“…Hm.
We should head that way.” A couple of seconds later I point toward the sun-bleached path winding between the trees.
“For now, halt.
Ten minutes.
Salty, come here!” “Cap?” I swear, one of these days.
“Look here.” I unfold the map on the datapad.
“Stream should be about five kilometers ahead, you can see the treeline thinning out that way, we’ll set up for the night there.
Once we’re settled, get these guys scraping the polish off their armor with knives.
Rub in whatever dirt they can find, but grass first, then dirt.
No shiny blank spots left anywhere.
Talk them through color camouflage too if it comes up.
Keep the same marching order as before.
Just make sure the forward pair from second squad ranges further out, follows the trail, and signals if they spot anything.
Keep comms to an absolute minimum, no telling what kind of scanners our targets might be running, and if they pick us up, that’s a serious problem.” “Mm-hm,” he nods.
“Good.” I tap the comm.
“General call.
Radio silence from here.
Anyone not on recon, disconnect.
Vocoders down low, ears up.
Drill, max out your gear’s sensitivity.
I want to know about any signal chatter out there, and its direction, if you can get it.
Can you handle that?” “Yes, Cap,” he nods.
Guy knows that nickname bugs me.
Or maybe he genuinely doesn’t.
“Good.
We move in seven minutes.
Anybody need a break before that?” Their muffled complaints about mosquitoes carried across the campsite while everyone scraped down their armor, me tossing out comments like, “pluck those feathers clean, boys, waste not, my beautiful white chickens, heh heh.” Salty, in response to someone grumbling “why do we even need this,” just grabbed one of the gunners, walked him about ten meters off, and asked, “can you see him clearly?
What about me?” Anyway, getting off track.
The next evening we found a flat clearing, common enough in this terrain, converted into a temporary camp for a mixed group of Trandoshans and a couple Rodians who hadn’t bothered scrubbing the colony grime off yet.
Chief Creep, no hesitation at all, had claimed the interior of an old YV-series light freighter, model 340 if I remember right, though clearly heavily modified, since it sported a pair of twin turbolaser turrets on the flanks and one more mounted forward on the hull.
The Trandoshans, preferring a climate closer to their homeworld, camped comfortably outside.
Twenty six reptilian heads total, two Rodians, and one leader of unidentified species, plus an unknown headcount still inside the ship.
Outside sat two eight-seat speeders, one mounting what looked like a rapid-fire plasma launcher similar to our own Z-5 setup.
No formal guard posts, but the lizards weren’t sloppy either.
Actually, correction, there was a watch.
Two of them, sitting on the rock ledge above us, not even trying that hard to stay hidden.
After a quick argument with my own better judgment, I decided taking down the ship was worth the risk.
I really didn’t want a three day hike back through this wilderness on foot, thanks, hard pass.
But common sense won out over impulse, pointing out that if those turrets ever came online, this would stop being fun fast, meaning we’d need to quietly hijack the speeders instead.
The plan came together almost instantly.
Bold and reckless in equal measure, which honestly gave it a decent shot at working.
My scouts quietly take out the watch on the rock, gunners and Salty covering them from below.
Dench’s team wires the ship’s engine intakes with charges, and if possible, the twin turret mounts on the hull too, since with the watch gone they could climb up and drop straight onto the ship almost unnoticed.
We create a diversion on our end, meanwhile three more scouts sprint for the speeders and peel off toward us, down the well-worn path out of the clearing.
Second gun crew holds position, pinning down anyone chasing on foot, they scramble back into the ship, and boom.
By then we’ll have closed the distance to the clearing and be ready to pick apart that now-immobilized tin can, assuming there’s enough explosive to go around.
But I trust Denny on that front, this maniac always finds the ideal placement.
Just need the camp to fall asleep first.
Never doubted for a second they’d try scrambling that ship in pursuit.
Turned out the Trandoshans didn’t doubt it either.
The sentries dropped almost on cue.
After a coded signal buzzed through my helmet from Salty, I silently asked whatever might be listening for a little luck, and gave the order: “Go.” Under the stunned, half-asleep stares of the lizards, four figures in black undersuits, decked out in vines and leaves for camouflage, burst screaming out of the treeline and piled straight into the speeders.
For a second the whole plan nearly collapsed, since the Trandoshans immediately grabbed for weapons, which I preempted with some focused suppressing fire from my position.
Let them think there’s more of us than there are.
On the last speeder, Mouse-Two apparently decided to lean into the chaos and unloaded a wild burst from the plasma launcher straight up into the air.
Within seconds, both speeders roared over our heads.
A hundred meters out, the guys would drop, suit back up, and circle back to reinforce our position.
Alright, part one of the show, done.
Just hoping nerves hold for the rest of it, first real firefight for a lot of these guys.
The gang, cursing loudly and scrambling in a panic, poured back into the ship in waves.
I open the general channel.
“Hold.” The freighter’s engines spin up, the ramp sealing as it lifts off the ground.
“Cap?” Dench’s voice cracks through, thick with adrenaline.
“Wait!” I growl.
Staying steady matters most right now, if I crack, they’ll crack.
The transport climbs about ten meters, angles toward us, picking up speed.
“Now!” I shout, barely recognizing my own voice.
Dench, with some unearthly battle cry over the comm, I just know it, slams down on the detonator.
What a blast.
“Down!” I scream again, hitting the dirt hard, trying to melt into it.
The shockwave nearly flattens the nearest trees around us.
We’re back on our feet fast.
A quick “everyone clear?” gets an overlapping chorus of “yes” back.
The freighter tips sideways, slammed into the ground by an almost perfectly directional blast, and splits apart.
Out of the surviving, better armored front section stumble furious, dazed Trandoshans.
Repeaters open up in a chorus of streaking plasma, Scar’s clearly wide awake.
Occasional flashes mark Salty’s sniper shots.
Lazy, almost bored single shots from Drill’s people, still covering the scouts who grabbed the speeders.
And here I am, flat on the ground like an idiot, just watching this deadly light show, genuinely mesmerized.
This is it.
The real thing.
Actual blaster fire, actual enemies to take down.
It hits me all at once, I’m really here.
And this is my life now, for whatever’s left of it, rough as it might be, but genuinely mine.
First time in years I actually felt like I could breathe freely.
Guess I’ve finally made peace with all this.
Yeah.
This is good.
There’s no more Kell.
He’s gone.
Somewhere unimaginably far from here, in another, uglier world, full of pointless neighbor drama and problems nobody actually needed to have.
All of that, just so I could end up reborn here, whether by fate, gods, or whatever this galaxy calls the Force, living out however long this strong, healthy body the local doctors built for me actually lasts, with the same worn-out, still-beating heart that’s always been mine, ticking along inside it.
Complete with the vaguely mocking little joke of a name, an aircraft model number standing in for an actual identity.
Half in a trance, I stand up and whisper, barely audible, in words from a language nobody left in this galaxy would ever recognize: “Well, hello, glorious promised land.
Looks like I’ve finally made it.” “Cap?” Salty responds instantly, clearly not catching whatever I’d just muttered.
That brief flash of freedom fades fast, vision narrowing back down, body settling into the familiar rhythm of combat readiness.
Call it a trance if you want.
Movements sharpen, deliberate, nothing wasted.
Pure economy, full focus.
I sling my favorite modular rifle over my shoulder, catching the returning scouts sprinting in from the speeders at the edge of my vision.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Back to work.
“One-Thirty-Four to all.
Clean sweep!” I unclip the blaster from my hip holster, and, covered by the ongoing chorus of the repeaters, sprint straight toward the burning wreck of the pirate ship a hundred meters off.
com/Hezzario