"I'm gonna have to go with the droid on this one," Zel says. "If we're exposed to vacuum over there, there's not much to be done. At least I can shoot back at troopers."
Flan nods hurriedly in agreement, not particularly thrilled about either prospect, but decidedly queasy at the idea of being exposed to the hard vaccuum of outer space. At least her fellow escaped prisoners seem to be fairly competent with guns.
"Yeah, we're all Rebels," she chimes in with a sideways glance at Mith. "We can deal with some troopers."
"No sense waiting around, then," says the nobleman. "Since we're skipping the hard vacuum, let's get to the Stormtroopers. With luck there's more going on around the ship and they'll be too occupied to fight us in force."
Vala's presence flickers in and out. With your rudimentary Jedi senses, you can feel her traversing the three paths laid out before you. Returning to you, she confirms the others' suppositions that the safest path would be to wander the halls, though you are not alone here. Additionally, she says that past the blast doors, the hull has been breached, but the ship is not open to vacuum. It seems the Deception has moved to low orbit, and though the atmosphere is not thick enough to be breathable, neither is the pressure differential strong enough to displace you.
Dara remains quiet. After confirming that the one passage was sealed, she darts across the hall and presses against the wall beside the right passage. Again, she cautiously peers around the corner, looking for nearby danger.
Rod returns to the group with the news. Stay calm, there's no way they'll figure it out.
He doesn't count. Slimeball probably knew already anyway.
"So. I checked some old comm frequencies that I remembered from way back when on this helmet's comlink..." Rod quickly points at the stormtrooper headgear he's still wearing. "... Just in case, and I got lucky. One of them was in use and I was able to get some information from listening in and asking a couple questions."
"We aren't alone on this deck. That much is certain. Not sure who's here with us, but my best guess would be stormtroopers or officers. Taking the long way might still be the safest way. But not by as much as you'd think. There's no hard vacuum behind that blast door. There's a hull breach but we've descended into low orbit. Not enough atmo to breathe but enough to move just fine."
Rod looks over at Mith. "How far is it from here to the escape pods? If it's less than about a minute at a run, we could just hold our breaths and sprint for it. If it's longer than that but still less than a two minute run than I actually might have a plan to get us across safely." Rod spares OOM a glance. "In fact, as long as it's not longer than a ten minute trip, I think we can all get through. If not, than the obvious choice is the long way around but I'm not in a hurry to get into a firefight."
Mith considers, ignoring the soldier's obvious lie. "I've covered similar distances in less than two minutes."
No wonder he talked so little before. Not much of a liar. Zel smirks at this, though it quickly falls away when he realizes that they're not alone in the hallway. "Whatever we decide, let's do it quickly," he says over his shoulder. "We're not alone anymore." His grip tightens on his blaster and he raises his arm slightly. Not quite enough to be pointed directly at the other men, but enough that he's prepared to fire should they show signs of aggression.
Rod follows Zel's lead and grips his blaster so that he's ready but not overtly threatening. "Who are they?" Rod asks, keeping his eyes forward and not looking where Zel seems to be. No point tipping off their company that they've been spotted. "Are they Imperials? Are they hostile?" Rod begins to speak rapidly to the whole group. "My plan involves rendering some of our group unconscious in a way that will allow them to survive without air and then having the rest carry them through. I'd rather not do it with people breathing down our necks so we should deal with them first, one way or another."
"Are they wearing Imperial uniforms? If not, then either they're boarders, or they are civilian contractors, or they are other escaped prisoners," reasons the noble.
"I'm a bit curious about how you mean to put people in suspension, but if we find an emergency trauma kit maybe we can find a drug that will do the trick."
An emergency trauma kit would be easily lootable from one of the opened officers' quarters.
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"They're wearing prisoner jumpsuits," Zel says, his voice still low. "And they already know we're here. Not Imperials, but still, you can't easily trust the kind of people who end up in prison on star destroyers, especially when they're armed like those guys."
He lets that thought linger in the air for a moment, blaster still in hand. "Uhh, well, anyway, there might be one of those kits in the rooms those two are ducking in and out of."
"I can hold my breath," Dara whispers, utterly oblivious to Rod's deception. "I've had plenty of practice moving through flooded passages and contaminated ducts."
As she speaks, she keeps a tight grip on her rifle. Dara doesn't know whether she'll have the nerve to pop around the corner if a firefight breaks out, much less squeeze the trigger again.
"I'm willing to brave the shortcut."
"An emergency trauma kit would help, but I won't need it to put you under. I already have everything I need. The real problem is those prisoners." Rod considers the other prisoners a moment. "We should include them in our escape plan. If they're trustworthy, they can join us. If they're not, I can just not revive them from suspended animation. Either way, we want them with us."
Rod looks down at himself and the armor he's wearing. "Someone else should do the negotiating. I don't think they'd be happy talking to a trooper."
Flan glances around at the others, hoping someone else will volunteer, but after a moment of hesitation, she sighs audibly and resigns herself to the task. The former senator's-aide summons up all her people skills and years of diplomatic training, and conveniently ignores the many, many failures that went along with those.
She takes a few steps toward the other prisoners, hugging the wall and staying as close to the rest of the group as she can.
"Hello, fellow Rebels," she calls, giving them a little wave. "We mean you no harm. We have a way off this cruiser, which you may have noticed is rapidly losing orbit, if you'd care to join us."
The prisoners pause in their looting as Flan approaches. Closer now, you can plainly see them as two human males, one pale, the other dark, both short and barrel chested.
They consider the offer, mumbling to each other their estimated odds of getting off with and without help, and graciously agree, provided they get to bring their ill-gotten gains with them.
Gathering their goods into a synthweave bag, they introduce themselves as Stephen and Flarb.
"Glad you came and invited us to escape with you," smiles Stephen. "We was fixin ta shoot you, and boy, that'd've been embarassing."
"Yeah, definitely," Zel says. He spins the blaster around in his hand for show. "That could have gotten pretty embarrassing." He gives them a wide grin. "Don't suppose either of you nabbed a trauma kit from in those rooms, did you?"
As the young woman makes her surprisingly calm and reasonable proposition, the droid nods in approval. "Likewise.", it answers in a flat monotone. "I think that having more trauma packs would be beneficial for the resident organics, regardless.", it blurts out, before carefully making its way towards the officers' quarters. "Can I get some assistance?", it blurts out before disappearing into the room, and starting to rummage.
At Zel's inquiry, the men rifle through their synthweave bag, claiming, among other things, two rebreathers, a smooth rock they suppose to be a Hutt's gallstone, and a datapad with three full years' worth of issues of popular adult publications, mostly featuring alien women in various states of undress, but no trauma kit.
Given time or assistance, OOM-93b finds what it is looking for: two trauma packs stored in the wall locker of a room three doors down.
"Oh, well." Flan considers the men, feeling a little surprised but overall pleased with herself. "Good."
She ducks into the officer's quarters and helps to search methodically for trauma kits, eyeing the droid suspiciously as she shares space with it. She's never actually seen a B1 unit in person before today, but her short stint in the senate during the Clone Wars managed to drill a healthy distrust of all things Separatist into her.
Once the trauma kits are found, she looks at Rod and tries to keep the apprehension she feels from creeping into her voice. The Corellian woman has never been good at giving up control, let alone trusting complete strangers to carry her unconscious body safely past a big hole in a ship, but she doesn't exactly have a better idea. "So, how does this work?"
The nobleman shrugs. "I dunno. I'm no medic."
Dara slowly slings her rifle from her shoulder when it becomes clear there will be no fight. She takes the glowrod from her mouth, wiping it on her prison fatigues, and inches closer to look at these other escapees. Although they are apparently human, their unfamiliarity causes her to gape at them like animals in a xenogallery nonetheless.
When the trauma kits are discovered and discussion turns to their usage, Dara pushes her way forward and rudely grabs one of the kits.
She opens one of the kits and inspects the contents, recognizing many names and purposes among the vials and bottles. Her mother had made sure that her daughter was skilled at more than pull-ups and field stripping a blaster, teaching her about biology and medicine.
Flarb stares back, unphased by the strange and creepy girl. Stephen doesn't notice.
Dara recognizes the full contents of the trauma kit; apparently its loadout remained standard between the transfer from Republic to Empire. Her mother had successfully imparted upon her the knowledge and purpose of each of the drugs within, as well as her own substitute medicines, synthesized from bota. It is a simple matter for the teen to identify the correct drug and make an accurate guess in re the requisite dosage.
Stephan and Flarb get a nod of greeting each from Rod as they join the group. Their admission that they almost opened fire didn't fill the clone with confidence. The two rebreathers they carried did. Rod had worried that the addition of two extra people would necessitate multiple trips through the airless zone but with those the plan was back to a single crossing. Speaking of two extra people...
"Stephan, Flarb, listen up-" Rod thinks better and instead addresses the whole group rather than just the two newcomers. "In fact, everyone listen up! I'm going to go over the plan once more before it's go time, so pay attention!"
Not now, master.
"The escape pods are past those blast doors and the airless two minute run behind them." Rod explains, pointing to the doors in question. "Too long for most of us to simply hold our breaths and run. I can, Mith can, Ral can and the clanker doesn't need to. Janara, Zel, Dara, Stephan, Flarb-" Rod points to each of them in turn. "-Two of you will be using those rebreathers. The other three will be rendered temporarily comatose using those trauma kits. You'll need less air and that'll let the rest of us carry you to the escape pods. Any Questions?"
Rod doesn't actually hold for questions and continues almost immediately. "Good!" Rod takes the trauma kit that Dara didn't and quickly fills and readies a needle.
"Any volunteers?"
Dara and anyone else with medical expertise who watched Rod would probably be able to realize that Rod has simply prepared a small dose of low-strength painkillers; nothing that would have any real effect on a person, much less induce suspended animation.
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Zel sighs loudly before stepping forward. Best he can figure, he can either stay awake during the run and probably die, sleep through it and probably die, or run alone the long way around and probably die. At least this way he gets to take a nap. "All right, let's get this over with. If this gets me killed though, I'm gonna be real mad."
As Zelarean volunteers himself, Mith puts his three digited metal hand forward, in protest. "Why the three of us, trooper?" he asks Rod, narrowing his one gleaming red eye. "Is there something that makes us uniquely qualified? I think you owe these people an explanation."
"A-ha!", the droid holds the trauma kits in the air, pointing them towards Janara. "Told you I'd fi- Hey!", it shouts, clearly displeased, as the girl unceremoniously grabs the trauma kit from its hand. "Were you raised by rancors, lady?", it asks, before handing the second kit to the much more polite, if distant woman and marching out of the room, practically huffing.
As Mith asks his question, the droid quietly waits for an answer, before chipping in. "I don't know about you, but most clones tend to store air in their cranial cavity."
Was hoping no one would ask about that part.
Too dangerous. Not happening.
"Mith." Rod ignores the clanker's jab, takes Zel's arm and begins looking for a vein while he talks to Mith, the clone's voice taking on an unamused edge. "Why are you wasting our time asking? You already know what makes you uniquely qualified." There was no room for miscommunication here. As he talks, Rod uses the Force to telepathically communicate a single thought to Mith: Force.
"If you feel everyone needs an explanation then feel free to explain it yourself." Where were the veins on Mon Calamari again? "I'm busy making sure these people will wake up again once they're out."
He won't. He hid his presence when we tried to sense him in the cellblock and he hid his powers in the elevator. Why would he just come out and confess now?
Rod finally finds a vein on Zel and prepares to inject. "Zel, I need you to relax for this to work." Rod takes a deep breath to relax himself, remembering what it was like the few times he has tranced himself and allowing his presence to reach out and touch Zel's to create the same state. "This won't work if you resist it, you have to allow yourself to fall into it, Zel. You will wake up again, I swear to you. Trust me."
As the newly joined escapees don their rebreathers, Dara prepares the requisite doses of medicine from the trauma kits. As the moment draws closer for the group to storm down the compromised passage, Dara shifts to preparing herself. She steadies her nerves and tries to control her breathing, before she no longer can.
1 Step Down Condition Track
Put first Swift Action towards moving up Condition Track (Recover action)
Use second Swift Action to move up Condition Track (Shake It Off feat)(Recover action)
Fringe Savant talent activates, gain 1 temporary Force Point
1 step down Condition Track
Put first Swift Action towards moving up Condition Track (Recover action)
Use second Swift Action to move up Condition Track (Shake It Off feat) (Recover action)
"This is a terrible plan, except for the alternatives," grumbles the nobleman. He sighs and brings his hands together in an odd triangular gesture, then starts slowly twisting his fingers together in a series of strange postures.
"Don't mind me. Just nerves."
It is a simple and easy matter for Rod to place Zel and Flan into their trances, willing as they are, but Dara refuses unconsciousness. The two prisoners likewise refuse to be placed under, fishing their looted rebreathers from the synthweave bag held by Stephen and fitting them.
OOM-93b fiddles with the computer access, causing emergency power to shut the group in entirely, ready to open their target blast door on command.
Rod carries the smuggler's limp body bridal style while Mith and Ral work together to support the weight of the diplomat.
On Rod's signal, it begins. The doors open and the air rushes forth, nearly dropping the party to their feet. In the thin, unbreathable atmosphere, all you can hear is the wind whipping across your ears and your own heartbeats pounding, desperately running for the finish.
The damage is spectacular, a stray turbolaser blast having blown apart a whole block of crew quarters, leaving your right flank entirely exposed to the atmosphere. The view is dazzling. The ocean planet of Mon Calamari, glimmering in the sunlight. Ahead, a turbolaser battery fires time and again, green flame silently erupting out its barrel. There, many kilometers above, the Rebel fleet engages with two Star Destroyers, trading blasts of red and green. An X-Wing flies by, lancing the nearby turbolaser tower.
With just the final stretch to go, Mith nearly collapses, choking on the thin air around him. He passes off Flan's limp form to Ral, Dara or the droid, anyone capable, and struggles to keep up.
Dara too looks a little violet, but manages far better than the alien.
Getting to the far door, the droid, not needing to breathe, is quickly able to isolate them from the hallway before opening the blast door, returning the party to fresh air.
You take the time to awaken your fellows, and congratulate yourselves on your continued survival.
Just ahead of you is the escape pod bay, well lit and gleaming, a beacon of hope.
Ral draws his sporting blaster and says, "Get ready. It's never this easy."
As soon as the blast doors are open, Dara squeezes through and lays the unconscious Flan upon the gray metal floor. She gasps for breath while simultaneously trying to rein her heartbeat back into a more manageable rhythm. Dara sits trembling on the floor, reeling from the sensory overload.
The ocean. She had seen the ocean.
It had dominated her attention, overshadowing even the peels of turbolaser fire and the snub fighters screeching past. An eternity of shimmering blue. She had thought of what her father would have told her - "Don't be distracted. Focus on your footsteps, one after another." - but it was impossible.
Watching Ral draw his weapon, Dara remembers the task at hand. They are not safe yet. She turns to look at Flan and begins trying to rouse her fellow escapees.
The droid makes its way across the shattered hallway, and for a moment, it stops. No feedback to audioreceptors..., it ponders, as it takes in the sight of the massive space battle unfolding in front of it. Its memory banks kick into gear, as images of grand battles long ago, patched together from the retrieved holo recordings of thousands and thousands of battle droids, followed by their destruction.
Not this unit., it says to itself a few miliseconds later, as it brings up its blaster and rushes forwards to catch up with the rest.
Closing the blast door, the air and sounds rush back in together in the room. "Roger, roger.", it replies to Ral, kneeling in expectation of cover fire as the organics recover their breath. "Any casualties?", it asks, not moving its head from the carbine's sights.
Flan regains consciousness slowly at first, looking up groggily at the ceiling of the Star Destroyer, and then all at once. She sits straight up, hyperaware of her surroundings, and winces at the sudden head rush that comes with it.
"We made it," she gasps overdramatically. "Was it bad?"
"Sketchy but not the worst," says Ral, keeping his gun up with one hand and offering the other to Janara to help her up. "You missed a beautiful view of Mon Cala from above."
Dara picks herself up and grips her blaster rifle.
"We need to keep moving," she says, trying to sound brave.
She nods her head towards the escape pods. "That's it, right? The way we get out?"
Flan shudders, glad she missed that particular view, but keeps it to herself as she accepts Ral's hand and hauls herself up off the floor. Seeing her companions draw their various weapons, she fumbles around until she finds her blaster pistol and holds it at the ready.
"Well? What are we waiting for?" She tiptoes vaguely towards the escape pods, not really making any progress forward and obviously waiting for a braver soul to go first.
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But on Mon Cala, there are few such cloud systems. It is possible, you suppose, there is a large, uninhabited continent somewhere out of sight, or else an atmosphere processor installed on the surface, helping preserve the pristine blue of the endless tracks of ocean.
The escapees gather in the escape pod bay, anxious and eager to leave. In stark contrast to where you've been, the bay and its adjoining corridors are powered and brightly lit. Though the magnalocks read as disengaged, the pod doors will not slide open. A nearby terminal flashes its screen at you. Perhaps the escape pods are controlled from the terminal, in another crude and pathetic display of paranoid behavoir?
Rod spends most of the vacuum run distracted, constantly taking whatever time he can to steal glances at the space battle outside. At first, to gauge the progress of the battle and later, to simply watch the fleets in action. The comfort and clarity of being a small cog in a large machine was one of the things Rod missed most about military life and seeing all the ships (and by extension, all their crew) operating with a well-structured order of battle was a welcome reminder of what that large machine could accomplish. It was beautiful, in a way. Like watching a properly choreographed dance routine.
Yes, Master.
Once everyone is safe in the pod bay Rod takes a couple deep breathes and brings his mind back to immediate concerns, taking the lead on getting an escape pod open. To no avail, as the clone fruitlessly tries to get the door open. "What? Why isn't it opening? The maglocks are reading as disengaged! Zel, I thought you said you got these open?"
Seeing the nearby terminal flash to life, Rod briskly makes his way over to it, muttering a few choice curses in Mando'a under his breath.
Zel awakens with a start from what might be the strangest nap he's ever taken. He hadn't dreamed of his family for a long time now; maybe it was something about descending toward his homeworld that was bringing old memories to the surface.
He gets to his feet with blaster in hand. "I did. Hold on, let me see." The smuggler shoulders his way past Rod to the terminal, his hands moving over the controls.
Eager to see the miraculously clear skies and vast ocean below, Dara charges forward and pushes beside Zel to help the Mon Calamari get the terminal cooperating. Her focus distracts her from Rod's Mando'a cursing, another trait that likens him to her father.
Her desire to see the wide open world below, besides serving to shield her thoughts from grief, also whittles down her patience. If the terminal does not open the pod doors, Dara is prepared to immediately tear open a panel and begin twisting and crossing wires, as though torturing the machine, to get her way.
Browsing the command history, Zel's heart drops. All escape pods were launched more than an hour before he gave the command to release the maglocks. Roughly the same time the battle began.
"That paranoid, blasted fool," Mith sneers, peering over Zel's shoulder. "He has trapped us all on this ship with him, doomed us to die."
The intercom crackles.
"I will not be overrun so easily," calls a taunting voice. "Are a few prisoners and some weak, disgruntled petty officers all you have to threaten me with? Rest assured, you have not stopped me: I command the might and power of the Imperial Fleet. You command nothing, alien scum. You are hopeless, talentless, the least of your number. I will drive back the Rebels and conquer your ridiculous mutiny in the same fell stroke."
Mith kicks the wall and the ship rattles beneath your feet, hit squarely by enemy fire.
"Just once, I want something to be easy," Zel mutters. "Just once."
The Mon Calamari continues tapping away at the terminal, seeing if anything else can be done or learned from it. "Real intimidating, buddy," he says louder this time, his tone full of mockery. "How often have you rehearsed that little speech? A lot, I'll bet. Fun fact: people who actually do things don't have that kind of free time."
Zel turns an eye to Mith. "Hey, stop kicking the ship apart. What are our options? There a shuttle bay here somewhere?"
The alien stops and considers, his one red eye narrowing. "Yes, a shuttle appears to be our only option. I had considered it infeasible; the Star Destroyer's autocannons track and destroy any unregistered traffic heading to and from the surface, but if we could get the flight clearance codes, well, we wouldn't sink with the rest of the ship. Lucky for us, I arrived in just such a shuttle this morning. Then it's just a matter of evading both the TIEs and the Rebel fighters until we can convince the Rebel Fleet to let us dock. You reckon you a fancy enough flier, Captain?"
The ship quakes again. With just its secondary shields left to protect it, who knows how long it will last at this rate.
•Holed up on the bridge, under siege by mutineers. 8B has made his move. I believe he is on board, commanding this enemy force. Make no mistake, Hawkins, we are still in command here. I will evacuate myself and chief personnel from my personal hangar, but for the alien? This ship shall be his tomb.
And the one immediately after:
•Have TIE escort waiting. Upon confirmation of our launch, order the Rapacity to begin firing upon the Deception.
Zel laughs. "Oh yes. I think it's time to show you what a real pilot can do," he replies. He gestures at the screen. "We should get moving. Looks like the Moff is under siege on the bridge, but he seems confident he's getting out. Looks like he's going to have another ship fire on this one once he's away." Zel looks again at the terminal. "He's really got it out for you."
"Under siege? by who? Those turncoat troopers we saw before?" Rod asks. "Should we head straight for the shuttles or try to link up with whoever has the Moff under siege? Shuttles might be safer but we still need the launch codes and we know the Moff would have them. And if we could capture him both the Rebels and the Empire would be less eager to space us on our way out."
"Not that I doubt your piloting skill, Zel." The ex-trooper adds hastily.
"For us," Flan corrects Zel, worrying her blaster between both hands. The news of the impending firestorm weighs heavily on her decision making. "Let's just find a shuttle and get out of here. We can get the launch codes from another console along the way," she says assuredly, though she knows little about the ins-and-outs of flying a shuttle.
"We don't know anything about the mutineers," she pushes. "They might not want to align themselves with Rebels and then everyone on the ship will be after us."
"Sure, yeah, us," says Zel. "One of the messages mentions an 8B he thinks is behind all this. Almost sounds like a droid name." He shrugs. The thought of a droid instigating a mutiny and prison break amuses him, unlikely though it is.
"Even leaving aside the mutineers themselves, I don't know if the bridge itself is all that close to here. Plus it sounds like he's heading to a private hangar. I'm not sure we could intercept him in time if at all. As fun adds kidnapping a Grand Moff might be, it sounds like it might be too risky."