Star Wars - A Bitter Winter Page 3

“No,” Drake pouted, then curtly, he demanded, “Do you mind telling me what that was all about?”

  “Gunfight,” Toob huffed, pulling the saddle bags from the olai’s body.

  “A gunfight? With Imperial troops?”

  “Well, I didn’t start it!” the smugger defended, grinning mischievously. “But I did intend to finish it. What the … whoa!”

  Abruptly, the olai stirred, violently lurching to her feet. Broken in the fall, her front legs collapsed under her at a peculiar angle and she fell, sprawling to the clay floor. Blood trickled from her mouth and ears, as a mixture of fluids seeped from her nose. Blowing and grunting in agony, she again struggled to her feet, succeeding by standing on her hind legs. Desperate and exhausted, she flopped back down to the ground and roared unsteadily. Whinnying pitifully, she stared at her Human handlers, pleading for support.

  “There now, old girl.” Toob crooned softly. “Drake?”

  Through a dark tangle of brown bangs, Drake stared past the mare into the shadows beyond her. Hesitating, he thumbed the restraint from his blaster and cocked the pistol against its holster. “Go on, Drake, don’t let her suffer,” he heard Toob’s soft voice against the wind. Taking strength from the familiar handle, he drew the blaster and fired, killing the mare instantly. Twitching briefly, her contorted limbs ceased their struggles — she was still.

  Turning his back on the corpse, Toob rasped, “Might want to call your Wookiee partner and let her know we’re coming.”

  “Can’t,” Drake replied in a meek voice. “Comlink’s busted. Remember that fall up the mountain?”

  Toob’s ruined face mustered a look of confusion. “We did?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Shrugging it off, Toob started down the trail. “Doesn’t matter now. Let’s get back to the ship. I think we both could use a good stiff drink right now.”

  Troubled, Drake fell in behind the smuggler, following the starlit trail. “You know, Toob,” he began gingerly, “being retired and all, you might want to consider slowing down. Maybe find yourself a few decent friends.”

  Without turning to look, Toob grumbled, “What? Just because I have one good eye and a few extra pounds, I have to take up farming?”

  “Well no, but you have to admit, that little stunt up the mountain could have been fatal.”

  “You’re starting to sound like my brother — careful, calculating …dull.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt for you to take a few lessons.” Drake hesitated, then he added, “If you had listened to him, you would never have gone to that warehouse on Ottega.”

  Toob halted abruptly, growling, “Karl went because he wanted to! No one asked him to go!”

  “What was he supposed to do. Toob?” Drake probed. “He’s your brother. Someone had to watch your back.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “That’s what happened, Toob, and everybody knows it.”

  In grim silence, they walked the last few kilometers down into the rutted canyon gorge, following the trail to the landmark Ruck’s Rut, a geographic phenomena of multi-level rifts and fissures, which could hide and shelter any number of light freighters and small spacecraft. Moored on a sturdy ledge, only meters from the earthen clay floor, the Steadfast’s support struts showed the vermilion taint of the soil base, evidence of her stay on the dismal red planet.

  Nikaede loped across the ramp, her voice booming from the interior corridor, reverberating in the close quarters. Drake grinned. There was no mistaking a traditional Wookiee homecoming. Bracing himself, he did not resist and felt himself being lifted several millimeters from the ground in the Wookiee’s powerful arms. Exhausted, he simply relaxed in the torrential splash of black and silver fur. Setting her captain back on the ground. Nikaede bellowed mournfully, eyeing the bruises and nicks all over his face. The smell of blood was pervasive and she whined for an explanation.

  “Later,” Drake whispered, glancing past her. Without comment, Toob walked by them and into the ship. Briefly, the Corellian reappeared, swinging a bandoleer of power packs over his shoulder. “Toob?” Drake trotted after him, gently taking the smuggler by the sleeve. “What are you doing?”

  Toob snatched his arm free. “I’m going to finish what someone else started.” He resumed his walk toward the mountain trail, grumbling irritably to himself. Tapping his foot impatiently against the rock floor, he paused at the edge of the ridge. “Come on, boy! I’m ready to go!”

  “Go?” Drake gasped, trembling.

  Jamming his blaster into its holster, the Corellian growled, “It’ll be just like me and your pop, when we shot it out with sector cops on Bnach.”

  “Toob,” Drake swallowed, “Bnach is an Imperial prison planet. No one goes there —”

  “Well maybe it was the Manda spaceport on a… on a,” he paused, flustered by the muddled memories. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter, I’m not gonna stand around while good men like Ziv Banks. Lu Esi, and Tenke Hum are gunned down in cold blood.”

  “Toob, those people are dead. You told me stories about them and what finally happened to them, remember? Ziv died in a shootout at the Orange Lady on Nar Shaddaa. Lu crashed his freighter over Vedis IV, running from sector authorities. And Tenke, he was with you when that detonator exploded on Ottega. He didn’t make it out.”

  Toob began to pace unsteadily, obviously disoriented. “Some of the finest smugglers this side of Corellia … who needs them!” he griped. “We can take that Imperial bunker ourselves!”

  “Toob!” Drake pressed. “There is no Imperial bunker!”

  “You’ve gone yellow, Marji! Curse your luck!” Toob snatched his blaster free of the holster. Set for a fatal burst, he aimed at Drake’s chest. “Yellow! But you’ve always been that way, haven’t you?”

  Waving his first mate out of the way. Drake pleaded, “Look at me, Toob. I’m not Marjan.”

  The Corellian’s face darkened as a wave of confusion overwhelmed his troubled senses. Faltering, he lowered the blaster. “Kaine? Kaine, my boy! What are we waiting for? Let’s go blast a few plastic soldiers. For old time’s sake!”

  Remembering the Issori’s warnings. Drake cautiously replied, “Toob, please. Kaine was my father. He’s dead now, remember?” A profound sense of pity swept through the young pirate as he tried to bring the smuggler back to the present reality.

  “Dead?” Toob mumbled incoherently, struggling with the concept. “Then … then who are you? Some punk kid!” he screeched, again raising the blaster to chest level. “You heard about me and you come to see if the old man still had the juice, eh! Thought you could earn a little blood money and make a name for yourself by taking out old Toob Ancher. Well not in this lifetime, boy!”

  Agilely dodging the first blast, Drake grasped Toob’s arm and ducked beneath it as the second bolt went wild, narrowly missing Nikaede, who dropped to the ground for cover. Drake tried to shake the blaster from his grip; but the hold broke. Before he could sidestep the unbalanced Corellian, he felt the abrupt heel of the blaster strike him across the chin. Reeling, he fell to the ground, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  “Nikaede! Stay put!” Drake screamed over the Wookiee. Stumbling to his feet. Drake raised his arms in surrender.

  “Who are you?” Toob whispered, fury abruptly diminished. “Wipe that blood off you face and let me see you.”

  Drake rubbed the blood from his mouth. “Toob, it’s me,” he whispered, failing to hide the injury in his voice. “Drake, remember?”

  “Drake?” Toob cried. “What are you doing?” Bewildered, he stared at the blaster in his hand and the swelling at Drake’s chin. “What have I… done?”

  “Nothing,” Drake whispered. “Nothing happened.”

  “Nothing?” Toob gasped. Turning away from the Socorran youth, he stared into the darkness beyond the ridge. Incensed by the thought of betrayal, he threw the blaster against the rocks. “Never should have left Tatooine. Should’ve… should’ve put a blaster to my head and
… ” Exasperated, he rasped. “Go on, Drake.”

  Make certain it’s your finger on the trigger … not a stranger’s. Drake flinched, remembering the Issori’s advice. “Toob?” he croaked uncertainly.

  “Go on to bed, boy,” Toob replied reprovingly. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  Against better judgement, Drake surrendered to the little boy inside him, the awestruck child who admired and adored the brash Corellian. Disoriented and obedient, he retreated to the ship. “Come on, Nik.” Badly shaken, he strained to shove the infuriated Wookiee onto the ship, pulling fur and skin to coerce her up the ramp.

  Rubbing a trembling hand over his bloated face, Toob cursed himself. Remembering the words from an old smugglers’ ballad, he softly sang. “Who fears the bitter breath of winter? A man who’s never known the cold. Sweet lady, there is nothing colder,” he paused, massaging his troubled brow, “than the heart of a smuggling man grown old.”

  Experiencing the dying Corellian’s sense of loss and desolation, Drake accompanied him, silently whispering the chorus. “Night falls and I am far from my home. Caught between my cradle and my grave. Caught between the cradle and the grave.”

  As Nikaede’s gentle hands shook him. Drake stirred. “What?” he mumbled, groggy and stiff from his adventures. The Wookiee barked softly, pushing the comlink to his lips. “Who?”

  “Drake!”

  Recognizing Fahs, but not the panic in his voice, Drake snapped, “Toob! Not again! Where —”

  “Never mind searching for him. He’s not even on the planet.” Fahs paused for effect. “Somehow he managed to get hold of a Z-95 Headhunter. What’s he up to, Drake?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Drake replied, clamoring for his boots. “He can’t be too far away.”

  “Well hurry, the ruckus is all over the Imperial frequencies.”

  “We’ll find him.” Tossing the comlink aside, Drake sprinted up the corridor to the flight cabin. “Boost the sensor array and scan for recent ion traces,” he ordered as the Wookiee settled in beside him. Agilely, his hands began throwing flight switches and toggling control modules. “I know,” Drake whispered to her complaints about the old man. “Just bear with me.”

  The Steadfast hovered precariously above the ridge floor, deftly sliding beneath the jagged ceiling and into the open mouth of the Tyma Canyon Basin. Despite the interference of Redcap’s dense stratosphere, Nikaede easily located the ionic blast trail. Examining the sensor data, she confirmed it and broadened the sensor sweep to include the surrounding space above the planet. With a forlorn groan, she made a disturbing discovery.

  “You found him!” Drake cheered. “Where?” A capricious snap from the Wookiee unnerved him, as did the four unidentified blips on the sensor screen. “Punch into their frequency.”

  “Veerpal Squadron, where are you?” a desperate voice cried. “We are under attack! Respond immediately!”

  Nervously, Drake watched the on-board flight computer flash through its library of schematics, confirming the presence of an Imperial Star Galleon and a Z-95 Headhunter. Approaching swiftly from the far side of the planet, two Imperial Assault Gunboats were closing at intense velocity to engage the intruder.

  Nikaede groaned, a panicked whine reverberating in the back of her throat. Wistfully, she read off the information to her captain.

  “Two ion cannons, two laser cannons, and two missile launchers with eight concussion missiles a piece.” It was Drake’s turn to groan. Throttling the Steadfast’s engines, he guided the freighter on an intercept course with the Imperial assault ships.

  The Star Galleon had the look of manufacturing newness, its hull glowing ivory-white in the dim hollow of space. The vessel had never seen true combat time — this much was obvious from the incompetent handling of its turbolasers. Galleon and crew relied heavily on its predatory escort now arriving from the planet. From the blast scoring across the galleon’s once pristine armor, it was evident that the Headhunter and its pilot had done their job well with several adroitly placed concussion missiles.

  As Drake approached at speed, he recognized the wide, haphazard bootlegger’s turns and defensive spirals, which left the galleon’s gunners effectively stymied. The maneuvers were all characteristics of Corellia, the legendary homeworld that had created men like Toob Ancher, his brother Karl, and a number of colorful figures who now lived in the shadows of galactic law. Against such a pilot, the galleon’s defenses were all but useless.

  Drake felt his heart sink as the gunboats swung into formation, pursuing the lone Z-95 on a straight vector. Dodging a wild shot from the frustrated gunners, Drake guided the Steadfast into the fray, deftly eluding blasts from the Imperial defenders. Increasing power to the aft shields, he left all weapons powered down. If the Imperials were monitoring him, they would see that the light freighter temporarily posed no threat.

  Adjusting for the power surge in the shield generator. Nikeade brayed anxiously. The soft-spoken Wookiee disliked their close proximity to the Imperial ship. She snapped the modified heads-up display between them, showing Drake the incoming blips on the sensors array.

  “I see them!” Drake grumbled, as the lead starfighter barreled toward them, accelerating. “Open the comm. I want them to hear our transmissions.” Manipulating the guidance system, he slid the Steadfast into place behind the fleeing Headhunter, just as a blast from the gunboats struck his stronger shield defenses. “Toob!” Drake growled. “What are you doing!”

  “Settling the score, boy!” the Corellian countered with laughter. “Point for point; life for life. Now get out of my way! You’re jamming my targeting scope!” He banked sharply, following through with an extreme dive, before leveling off in an attempted course back to the galleon.

  Easily mimicking the maneuver. Drake fired, “You’ll have to do better than that, Toob. This is insane! Now stop—” The starfighter’s maneuver jets abruptly sputtered, effectively stalling the small craft. To avoid a collision, Drake spun the controls, bringing the Steadfast up and away from harm, opening the way for the assault ships to swoop in for an initial strafing run. “Toob!” he cried in frustration.

  “Unidentified freighter,” crackled a voice over the comm. “We are reading you as the Steadfast. Stand down and leave the area. This is Imperial business. Your indiscretion could result in — ”

  “Calder?” Drake gasped.

  “Well, well, well,” Calder crooned. “My little friend from Redcap. Nice job back there at the Laughing Bantha.”

  Startled by the Imperial’s cool sarcasm. Drake shared an apprehensive look with his first mate. Voluntarily, he broke from the chase, allowing the assault ships to corner him. “Look, Calder, there isn’t much time.”

  “You’re right there, kid,” the Imperial huffed. “Time’s run out for your friend and you too if you continue to interfere.”

  “He’s sick!” Drake protested. “He can’t be held responsible for his actions now!”

  “Three dead gunners and five wounded technicians say that I can.”

  “Just let me talk to him.”

  “I have my orders, Drake.” Swinging wide, Calder’s assault boat broke off, leaving the remaining ship to contain the Steadfast. Faultlessly executing Imperial defense maneuvers, the pilot chased the elusive Z-95, pressuring the smuggler until finally Toob abandoned hopes of deploying any missiles and began running from a barrage of laser blasts from the gunboat’s cannons.

  Eluding his guard, Drake slipped beneath the craft and rocketed toward the scene, leaving the startled pilot behind him. “Calder, pull up!” he fired over the comm. “Pull up now!” He followed the Imperial’s single-minded pursuit across the rim of Redcap’s atmosphere and then back across space to the galleon, recognizing the trap being laid. Abruptly, Toob slowed the Z-95, cheering as the gunboat raced past him into the blaze of the galleon’s mammoth engines. Heeding the warning too late, Calder pulled up, shredding one his five wings against the edge of the galleon’s drive system. The assault cra
ft spun out of control, rolling through open space before the Imperial pilot could regain command of the flight module.

  Drake waited for Calder’s gunboat to pirouette through his line of fire and then activated his forward firing lasers, catching Toob unaware. The bolts exploded precisely, disabling the Z-95’s engines, while leaving the fighter intact. Toob fired his main lasers and launched the last of his concussion missiles, all to no avail. Without its engines, the Headhunter was dead in space, drifting at the mercy of Redcap’s gravitational undertow.

  Breathless, Calder guided his crippled gunboat back into the arena. “I’ll give you one option, kid. The only option my orders allow.” He paused. “Your trigger or mine.”

  “They got me, boy!” Toob cackled manically, freeing himself from the safety harness. He was so disoriented, he had not realized that the disabling shot had come from the Steadfast. “Shut me down, but not before I gave them boys a run for their money! Ha, ha!”

  “Toob, listen to me.”

  Ignoring Drake’s quivering voice. Toob shifted in the pilot’s seat. “Got to make a run for it.” He pulled the canopy latch. A warning siren blared nosily, signaling the imminent danger of decompression.

  “Toob!”

  “Clamp’s locked in place,” the Corellian grunted, as the device failed. He hauled at the switch, sweat clouding his cybernetic eye. “Can’t wait around for them to come back.” Examining the blast scoring, he laughed, “They’ve locked me in, boy. If I can just … ” he tugged at the seal, “work it … loose. I might yet slip away.” Still jiggling the welded clamp, he began to sing. “I’ve run the Kessel and survived the show …”

  “Drake?” Calder grumbled impatiently.

  Make certain it’s your finger on the trigger and not a stranger’s. Empowered by those troubling words. Drake whispered. “Stand by.”

  Weaving slowly down the narrow corridor to the cradle of the ship. Drake slid down the gunner’s ladder. Reluctantly, he strapped himself into the turret and powered up the heavy weapon. Focused on the crippled Z-95, he could feel the burn of the computer’s targeting scope acclimating with his retinas.