Allegiance (8 page)

“Like what shape the conference table should be?” Han suggested.

Leia and Rieekan exchanged glances. “We’ll let you know the schedule as soon as we have it,” the general said. “Thank you for coming.”

“And once again, the Alliance is in your debt,” Mon Mothma said.

“Right,” Han said. Standing up, he strode out of the room. Luke watched him go, wondering what exactly was going on.

It was, apparently, a universal question. “What’s bothering
him
?” Rieekan asked.

“I don’t know,” Luke said. “He was like this on the way back from Teardrop, too.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” Leia volunteered, standing up. “Thank you for your time, Mon Mothma; General Rieekan.”

“Thank
you
,” Mon Mothma said gravely.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do regarding Solo,” Rieekan said. “We need all the good people we can get.”

“You really think there’s a good person under all that?” Leia asked drily.

“Of course there is.” Rieekan shrugged. “Somewhere.”

Leia caught up with Han at the
Falcon
just as the techs were carting off the last of the Teardrop equipment. “Han,” she greeted him gravely.

“Your Worshipfulness,” he countered, inclining his head to her.

With an effort, she bit down on the retort that wanted to come out. Why did he
do
that? He
knew
she hated that kind of sarcasm.

Or maybe that was why he did it. “You were a little abrupt in there,” she said instead. “
And
disrespectful.”

Han’s lip twitched. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “I
don’t
disrespect them. Well, not Rieekan, anyway—I’ve seen enough bad officers to know a good one when I see him.”

“Well, if it wasn’t disrespect, it was a pretty good imitation,” Leia said.

Han turned his back on her and started fiddling with a piece of equipment on the
Falcon
’s underside. “I just don’t like politics,” he said over his shoulder.

“This isn’t about politics, Han,” she said. “This is about survival against—”

“Of course it’s about politics,” he interrupted, turning back to glare at her. “It’s
always
about politics. One
Rebel leader pushes to get what he wants, the other leaders try to keep him from grabbing all the credit, and you and Mon Mothma and Rieekan try to soothe everyone’s ruffled feathers. That’s not survival, Princess. That’s politics.”

“Is
that
what’s bothering you?” Leia asked, sifting rapidly through his tirade as she hunted for clues. “You’re not getting enough credit?”

“Of course I’m getting enough credit,” he said. “Don’t you remember that shiny medal you hung around my neck?”

Leia felt her cheeks burning. “My apologies, Captain Solo,” she ground out with more acid than she’d really intended. “I’m just trying to understand you.”

For the briefest fraction of a second she thought she saw something almost vulnerable in his eyes. But the moment passed, and the mask of cynical indifference dropped back into place. “Don’t bother,” he advised. “Even if you did, you wouldn’t believe it.”

He turned away again, his hands and eyes pretending to busy themselves with random bits of the
Falcon’
s equipment. Leia remained where she was for a few seconds, until it was clear the conversation was over. Spinning around, she strode back across the hangar floor, her cheeks still warm. Never in her life had she met a man whose strengths she so admired while at the same time wanting to strangle him with her bare hands.

Luke was waiting just outside the hangar door. “Anything?” he asked.

“Just the usual bluster,” Leia said with a sigh. “Maybe you can get something out of him.”

Luke’s eyes flicked over her shoulder. “Probably better to wait until he cools down.”

“I just wish I knew what had stirred him up in the first place,” Leia said. “He talked about politics, but I know that’s not the whole story.”

“Meanwhile, we have to get to Shelsha sector,” Luke said. “I hope General Rieekan’s got a backup plan for transport.”

“I’m sure he does,” Leia said. “But we’ve got a few days. Maybe we can bring Han around.”

“Yeah,” Luke said doubtfully. “Maybe.”

F
ROM THE AIR, THE
D
RUNOST HUB OF
C
ONSOLIDATED
Shipping looked exactly like its familiar star-in-swirl corporate logo. Standing behind Marcross, peering over his shoulder, LaRone could see a dozen large transports parked at various points around its edges, with several small landing/service areas forming a loose ring a few kilometers farther out. A couple of kilometers southeast of the hub, a medium-sized city pressed up against the edge of a swift-flowing river.

“See all the transports?” Quiller said, pointing at the hub building. “A convoy must have just come in. That’s good—means lots of people and vehicles and ships moving around picking up their stuff.”

“A crowd we can lose ourselves in?” Marcross suggested.

“Exactly.”

“What are all those little landing areas around the hub’s edges?” LaRone asked.

“Privately owned service fields,” Quiller told him. “They’re for people who want to come and pick up shipments or buy directly from Consolidated’s outlet center.”

“We’re not going to the hub itself, are we?” Grave asked from the shield/sensor station behind Quiller.

“We’re not even waving at it,” Quiller assured him.
“Consolidated has their own security force, and they’re not a group you want to tangle with. But these transfer fields have their own shopping areas. Actually, once I put down we shouldn’t have to go more than a couple hundred meters from the ship to find all the food and gear we need.”

“What about Imperials?” Brightwater asked from the astrogation/comm seat behind LaRone. “They’re bound to have a presence here.”

“Actually, probably not,” Marcross told him. “Consolidated doesn’t like having government flunkies underfoot, and they’re big enough that Imperial Center usually cuts them some slack.”

“Which is one reason I chose this spot in the first place,” Quiller confirmed.

“We still might want to warm up the lasers,” Brightwater warned. “Even if we don’t see any Imperials, raiders like to hang around transfer stations, too.”

“Especially when
they
don’t see any Imperials, either,” Grave said drily.

“Good point,” LaRone agreed. “Why don’t you and Brightwater go ahead and fire up the cannons?”

“Sure,” Grave said. He gestured, and he and Brightwater left the cockpit. LaRone glanced back to see them circle past the life support and ship computer stations on either side in the anteroom and slip through the small blast doors into the two gunwells flanking the ship’s nose.

“Those lasers are going to be a nasty surprise to anyone we have to fire at,” Quiller commented as he flipped on the gunwell intercoms. “I took a quick look earlier, and they’ve been seriously upgraded from anything that’s standard for this class of ship.”

“Figures,” LaRone said, studying the ring of landing areas as they dropped toward the ground. “Quiller,
what do you say we take that medium-crowded field due east of the hub?”

“Sounds good to me,” Quiller said. “I’ll put her down near those two Barloz freighters at the northern end.”

“So how do we work this?” Marcross asked. “We spread out with shopping lists?”

“I don’t think we should split up quite that much,” LaRone said. “I was thinking Grave and I would do the shopping while the rest of you stay here. We’ll buy a few days’ worth of supplies, bring them back to the ship, then go to a different shop and buy a little more. That way it’ll be less obvious that we’re stocking up for a long trip.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Marcross said. “I presume the rest of us can at least put in special requests?”

“Hey, this is on the ISB,” LaRone reminded him. “Just give me your lists.”

The landing field was rough and aged, its permacrete surface crisscrossed with cracks and dips and ridges, its nav markings faded or nonexistent. Despite all that, they settled almost gently onto the surface, with far less bumping than even the typical stormtrooper drop ship. Either Quiller was a better pilot than LaRone had realized, or else the Suwantek’s landing gear had been as lovingly upgraded as everything else on the ship.

“Keep an eye out for trouble,” LaRone told the others as Grave maneuvered one of the two landspeeders onto the cargo lift.

“You too,” Marcross said. “If they’ve got an alert out, this whole place could be plastered with our pictures by now.”

“I hope not,” Grave said, patting the sport blaster belted at his side. “For their sake.”

Either Drunost had been left out of the loop or else Captain Ozzel and the ISB were still trying to figure out
how to word a wanted posting for stormtrooper deserters. LaRone watched the shopkeepers closely as he and Grave filled their baskets, but there was no hint of recognition or even interest in the two strangers.

They paid for their purchases with ISB credits and headed back outside. To the west a wave of loaded air-speeders flew out from the Consolidated complex with freshly obtained cargoes, and a line of speeder trucks and landspeeders shimmered their way down the road or across the hardened ground on either side of it. Plodding along among them were half a dozen men and women in threadbare farmers’ garb, leading a pair of animal-drawn wagons loaded with large plastic crates.

“The nearest farmland looked to be a good fifteen kilometers away,” Grave commented quietly, nodding toward the latter procession as he and LaRone loaded their packages into the landspeeder. “Going to be a long walk.”

“Maybe they’ll get to ride some of it,” LaRone said.

“I doubt it,” Grave said. “The crates are full of farming gear—I recognize the Johder company logo. Low-tech, and as heavy as a moff’s private vault. They won’t risk straining their animals by making them haul passengers, too.”

LaRone grimaced, his mind flashing back to the dirt-poor farmers back on Copperline. “This is the sort of life I joined the fleet to escape,” he murmured.

“You want to offer them a lift?” Grave suggested. “We could put their cargo into one of the Suwantek’s holds and the animals and carts in the other.”

“And have ISB come knocking on their doors someday?” LaRone countered. “No. They’ve got enough trouble already.”

Grave exhaled loudly. “I suppose.”

From somewhere behind LaRone came a soft whooshing sound. Frowning, he turned—

And dropped reflexively into a crouch beside the landspeeder as a pair of swoops shot past half a meter over his head. “Grave!” he snapped as half a dozen more followed hard on the exhaust vents of the first two, all of them heading straight toward the farmers and their wagons.

LaRone yanked out his blaster, his eyes and mind automatically assessing the situation. The two lead swoops had split formation now and were making tight circles above and around the two wagons as they waited for their comrades to catch up. The riders were little more than a blur, but from their garish outfits and the highly illegal underslung blaster cannons spitting a warning circle into the dust around the wagons it was obvious they were some sort of gang. The other speeder trucks on the road were scattering like smoke in the wind, leaving the farmers to stand alone.

“They’re coming from that freighter,” Grave called. LaRone turned and saw a pair of open-topped speeder trucks loaded with rough-looking humans and aliens sliding down the ramp of one of the two Barloz freighters parked near the Suwantek.

Which meant this wasn’t just some group of delinquents here for the twisted fun of terrorizing helpless locals. They were bandits or raiders, intending to steal the farmer’s new equipment.

LaRone felt a snarl catch in his throat. Pulling out his comlink, he flicked it on. “Quiller?”

“We’re here,” Quiller’s voice was tight and professional. “You want a pickup?”

“I want firepower,” LaRone retorted. “We’re taking them down.”

There was just the briefest pause. “You sure you want to do that?”

“We’re sure,” Grave cut in. “LaRone and I will handle
the swoops—you see what you can do about that freighter.”

“Acknowledged,” Quiller said. “Stand by.”

LaRone slipped the comlink back onto his belt and braced his gun hand along the side of the landspeeder. At the raiders’ distance, this was going to be a tricky shot, especially with them running an encirclement pattern around their prey while they waited for their speeder trucks to arrive. Even more especially with the unfamiliar sport pistol he’d brought from the Suwantek’s collection.

But he would just have to make do with what he had. Lining up the muzzle on the nearest swoop rider, he squinted along the barrel.

“Heads up!” a faint voice called from his belted comlink. He frowned, looking up—

To see Brightwater in full scout trooper armor flash past on his speeder bike, his own underslung blaster cannon spitting death at the distant swoops.

LaRone barely had time to goggle at the sight when a second rapidly moving object caught the edge of his vision. He twisted his head that direction to see Marcross roaring toward them in the Suwantek’s other landspeeder. “Here!” the other called, lobbing a pair of large, dark objects toward him. LaRone dropped his blaster and stood upright, his eyes tracking, his arms outstretched.

A second later the familiar bulk of Grave’s BlasTech T-28 sniper rifle dropped neatly into his right hand, while his own BlasTech E-11 landed in his left. “Grave!” he called.

Grave glanced over, quick-holstering his own pistol as LaRone tossed him the T-28. He spun back around, lifted it to his shoulder, and began adding his own deadly sniper attack to the rapid fire spitting from Brightwater’s speeder bike.

The raiders never had a chance. The last thing they could have expected this far from the hub’s private security was serious resistance, and the
very
last thing they could have expected was resistance from Imperial stormtroopers. Brightwater spiraled around the raiders, running deft rings around the more amateur swoopers, keeping them herded together as Grave picked them off one by one. The backup troops in the speeder trucks fared no better, with Marcross in his landspeeder blocking any escape as he and LaRone rained blasterfire on them.