask, attached it to his belt, and approached the fiberboard door. The sign read: MCF 63 HONOR THROUGH DISCIPLINE Knock before you enter.
Obota knocked three times, shouted ”Prisoner 272-20-136 reporting as ordered, sir!” and waited for a reply.
”Enter.”
Obota opened the door, stepped through, and crashed to attention. A weary-looking officer nodded, consulted his datapad, and looked up again.
”Take a left in the hall... fourth door on the right. Move it.”
Obota yearned to ask”why” but knew better than to do so.
”Sir! Yes, sir!”