No Prisoners

by Karen Traviss

  It could have been a female. Anakin was never sure with Quarrens unless they spoke. This one didn’t get a chance, nothing beyond a strangled grunt.

  Now there was nothing between Anakin and the cockpit. The hull rattled under blasterfire from outside. Rex had to be facing a heavy assault. As Anakin burst through into the cockpit, Altis and Ahsoka appeared through a hatch from the deck beneath.

  “I’ve never flown one of these,” Anakin said, flicking all the power switches on. The drives whined into life. “How hard can it be?”

  “Taking off’s the easy bit.” Altis dropped into the copilot’s seat. “Holding it steady while you drop the hatch for Rex—that’s the tough part.”

  It was suddenly very easy to be with Altis. Anakin felt he’d known him all his life. There was a common spark in them, maybe, a little of Qui-Gon’s influence somehow. It didn’t matter. All Anakin cared about at that moment was that as soon as he pulled back on the yoke, the CR-20’s nose lifted. A hail of red blasterfire hit the viewscreen. Then the ship was soaring vertically. It was at a hundred meters before he knew it, and Ahsoka was flung sideways as she tried to hang on to the back of his seat.

  He banked to starboard. Beneath him on the elevated section of highway, a cluster of white armor and a small figure in a flight suit were trading blasterfire with droids on the ground from the cover of a barrier of burned-out speeders. One trooper was down.

  It made sense to land on the highway behind them. But it left Rex’s team exposed and forced to turn their backs when they finally broke contact and ran for extraction.

  Anakin decided to drop into the droid line of fire and form a defensive barrier while he lowered the ramp.

  “We’re Jedi,” he said. “If we can’t drop a ramp onto a bridge while hovering, who can?”

  TEN

  Attachment is a closed room. It can be a sanctuary or a prison; both have locked doors. The fine line between them is who holds the key and is ready to turn it—in either direction.

  —MASTER DJINN ALTIS, in conversation with his students

  CADAMAN ROYAL HIGHWAY, ATHAR

  “VULTURE DROID,” SAID JOC, LOOKING UP.

  It was only a matter of time. Eventually, even droid commanders worked out what to do, the dumb tinnie barves.

  Rex kept an eye on the CR-20 as it slowed and swung its tail 180 degrees at a right angle to the road. The cover they’d made by moving hastily abandoned ground speeders against one of the pillars that supported the suspended section of highway wasn’t going to hold out forever.

  “How’s Ince doing?”

  “He’s hanging in there.” Hil pressed a wad of gauze hard into Ince’s groin, trying to stop the bleeding farther down his leg by keeping pressure on the femoral artery. “Sooner we can move him, the better.”

  “Let me take over,” Callista said. “I can use a little Force first aid, too.”

  Above the CR-20, a Vulture droid swooped and strafed. The ship was taking a pounding. The vulture broke off to dive down on the clones’ position, spitting laserfire, and the paving behind them ripped open, scattering debris like someone had pulled a zipper, flinging chunks of permacrete. Rex ducked just as Callista raised her hand and deflected the debris, sending it tumbling off the edge of the highway like a miniature avalanche. Then she laid aside Ince’s rifle—she was a pretty good shot, Rex noted—and edged across to the wounded trooper.

  “Okay, Hil, quick as you can—now.” She slipped her fist, knuckles down, onto the wad of dressing as Hil pulled his hand away. Ince made a noise that sounded as if he was objecting. “No need to be embarrassed, Ince. I’m practically a married woman. Come on. Talk to me. Stay awake.”

  Ince muttered something unintelligible. Rex couldn’t take his eyes off the Vulture now, and he kept a stream of blasterfire targeted on it until it was obscured by the CR-20 backing onto the highway at an angle so that the ramp aligned with one open end of the makeshift barrier of vehicle debris. Ten meters separated that and the edge of the road, which meant six or seven seconds between making a run for it and the cover of the open bay. Ince had to go in first. Rex started working it out in his mind’s eye.

  Callista can do some Force thing to hold the bleeding while we just carry him by his webbing. They can do that. I’ve seen Jedi do some weird things. A few seconds of Force pressure should be easy for her.

  The CR-20’s tail swung against the road again, ripping out the crash barrier and sending permacrete tumbling. It pulled forward a few meters then tried again, and finally the ramp section scraped along the permacrete, showering sparks before it came to a noisy stop as the rest of the vessel hung in midair at forty-five degrees to the barrier with the drives whining. Rex signaled the troopers to stand by.

  Skywalker’s voice cut into his comm circuit. “Rex, the ramp’s going down now.”

  “Copy that, sir. Ince is down, so we’re moving him while Ross and I keep the Vulture busy.” Laser rounds hit the top of the vehicle barricade, and red-hot shrapnel rattled against Rex’s visor. The ramp gaped open. Seconds, just seconds, and they’d be out of here. “Just get Ince back safe, please, sir?”

  Skywalker hesitated for a moment. “Will do, Rex.”

  Rex had never made a plea like that before. He felt briefly embarrassed. But right then Ince mattered more than anything.

  Why? Do I think that I’m going to make it all right if he gets a few weeks or months or even longer in the front line before someone puts a round through him?

  “Okay, Ross—covering fire with me, everyone else—grab Ince and get moving on my mark.” Callista managed to keep her fist pressed against Ince’s artery while the others picked him up, slung between them on webbing, legs higher than his head to help his heart deal with the reduced blood volume. Rex waited a few more seconds. The ramp wasn’t fully open yet but it was low enough for them to get Ince on board. “Go, go, go!”

  The droids at ground level didn’t have a clear shot with the CR-20 blocking their line of sight, but the Vulture was harder to evade. The thing could land and walk by rotating its wings into legs. Rex had quickly come to dread vultures even more than the SBDs, the bulky super battle droids that made the regular ones look like toys. A Vulture was smart, persistent, and could get pretty well anywhere on land, in the air, or in space. Rex wondered for a moment if the damned things could swim, too. If he’d been nearer the river, he’d have been willing to test the theory and drag it down personally.

  This vulture was every bit as agile and persistent as its kin. It landed, durasteel scraping on the road surface, and clattered toward the wrecked vehicles with its cannon aimed. It could have turned them all into charcoal right away. But it was simply stalking.

  Why? What does it want intact?

  “Ross,” Rex said, “get out. Go.”

  “Sir—”

  Rex could see the top of the Vulture moving toward them. It was within a couple of meters now; he could hear the faint hissing and whirring of its servos as it edged along, hunting. It was level with him now, a stranger on the other side of a metal wall.

  Like anything with weapons, the droid had to be able to use its cannon or its sharp-edged wings. Rex had never wanted to get close and personal with a Vulture, but the fact that he could even smell the slightly grassy smell of its lube oil made him wonder if it was worth a try.

  Personally.

  He gestured at Ross. Move out, slowly.

  Ross’s expression behind the visor could only be guessed at, but Rex heard the slow intake of breath. Ross squatted to keep his head below the level of the barrier and moved gradually toward the open end, almost in line with the CR-20’s ramp.

  “Rex, what’s the holdup?” Skywalker’s voice filled his helmet. “We’re taking a lot of fire.”

  “I’ve got company,” he said. “Vulture, grounded, stalking. Give me a few more moments.” He gestured at Ross again. He could see the Vulture as it moved back and forth past the chinks and holes of a wrecked speeder.

  I can jump
it.

  “Ross, on my mark …”

  “Warn me, sir?”

  “Just lure it. When I say move, edge out.”

  Ross’s faith in his captain was touching. “I can do lure, sir.”

  “Okay … go.”

  Ross creaked a little as he crabbed to the edge of the barrier, rifle held in both hands at shoulder height. The Vulture froze, whirring quietly, and then there was the tap-tap-tap of its wingtips as it moved in the direction of the sound.

  Rex took his rappel line in one hand and his sidearm in the other.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  At the moment he saw it blot out the narrow chink in the wall of debris, he rolled over the top of the speeder, fired the grapple point-blank between its legs, and hit the winch control on his belt. The Vulture turned, already tangled in the line. Rex was yanked across the barrier so hard by the miniature motor that he crashed hard onto the droid’s casing and rolled to one side. But he was still bound to it by the grapple and line.

  Too close, buddy? Let’s see who blinks first.

  Rex clung on for dear life, getting a lock on one of its legs as it spun to try to throw him off, wrapping the line farther around itself. The Vulture couldn’t use its lasers on a target stuck to its own limbs, and now it couldn’t even fly. It tried to roll; it bucked and spun. Rex hung on grimly. The world around him tilted and flashed in his HUD image, and his head hit the ground hard enough to shake his teeth despite his helmet. The best he could do was grip with both legs and one arm while his right hand thrust his blaster under the thing’s … chin.

  He could only think of it as a chin. Then he fired and kept firing. The blasterfire seemed to go on for a while after he eased back on the trigger. The next thing he knew the Vulture stopped dead, shuddered, and fell to one side, smashing him to the ground.

  I’m not dead.

  His helmet optics were scrolling randomly, but he was conscious and breathing. It was a short-lived relief. He could hear the bdapp-bdapp of continuous blasterfire nearby and the occasional boom of a cannon very close.

  Someone grabbed his wrist and hauled him to his feet, still tangled in the rappel line. Ross’s visor was suddenly right up against his.

  “Get a move on, sir.” Ross cut the line and pulled Rex free. “See? Their legs come off easier than I thought.”

  Rex glanced back for a moment as he ran for the open ramp of the CR-20. No wonder the Vulture had fallen over. While he’d been drilling its head section with his sidearm, Ross must have blasted through one of its wing joints. It wasn’t going anywhere now. Lasers weren’t a whole lot of use if your attacker was right in your face and you couldn’t move.

  All you have to do is run into their arms.

  It was true of all droids, he thought.

  The ramp started to lift the moment their boots hit the metal. Rex pulled off his helmet, frustrated by the crazily scrolling display, and punched the reset button inside. He grabbed the nearest safety rail as the CR-20 lifted and sent scraping noises echoing through the hull while the vessel’s tail dragged along the road for a few meters before lifting free. He hoped its shuddering and whoomp noises were just the cannon loosing off a few rounds on the tinnies beneath. When he looked up from inspecting his helmet, Ross was making his way to the nearest ladder. Hallena was waiting at the top, looking down from the gantry.

  “That was mindlessly brave, Captain,” Hallena said.

  “That was the only option left,” said Rex. “Now, how’s Ince?”

  REPUBLIC ASSAULT SHIP LEVELER, PORESSI SYSTEM

  “YOU WANT TO GO AHEAD WITH THIS?” ASH JARVEE ASKED.

  Pellaeon was prepared to try anything now. “Are you going to explain how it actually works?”

  “I can try, but … it’s more of a feeling.”

  Yes, he was even ready to navigate his ship by feeling. “As in?”

  “We influence inanimate objects—machines, computers—by telekinesis, but we can also sense where there is no Force within the fabric of the universe, and so feel what it is to be a machine. We can move ourselves into a state of coexistence with it.”

  Pellaeon chewed that over for a moment. “I can’t even pretend to understand that,” he said. “But you mean you can fill the gaps between atoms and direct energy. Sounds a trifle dangerous to me, but …”

  “Right down to the smallest charge in a computer’s circuits and crystals. It’s very imprecise in your terms, but … we can feel when we get it right. It’s a rare skill even among Jedi.”

  Pellaeon checked the Galactic Standard Time chrono again, unable to stop himself from stroking the knuckle of his forefinger down his mustache, nose to lip. Hallena, Rex, and everyone with them didn’t have the luxury of time.

  “Sir?” One of the young male Jedi raised a nervous finger as if asking for permission to speak. “Think of it as the Jedi equivalent of bashing a holoreceiver to fix it. Except we’re very, very lucky at bashing, and we always get a nice clear picture in the end.”

  Pellaeon nodded. I did crazier things than this in the piracy war. “Bash away, then. Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you folks.”

  The band of eccentric Jedi clasped hands in a circle on his bridge like children playing a game. Just another unusual technology. This war had changed his definition of normal out of all recognition.

  Hydrospanner, demagnetizer … Jedi.

  “Propulsion, Navigation—stand by.” Pellaeon nodded at Baradis. “Derel—all cannon teams ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  If Pellaeon wasn’t entirely convinced that Leveler would jump back to the position he expected, at least she’d emerge with all cannon and turbolasers ready for action. He glanced at Ash and nodded. Then he leaned forward and pressed the emergency klaxon, sounding the alert throughout the ship. Lights pulsed on his command console.

  “Begin manual jump sequence,” he said.

  Baradis didn’t take his eyes off the viewscreen. “Propulsion, engage drive.”

  The Jedi shut their eyes, and some lowered their chins a little. The oldest looked about twenty. That in itself didn’t bother Pellaeon, but the complete lack of anything tangibly engineerlike was slightly unnerving for a man responsible for a warship and several thousand hands.

  Leveler’s drives emitted a muffled, rising note that began just on the threshold of his hearing. Then, for a second that felt as if it simply would not move on the chrono, the stars visible through the viewscreen stretched into smears of white light. Leveler hovered on the brink of potential destruction. The whine of the drives reached a peak and—

  Shhhh-unnk.

  She jumped.

  It was a matter of minutes. Pellaeon hadn’t intended to jump far out of JanFathal space, just enough to reposition and jump back again, but seconds could mean missing a star system at these velocities. Baradis watched the bulkhead chrono, checking it against his own timepiece as it rushed through fractions of seconds in a blur of symbols. Without the nav computer’s unseen intervention, controlling millions of simultaneous calculations, he had to pick the precise moment to decelerate and drop out of hyperspace. Pellaeon didn’t envy him. He’d made the decision to drop out short of the exact coordinates to allow for error.

  Like slamming into the planet.

  The Jedi were still locked in that trance, communing somehow with the nav computer and the physical world of realspace. Pellaeon felt like a nervous passenger trying to count passing buildings to distract himself from the wild ride he was suffering.

  Before the war, he’d only known Jedi in passing—local law-keepers, Republic agents, shadowy monastic figures who appeared occasionally in the background behind the Chancellor or some Senator. The Jedi Temple was a Coruscant landmark, but a temple closed to almost everyone else, and whenever he flew past its four corner towers he found himself wondering what actually went on within its ancient, unyielding walls.

  These Altisian Jedi didn’t know, either. Isn’t that extraordinary? How many other flavors do Force-use
rs come in? These were the oddballs, the chancers, the freethinkers, the ones who dabbled in even more arcane knowledge—and who had families. They were utterly unlike the ascetics of Master Yoda’s Order in every way that he could see. They struck him as the eccentric aunt everyone avoided at family gatherings after she’d had one Sullustian gin too many. He rather liked them.

  Benb the technician stood nearby with both hands gripping a rail, staring into mid-distance and occasionally glancing at the chrono. It was an awfully long time for a few minutes. Pellaeon caught his eye.

  “I won’t insist on a union card,” he muttered.

  “One standard minute,” Baradis called. “Stand by, Propulsion.”

  And maybe we’ll end up a few hundred light-years Core-ward.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  I’m glad it was Leveler that got the call, though, Hallena.

  “Twenty …”

  I should be out of my mind with worry. I’m not. Don’t I care enough?

  “Ten …”

  Worry doesn’t help. Problem solving does. Get a grip. Keep on top of it. That’s the only way.

  “Five …”

  And nobody could spare a ship to back us up?

  “Four.”

  Get used to it. We were never ready for this war.

  “Three.”

  Except the clone army, of course.

  “Two.”

  Dirty politics. Or maybe the Jedi sensed what was coming, and got ready. But for whose benefit?

  “Disengage!”

  Pellaeon’s speculation ended abruptly as the visible starscape snapped back into normal points of light and the hairs on the back on his neck tingled. Normal space. Realspace. Where?

  The swirled green disk of JanFathal filled the far right section of the bridge viewport. Ash bounced up and down on the spot for a moment like an excited teenager, grinning from ear to ear. She was an excited teenager. She was also in the middle of a war. Pellaeon had just enough time to give her an approving thumbs-up and switch the ship’s comms to pick up Skywalker’s and Rex’s channel before Derel reminded them exactly what they’d jumped back into.