Mission Database

Battle 4, Additional Story: Double Jeopardy
  
Castor was breathing heavily.
He’d been right after all.
A whole new meaning to the word stress.
Control, he thought to himself.  Serenity.  Relax.  He willed his heartbeat to slow, his breathing to slow, his muscles to loosen.  Fear is a thing of the mind.  The mind can be controlled.  Therefore fear can be controlled.
Opening his eyes and looking through his visor, he couldn’t see the Avenger he was attached to.  He could only watch the black of space rush by.  Actually, it didn’t look like he was moving at all.  It just felt like the surface he was attached to just kept bucking underneath him.  He couldn’t see the starfighter battle, but he saw laser bolts flash by, and the felt the crackle of the deflector shields when those bolts hit their mark.  And he could occasionally see the starfighters roll by in dizzying circles as Tacomah looped his fighter avoiding the incoming missiles.  He could hear, through the vibrations in his TIE pilot’s helmet, the pounding that the Avenger was taking when the boy missed spotting an incoming missile.  He could hear the returned laser fire as well.
But all he could do was hang there in space, attached to the bottom of a starfighter, totally trusting his destiny to a fifteen year old boy.  A very clever, fast thinking, and very successful combat pilot.  But a boy nonetheless.  The speed of Tacomah’s thoughts and calculations was exactly why he chose that boy.  The way he saw the universe, everything turned into numbers and equations that he could process faster than anyone Castor had ever seen.  Tacomah would calculate chances, distances, angles and speeds with a dead on accuracy that left extremely little to luck.
So Castor hung there and waited.  And waited.  Interminably.  And hoped that the starfighter’s shields were holding up every time the boy flew through a debris cloud of his own making.
So he waited.
Silently.
Powerless to prevent his own possible death.
Powerless to prevent the death of the Gunboat pilot.
Powerless to prevent the death of Grey Squadron.
Powerless to prevent the death of the Aragorn and its crew.
The sweat ran from his face onto his the back of his neck and then down his back.  The pull Gunboat’s gravitational field leaving him feeling as if he were laying on his back on the top of the Advanced TIE with his field of vision above him.  At one point the Avenger looped down and to the left.  Castor watched the imminent clash of shield energy as the Gunboat and the Avenger rebounded from each other.  He nearly yelled as the bounce threw him against the front of his flight suit, and thoughts of being torn from his mounts prematurely threatened to override his strength of will.  Even though he knew that it was very beyond his talent, Castor tried very hard to increase the pull of gravity on his body to hold him harder to the surface of the starfighter.  He remembered the words of the master of the tunnels.  
Courage is the compliment of fear.  A man who is fearless cannot be courageous.  He is also a fool.  
Castor wished it were only that easy.  More of the master’s words came unbidden to his mind.  
By the data to date, there is only one animal in the galaxy dangerous to man - man himself.  So he must supply his own indispensable competition.  He has no enemy to help him.
Castor considered the things he’d seen since then.  The master must have been in the tunnels for a very long time.  So much has changed.
A laser bolt flashed what seemed only inches from his visor.  It wasn’t likely that they were shooting at him directly.  They’d painted the bottom of the Avenger black so that he wouldn’t be seen prematurely.  But he still tried to protect his face with his hands.  He was unable to pull them away from his chest.  Immobile in his flight suit, with the battle raging on, Castor wondered again about his wisdom and sanity in pursuing this particular course of action.  But whatever you’re feeling, think of Tacomah.  He reminded himself.
Before launching he’d been too busy getting ready to worry.  Learning the dose administration of the anesthetic, and the loading procedures for both parts of the virus.  He’d also had to memorize the deck layout of an Imperial Class Star Destroyer, and have his hair cut and dyed.
Yick!
Not his first choice.  He normally kept his stark white hair fairly long and fairly shaggy.  Not Imperial regulation at all.  In deference to his forgotten wookiee wife, apparently.  
That was a startling thought.  
Not even Alliance regulation, except that the Alliance didn’t have many regulations about hair, considering the diversity of species involved.
So he knew Tacomah was under FAR more pressure than himself.  The boy had to keep himself, his craft and his passenger alive long enough to make the delivery, and himself and his craft even longer, much longer, while Castor only had to wait to be delivered.  Everything depended on that.  From there it was mostly on his own shoulders.  And that kind of weight he was used to.
The inertial dampers held, defying the ever shifting g-force due to the quick maneuvers of the TIE, but the forces still constantly pulled his body in differing consecutive directions as Tacomah jinked and weaved his starfighter, moving ever closer to Spinel’s Star Destroyer.
Suddenly he sensed a certain amount of panic from the young pilot.  He could feel a certain amount of wobble through much of the maneuvering Tacomah was going through.  Another drop of sweat beaded down his neck into his cropped hair during a short single direction run.  He felt like he must be laying in a puddle by now.  The flight suit couldn’t adjust for prolonged mental and emotional stress.  A drip of sweat ran from his stomach through the hair on his sides, and down into the small of his back.  It stayed there while Castor squirmed unsuccessfully to dislodge it.  By the time it moved again, it felt the size of an insect crawling up his back bone to the spot where his back came in contact with the baggy internal skin suit.
A laser flashed in his face, and a gasp of surprise escaped his lips.  He shut his eyes and chanted an unsuccessful calming litany.
Castor’s suit radio had been removed, luckily.  He couldn’t risk accidental or premature exposure, or causing Tacomah to be distracted.  He was completely incommunicado for the duration of this flight.  He reaffirmed to himself that he would not have, even if he could have, hit the com switch to make a mission status inquiry.  But he hadn’t counted on the fact that this would leave him with extremely little external sensory input, other than the exquisite, but extremely dangerous light show.  And no reassuring knowledge.
He closed his eyes and took a very deep breath, filling his lungs to their capacity.  Then he let that breath go very slowly, ending in a semi-meditative state.  He expanded his awareness the way he used to in the tunnels of Kessel, and only distantly felt the inertial pull of the Avenger’s maneuvers, and only vaguely felt the jarring of the lasers as they dispersed against the starfighter’s shields.  He lost himself in this mind-space for a time, watching the battle, dreaming of better places.  Of peace.  Of the possibility of growing old with his wives on a sedentary and isolated planet.  
He waited.  
Patiently...
And then his nose began to itch.
Oh, man!  
He couldn’t do it.  There was too much going on for him to meditate, and far too much riding on him, and even more riding on Tacomah to remain calm.  He tried to rest instead, storing up his mental and physical energy and thinking about his newly found wives and if he’d ever see them again.  He may have found them only to have lost them more completely.
When he was suddenly thrown forward in his flight suit, his eyes flashed open as his nose bounced lightly off the faceplate.  The missile blast blinded him for a short time.  He sensed, more than saw his approach to the Star Destroyer’s docking bay.  He watched as the Avenger pulled slowly around to exit the bay, and he hit his chin switches in the quick and exact sequence that would release him from the starfighter.
He heard an aborted ‘clank’ as he detached - he no longer had the solid connection to the Avenger which allowed him the vibrations which turned into audio signals.  He watched the Star Destroyer’s docking bay loom closer, and eventually out of his field of vision as he tumbled slowly, falling into the docking maw.  His forward speed was amazingly slow.  Tacomah must have come to almost a complete stop as he aligned the Avenger so Castor would be on the correct path into the Star Destroyer.  It’s okay.  I’m okay.  Castor thought toward the boy who was very much Castor’s hero right about now.  Nest high.  Castor wished the Tacomah, knowing that he’d taken a near suicidal risk.  May the Gods see you live to toss your great-grand chicks to their wings.
Castor had always used those particular, and peculiar, avian references, even though he wasn’t really sure where he’d gotten them from.
He watch the Avenger as it spun out of sight, and felt the repulsor beam cushion him as he was consumed by the Star Destroyer.  He drew his breath, and released it as he drew upon his one single protection, the trick that his master of the tunnels had taught him to avoid the notice of the spice-maker bugs.  As he expanded his awareness, he felt the attention of the living beings watching him.  He pushed the notion into there minds that he was a very small priority to their perceptions, nothing more important than a tiny piece of debris, while the ensuing starfighter battle held a large and much more immediate interest.  He felt himself come to a complete rest in the repulsor cushion, and he activated the suit jets Ra had installed for him.
The activity of the flight deck continued as he made his way through the atmosphere shield and deeper into the ship, waiting for the off chance perception that would spell his doom.  Strengthening his resolve, along with his personal mental misdirection shield, Castor propelled himself into the back recesses of the starfighter ready area.  He grounded himself in a remote corner, and unlatched the buckles that held the customized equipment that Ra had given him.  He succeeded in stashing the jets and magnetic devices behind a rack of hydraulic oil tanks, but kept his case with all the things he’d need.  He left his flightsuit and helmet on so that the security cam monitors might not be aware of what was happening.
Knowing that the Grey’s were flying for their lives, his, Shock’s, and the crew of the Aragorn’s, lent him a dire sense of urgency.  He stashed his shoulder bag in a flight deck locker, leaving everything in it but the optical device Shi’asa had given him.  Taking that one item, he located an observation camera, found something to stand on, and placed them lens to lens.  He pushed the button that would allow the device to override the video signal with the first part of the virus that the Comp/Comm team had come up with.  After waiting the necessary five seconds he jumped down and moved on.
The sight of a TIE pilot in areas other than those normally frequented by them would probably draw alarm, considering the circumstances.  Chiria had said that fifteen minutes should be the sufficient time to allow the virus to worm it’s way into the main computer core and start working.  With as many distractions as the random virus would cause, Castor would be almost ensured to move about the ship in relative safety.
To this end, Castor sought out an officer with a rank of Commander close to his own size and tranked him once he felt safe to do so.  Castor still couldn’t hide from remote security cameras, so the process was frustratingly slow regardless of how urgent the need.  He did have to keep in mind that the virus was random, and that he might very well be discovered by a particularly attentive officer of the watch.
Ducking into a small unoccupied office, Castor stripped the officer of his uniform, switching it with his own.  He bound and gagged the man, and stuffed him in a storage compartment just large enough to hold him without too much pushing.  Uniformed, now, but still smelling like something which had crawled from a decade long closed gym locker in Anchorhead on Tattooine, Castor made his way back to the locker that held the rest of the items he needed.  Carrying his bag and rifling through the contents of his uniform’s pockets, he found a number of papers and cards, one of which told him what the uniform donor’s name and duties were, along with the passkey to the donor’s quarters.
So, moving like he had a purpose, and looking intent on completing that purpose, Castor shielded himself tightly and walked along beside a number of officers, as if nothing were out of the ordinary at all, and saluted the senior officers as they passed, as if he could be plainly seen by the people around him, until he got to the room he sought.  As he expected, it was a small shared cubicle, and as he had hoped, the cubicle had a small refresher unit.  Castor tranquilized the occupant, still gaping at the suddenly opened door though which the invisible Castor had entered, and rolled him off and under the bunk so he couldn’t be seen by any possible security cameras inside the small room.                        
After cleaning himself up, Castor found a crisp newly cleaned and pressed uniform in a small flat closet set in the wall locker inside the space left open by the flip down bunk.  He transferred all the added decorations from the one he had been wearing to the new one, and put it on.
Leaving the room again, Castor started on his way to the bridge.  The passageway lights flickered on and off once, and some of the doors were stubborn about opening for a few seconds.  Castor wore the same confused and concerned look that the other officers around him wore, trying to blend in for the remote watchers.  When the Imperial officers began to run to their stations, knowing something was drastically wrong, Castor began to run with them as well.  But his destination was always the bridge.

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The turbolift door slid open, and the Imperial officers there, who had not spoken at any time during which Castor had been present, bolted from the lift.  Castor followed them, keeping pace down the passageway and onto the bridge.  He’d thought he might have to ride the lift for a while before someone came on who’s destination matched his own, but even with system’s randomly failing all over the ship, he didn’t have to wait long.  Except for when the turbolift system itself came to a jolting halt for a few seconds.
On the bridge, he went around and down onto the Ops level.  He saw a woman that paced back and forth along the observation catwalk, who barked questions and commands at the Ops stations.  By the way the bridge officers jumped when she spoke, Castor guessed that she must be Spinel.
Hmm...  Surprising.
Never having actually met Spinel during General Greedo’s Sabaac Maneuver, as the Academy had come to call it, he’d mistakenly assumed that Spinel was male.
She was hard and lean.  Not a pretty woman at all, although she might have been if not for the scars and the look of rage that possessed her face.  The deep lines her expression caused seemed to be permanently etched.  The scars only made her look more fierce.  Her salt and pepper hair was short cropped, and her face was a cold mask of concentration, but her eyes flashed fire every time one of the Ops called out a status report.
Castor found the Computer Ops station just as the man announced that he just about had the virus trapped.  He was typing and pressing switches furiously as Castor pressed the hypo-gun to his neck and pulled the trigger.
The man gave out a noise like a loud sigh, and dropped his hands as his eyes glazed and his body went slack.  Castor dropped the gun to let it dangle from his wrist by the strap Elyen had thoughtfully included.  He pulled the man back upright and held his hands over the control panel with only one of his own.  He ejected the small chip from his datapad and dropped it into the reader slot on the console, and used the unconscious man’s fingers to type in his own commands.
“Almost got it!”  Castor yelled with his head close enough to the other’s that no one should sense a difference, and doing his best impersonation of the officer’s accent.  It wasn’t good, but he’d at least had the opportunity to hear the man’s voice first.  He waited a few short seconds with the Op’s hands poised in the air over the keyboard as the second part of the virus loaded.  When the screen finally blinked READY, he yelled “THERE!  GOT IT!”  And then he hit the ‘execute’ command.
By now, though, the man sitting beside the unconscious one had started to realize that something was very wrong with the man in the Computer Ops chair.  Castor dropped the unconscious man, grabbed up the hypo-gun and tranked the second man.  Then he went down the line of Ops stations squeezing off a dose of the drug into each man’s neck or shoulder as quickly as he could.  The main lights went out, which automatically brought up the battery powered emergency lighting, adding to the confusion as Castor started up the next line of Ops.  His luck had been much better than he could have hoped for so far, and by the time the gravity generator shut down, Castor had disabled almost all of the main bridge crew, except for the guards and the Black Widow’s commander.
Now it was time to deal with Spinel.
Hmm...  He must have had a counter-worm search running.  Chiri said that when they got too close that the bridge gravity would shut down.  Seems I’m right on time.  Nice touch, Chiri!
Castor had happened to be holding onto the back of one of the control panels when the gravity went out, so he hadn’t floated away uncontrollably.  Spinel hadn’t been as lucky, and was now waving her arms in circles and twisting around to try to get herself oriented into a position where she might be able to propel herself to a better vantage point - as soon as she finally reached something that she could propel herself from.
Still ‘invisible’, Castor pushed off straight for Spinel.  And watched her expression of rage turn to one of confusion and then alarm as she felt his presence approaching.  She reached around and snatched up a light saber from behind her that Castor hadn’t seen yet.  It snap-hissed to its full dark amber length as he continued to float toward to her.  The motion of drawing her saber caused her to spin off backwards and to her left.  An unfortunate bridge aide was caught by the gleaming blade as he floated by, and Spinel flailed, using his body, to bring her momentum under control.  His right arm and large part of the side of his head spun off in different directions, the spurting blood forming flying red globules, some spattered against what ever came to be in their path, others struck and merged together to form bigger floating balls of the deep red liquid.
The secondary effect of Spinel’s motion was that Castor flew on by her, well out of effective reach of his hypo-gun, but well within the reach of her saber, which hummed loudly as it came slicing in his direction.  His own light saber was instantly in his hand, it having been kept in the bag, as well, and snap-hissed into existence.  Its light blue glow casting its own dancing shadows through the semi darkness.  Visible now, unable to keep his mental shielding while engaged in a light saber duel, he parried her blow, but the crackling contact sent them both spinning off in different directions.  As they both reached solid surfaces, they kicked off toward each other again.
A blaster bolt spat at Castor, and he timed his parry so that it sent the bolt zipping off toward Spinel’s face.  She parried the laser bolt as well, and it came straight back at Castor.  Not quite with the same amount of accuracy.  He knew he wasn’t in danger from the bolt, but as it whizzed by his head, it happened to burn through the strap of his shoulder bag, which caused it to go spinning off in its own direction.  Castor made a quick mental note of its path in dire hopes he’d be able to find it again.
As they drew closer, another few blaster bolts came sizzling after him.  One he let go by, as if he couldn’t face two, and the other he sent at Spinel, which she again parried.  She was almost in range.  This time two shots each from two different directions came at Castor.  Apparently his pretense was successful in making the gunners feel confident that he wouldn’t be able to handle the number of shots.  With one hand on his hypo-gun which he had carefully been shielding all of this time, and one hand on his saber, he sent all four shots at Spinel.  She handled all four, any of which could have hit her doing significant damage, and sent them all sparking into the walls.  Spinel was totally unprepared and off balance now, and would have to take a defensive posture, if she could do anything at all.  Castor swung his saber up to an angle which suggested an attack from high, but with a motion that also caused a change of vector.  Spinel had no choice but to move to parry the expected blow.  But they were close enough, now, that Castor quickly changed to a defensive posture, which spun him enough that he stuck the hypo-gun to her thigh, squeezing off the dose as fast as he could.
Spinel screamed wildly and her saber came down with the power of her fury, knowing that she’d been tricked.  Knowing that her failure was complete.  Castor was able to block the swing, but his own saber bounced back into his own face with the force of the blow.  His blade burned into the skin of his cheek just to the left of his nose and traced a path up between his eyebrows.  He jerked his head back as he felt half of the lashes on his left eye curl up and sizzle away.  He blinked rapidly to clear the smoke from his eyes, shut down his saber, and throw up his mental shielding again - effectively returning him to invisibility.
Spinel was out of the fight, hopefully, but also out of sight.  It took Castor a few seconds to dull the pain and reorient himself.  He twisted hard so as to be able to find Spinel.  He heard a thud to his right, and saw Spinel’s limp form as she rebounded from one of the large forward viewports.
Castor caught hold of one of the various rails around the bridge as he passed and swung himself around, changing his path and decreasing his velocity.  He reach out and pulled himself down into the Ops pit once more.  Laser bolts crisscrossed the entire area where he’d previously been.  The gunners were firing wildly in order to strike an unseen and unseeable target.  The bridge would need a repair team if this kept up.  Castor pulled himself along by whatever means he could, staying close to the floor, and finally took out all the gunners and remaining personnel on the bridge.  He hadn’t been in much danger while they continued to fire as if expecting the enemy to be higher up than themselves, as he had been during the duel with Spinel.  Finally the bridge was clear.
Castor wiped the dripping blood from his face, and went to check on Spinel.  Her eyes were open and rolled back, eyelids quivering, her expression tight, as if she was desperately fighting the tranquilizer.  Her small jerky convulsions told of her incredible struggle to neutralize the drug on a molecular level and retain consciousness.  But, not having the time to deal with her if she should happen to reject the drug, Castor pressed the gun to her neck, the best place for maximum effectiveness, and shot her again.  After a few more weakening spasms, Spinel’s expression eased, and he could sense that she was finally and fully out.
A double dose.  That much should make even a rancor woozy.  If that doesn’t keep her down, then we’re in trouble.  Staring at this formidable enemy, he thought, I really don’t envy her the headache she’s going to have when she wakes up.  He turned away, but paused for a second or two and came back to Spinel’s limp body, and gave her a third, and even a fourth, shot.  It might very well kill Spinel, and probably would, but Castor couldn’t take the chance.  To hell with it!  I don’t have the time to worry about her.  If she dies...  I’ll apologize to Elyen, because she’s going to be real disappointed with me.
Castor hunted around for his satchel, and swapped out the tranquilizer gun’s partially used vial, and loaded it back into the case as he’d seen the ithorian do, rather than waste the partial vial.  He did, however, want a full vial loaded for the next port of call.  Then he got into the emergency computer restore and reboot sequence and changed all the lockout codes, those being open and accessible from the Ops main console.  That task took two tries, due to the virus shutting down the system he’d been working on.  After that was done, he change the main Comm Ops code, and shut down the console.  Now.  Anyone trying to get control of the computer was going to have a pretty good job on their hands.
Leaving the bridge, he patched into the bridge access controls locked all the doors, and changed the lockout codes there, as well.  That’ll slow anyone down for a little while.  Now for Shock and the rest of ship’s Ops.  He turned and floated off to find the nearest turbolift maintenance hatch.
Halfway down the tube, the gravity field generators cut back in.  He fell a short way, and wrenched his shoulder slightly catching himself on a ladder bar, but he kept going.  I’ll take time to hurt when I get half a chance.  Until then...  

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Third floor!  Communications, Computer core, Ladies lingerie!  Castor crawled through the turbolift maintenance hatch and left it undone.  Most of the lights had been out for a while, and most of the hatches had been left open, anyway, by various people on their way to various stations while the lifts had been down.
On his way to communications he began tranking everyone in his path.  In the darkness there was going to be a lot of tripping over the unconscious bodies of their shipmates before they’d figure out what was going on.  A few of his targets had gotten away, but not many.  And those were mostly convinced that Palpatine had risen from the dead and was quite displeased.  Of course, the fact that Castor was still concentrating on being invisible, even though it was dark, and had used a very convincing Palpatine timbre and accent to his voice while yelling nonsense, might have something to do with that.  In any event, without communications, those ranters would likely be subdued by their own comrades, making the take over even that much easier.
Both the Communications and Computer Core Ops centers were a breeze to successfully trank the personnel.  They were all so busy that no one noticed until it was almost too late the they were all inexplicably dropping to the floor, one after the other.  Castor changed the lockout codes as he left them.
Now for Shock, he thought, they’ve spent enough time in the brig, and I’m starting to need just a little help.
Keeping himself cloaked, he ducked low around the door into the security area where a large group of Shock were being held.  He watched for a few moments as one of the stormtroopers bent and broke a throwing blade.  He looked around a little and found Lessa’s combat suit and a significant number of her blades.
“These are toys, not weapons!” The trooper said with bravado as he dropped the pieces.  His companion had one of the star shaped blades, and threw it at the wall.  He watched the blade fly about two meters and then flip sideways, fluttering as it fell to the floor.  Then he gasped and yanked his hand up, seeing the blood spurting from his index finger which had been sliced from the second knuckle to the end.
Castor picked up one of the thin blades, bringing it into his sphere of priority influence.  He calmly walked up behind the trooper who had broken the shiv and pulled the top of his helmet back, baring the gasket at his throat.
“Wrong again.” He said low into the side of the helmet as he push the pointed end through the gasket, up into the troopers throat, and gave the end a quick twist, severing the troopers spinal cord at the base of his skull.  The trooper jerked once, and Castor let him drop, extracting and keeping the knife.  Blood flew from under the helmet, quickly making a large red puddle.  Then he ran over and jumped onto the main console.  Standing on the control station board, he yanked the security commander way up in the air, and held his own face close to the Imp’s ear.
“You know meee,” he said softly in his best imitation of the Emperor’s voice.
“My Lord!”  Recognition was instantaneous.  “But you’re dead!”  The Imp was danging over a meter up in the air, and standing on the control panel as Castor was made the Emperor’s ghost seem gigantic, and even more terrifying.  He held most of the Imp’s weight up by just the chin strap of his helmet.
“You undahr-essteemate the powah of the dahk sssiede!”  Castor hissed, drawing out the ‘s’s and making his consonants crisp and exaggeratedly pronounced as the Emperor would have.  Most of these men would only know the legends of the Emperor but would have watched many holoprofiles on the accomplishments of Palpatine.  They would know his voice, and would also have been made to fear him.
“Yes, your majesty!”  The Imp was nearly quaking in his boots, as were the rest of those watching.
“I am disspleessed, with the comMANdah and crew of thiss ship.  Yoah effahtss ahr paTHEtik, and I am tempted to kill you all befoah this PITiful band of rebel sscum hass the opporTUnity!”
“Yes... your... majesty!”  The Imp’s voice was strained as Castor put more pressure on his neck.  “How can... we... serve our... Emperor?”
“By alLOWing NO ONE on or off this SHIP!”  Castor yelled.  He heaved up and threw the Imp over the security control panel and into the wall by the door.  “Go to the main dock-ing bay and gahrd it!!  If you fail me once moah, you will ALL diee!!”
“YES, MY LORD!”  Every man in security was paying the closest attention now, and they all ran to the brig’s exit.  Someone had the good grace and good sense to pick up and carry off... well, half drag, anyway... the security commander.  Castor could sense very well that he’d been very successful in making them think he was the ghost of Palpatine.  The little extra bit of mental tweaking he gave them should have helped to cover any variance between their mental images of the former Emperor and Castor’s performance.
After they had gone, Castor grabbed up Lessa’s blades, bundling them up in the suit, and went down the row of cells, manually unlocking and opening every one of the doors.  He’d dropped his mental cloak so that they’d make no mistake as to who their benefactor was.  The first bunch of commandos Castor directed to free the rest down the other corridors.  When he happened on Admiral Daggerscout’s cell, at last, both hard a hard time suppressing gasps.  Teke had been severely beaten, and his face was swollen and bloody.  He’d probably been very convincing in the resistence he put up to being captured as the impotent commander of the helpless Saguaro.  That resistence probably hadn’t been an act.
Looking past Teke, he spied Lessa.  Presumably the commando on the floor where she’d been kneeling had given her his shirt.  The flash of more than just thigh as she jumped up was more than enough for Castor to reason out why.
“I believe these are yours.”  Castor held the bundle out to the littlest commando.  She nearly bubbled to have her stuff back, and wasted no time getting it on and sheathing the blades.  But her look turn very dark as she did.  Castor could sense that the little hellcat felt she had a personal score to settle.  But while she wouldn’t actually enjoy killing anyone, it certainly wasn’t going to bother her much.
“How’re you doing, Teke?”  Castor turned back to his old friend and asked softly.  “Functional?”
“I’ve seen better days, sir.”  Teke answered through thickly swollen lips.  “But I think this’ll turn out to be to be one of my best days in a few hours.  Orders?”
As Teke stepped out of the cell, past Castor, he looked around.  “Where’d every one go?”  He indicated the missing security troops.
“Um...”  Castor hesitated.  “Would you believe the ghost of Palpatine ordered them all down to the docking bay to keep the rebel scum from invading?”
“No.”  Teke paused, looking at Castor’s frank expression.  “Well, maybe.”  Teke said, but intentionally not taking the bait.  “But if that’s where they are, then I have just the thing for them.”
“That’s where they are.”  Castor wasn’t going to ask, and he wasn’t going to even attempt to argue.  “Just take a team, because there’s still a whole bunch of nasty people running around with extremely little adult supervision.”  Castor could sense that Teke had his own score to settle.  But to him, it was personal.  He’d enjoy it.
“There’s about to be less, ” Teke said darkly.  “If you would be so kind as to try to get more of them down there, then I’m sure I’d be able to dredge up a smile for you at least once.”
“Will do, Teke.”
“How about you, sir?”  Teke asked pointedly referring to Castor’s face.  “Both still intact?”
“Yah.”  Castor patted at the blood from his face again with his sleeve.  “A little on the crispy side, but intact.  Looks like hell.  Feels worse.  But I only got myself to blame.  Got bit by my own saber, but Spinel is going to be sleeping for a while, although she may be dead by now.”  Castor saw Teke’s eyebrows raise just slightly at the revelation that Spinel was female.  “Gave her a double dose just to be sure.  And then I doubled that.”
“I’m not sure I would have wasted the juice,” Teke said.  “High power stun to the forehead at zero-ought-zero range isn’t very messy.  Externally.”  Teke pointed at Castor’s face.  “You should have that looked at.”
“Don’t worry.  It’s just a scratch.”  The smile hurt.”  “MedOps is on my list of ‘interesting things to see and do’ while I’m here,” he nodded quickly.  “I’ll get something up there.”  Castor was about to pat Teke on the shoulder, but checked himself - he wasn’t exactly sure just how much pain the commando might be in.  “Give me about ten minutes to get you more down on the flight deck.”
“You’ve got’em.  Just don’t YOU be on that deck at that time.”  Teke turned started barking orders to the commandos who had started gathering.  They broke into the weapon’s locker and pulled out some fairly mean and hefty looking hardware.  Teke grabbed out a handful of the comlinks stored in the drawer there, and handed one to Castor, who pocketed it quickly.  The Shock commander then picked up something that was entirely unrecognizable to Castor.  He tossed it in the air once, catching it crisply, gave a short evil chuckle, used it to salute Castor, barked a few more orders to Shock, and then left, followed closely by Lessa, who Castor noted had smeared streaks of blood across her face, apparently using it for war-paint.
Amid the remaining commandoes excited oohs and ahhs as they chose their weapons and tools, Castor slipped out into the passageway and went on to his next port of call - another security cell block.  He was still tranking everyone he saw, and had to change the vial two more times.  He rechecked his supply.  Fifteen more.  He pocketed three of them, and dropped the satchel, keeping only the tranquilizer gun, the three vials, and his lightsaber.  That’s okay, we’re almost done.  Then he shuddered.  He knew what Teke was going to do.

-------------------------------------------

Ten minutes later Castor had sent all the security personnel and stormtroopers from the second detention block down to the flight deck, freed and armed a large number more of Shock, and sent them all on to take different areas of the ship.  For his part, he kept tranking people and made his way to MedOps.  As he was finishing up there, he stumbled, catching himself on the back of a chair.  Teke had dropped the atmosphere shield to the main docking bay for two seconds.  Everyone on that deck that hadn’t been prepared had been blown out into space where the nitrogen gas in there blood streams expanded instantaneously, exploding organs and making them crush each other inside the still living bodies, turning those bodies into bags of jelly.  Blood vessels burst inside living brains.  And Castor had felt it through the Force.
He approached the last conscious person in MedOps, she was sitting calmly at a control panel, her back to him.  He approached and was about to reach out with the hypo-gun.
“I would appreciate the courtesy of knowing whether whatever you’re going to shoot me with will kill me or not.  I would very much like to have the opportunity to make my peace before I meet my maker.”  The woman said calmly.
“You’ll live.” Castor growled.  “It’s a sixteen hour general anesthetic.”  He looked past her and saw that her screen was divided into three even sections.  One showed him standing behind her, one showed engineering, and one showed the docking bay.
“I see,” the woman said evenly.  “It’s too bad that the rest of your men aren’t being as careful to preserve lives.”
“They’ll kill only those who give them no other choice.  Would your people have shown any greater magnitude of mercy?” Castor asked.
“I wonder.  And what happens, then, with all of us who have been subjected to your brand of mercy,” she asked sourly.  “Do we get hauled off to the docking bay, with far less trouble on your part I might add, and blown into space as well?”  The woman’s hands were spread wide and flat on the panel in front of her.  She seemed to be showing Castor that she was being as still and calm as possible, and trying very hard not to make him ‘jumpy’.
“We’ll load everyone onto the transports and other personnel carriers available, and go collect the rest of my crew.  You’ll get dropped at the free-floater out there, my people will be recovered from the pods, which will then continue on toward the planet with their emergency rations.  The free-floater can sustain life.  Barely.  For a while.  But if your people are concentrating on keeping everyone alive, and anyone is still there when we get the time and opportunity to come and retrieve you, we will.”  Castor uncloaked himself, and moved around to face the woman.  Her collar bars were those of a doctor, and she seemed to be not a lot younger than himself, but also not in such shape that she might pose much of a danger, so he felt confident she wouldn’t be able to get away.
“To be released?  Or to face the justice of your Republic?”
“You understand, don’t you, that Spinel supports Malachite, and Malachite is building a machine that is capable of remotely destroying entire star systems.  There should be no doubts that anyone building a weapon of that nature intends to use it.  It would be naive to think that he wouldn’t use it against the New Republic.”
“That was put in place by the Rebels,” the doctor interrupted.
“That was put in place to restore the government that was already in place when Palpatine came into power and perverted the whole process, killing all of those that resisted.”  Castor countered.  “In any event, I hope you’ll understand when it’s not the former of your two options.”  He said with mild sarcasm.  “It is possible, and likely however, that Malachite will find you before we find him, and those circumstances leave the consequences very questionable,” Castor explained without malice or mirth.
“It would seem that you are as caring as rumor would have you, and just as cold as your reputation, Mister Efrata-Landis.”  She lifted her eyes and looked at his face for the first time.
Castor scowled, startled by the mention of his name.  “Do I know you?  Should I,” he asked.  He didn’t recognize her face, nor could he place any kind of image that might have included her.  Could she be another surprise from his past?  Wyeth and Moriah hadn’t mentioned anyone resembling her, and not many could connect that old Jedi mind trick of invisibility with his name, which, Castor reasoned, must have been exactly what she’d done.
“We have a mutual friend, sir,” she said.  “One of many names.  Wolf.  Knighthood.  Rabid. ...and the one I gave him.  Oyster.”
Castor thought for a few moments.  “Ah!”  The efforts to take over the ship were proceeding without him, and it wasn’t likely that Castor would be able to affect the outcome much more than he had already, so he wasn’t extremely worried about the delay.  He could sense that Grey was holding their own, except for a few of them.  He had some time still.  The specific memory came slowly to the fore.  “Ca... Calixte...  Yes.  That’s it.  Zalla Calixte.”  Castor’s eyebrows went up as the name came out.  “The doctor who took care of Rabid, and was instrumental in not only saving his life, but in setting the stage for his return to us, and eventually Malachite’s failure in developing the Star Hammer three years ago.  You had been on Kedrin’s ship, but you weren’t found when we took it.  And apparently Malachite never found out.”
“Your memory is excellent.  After Oyster had left us, I requested a transfer.  I’d explained it as an emotional stress overload from my failure with my test subject.  Kedrin granted it, as it had been him that I’d failed, and you ended up taking his ship shortly after.”  She explained.
“Ah,” Castor replied.  “We owe you a great deal.  I owe you a great deal - for the life of my friend.”
“And how would you pay that back?”  Zalla stared directly into Castor’s mismatched eyes.  “I have a husband and children that I would choose to be with again.”
“That presents us with a problem.  If I keep you, then you won’t likely ever be able to go home.  If I leave you, then you may die on the planet here.  If circumstances don’t get you, then Malachite may, due to Spinel’s second major failure to capture us.  Once Malachite finds out Thorn is really Grey Squadron.  And he will find out.  If I do something other than either of those, you become suspect as a spy, and may end your life in the brig.”  Castor pondered aloud.
“Your logical choice is to send me with the rest, but then that’s no choice at all, is it?”
“Do you have any desire to join us and be a Healer for the Republic?”
“If it means that I will never see my family again, then no,” she said calmly.  “Thank you.”
“Would your family join you, if we were to inform them of your circumstances and give them the choice?”  Castor ventured the option.
“I’m not sure.  It would depend on if they felt you were telling the truth.  And their own current circumstances, of course.  My husband is a successful businessman, dealing in interplanetary finance, and my children are in their teens, in private schools of their own choosing.  Their choices might be hard ones made more difficult because of the Empire’s propaganda machine.  I’m not optimistic that they would give up their current situations to become Rebels if they had any doubts as to the truth of my situation.”  Zalla said matter-of-factly.
“What if we were to not identify ourselves as the officers of the republic, brought them a message from you, words of your own choosing, which would let them know without a doubt that you were on a neutral world, and that we could take them and their belongings to you.  We could set you up on that neutral world with a new identity, and you could begin life again away from this war.”  Castor offered.
“That might be acceptable to them.  It would certainly do for me.”
“It would be far less than what I owe you for the part you played,” Castor said.  “But we would have to take you away from here, and we would not be able to accomplish it until we see the end of this.  It may take some time.  Time during which your family may believe you are dead.  Or we may die at our task, and fate may certainly see you so along with us.”
“Even so,” she agreed.
“Would you agree to be a healer for us, although in a far less command capacity than you presently hold, until we can accomplish your freedom?  On my honor, it will be accomplished if I have the ability to make it so,”  Castor vowed.
“And you have the authority to make such promises?”
“I do,” Castor affirmed, deadly serious, but not offering more information than that.
Zalla regarded Castor seriously for a few moments.  “I believe you,” she said.  “On the lives of my family, I shall serve as a medical officer for your unit, to the best of my ability and loayalty, until such time as I may be released under the conditions you have stated.  I so duly swear.”  She still hadn’t moved her hands from the places they’d rested this entire time.
Castor sensed the depth of her promise, and moved to bow and hold the odd personal salute stance that he’d adopted so long ago.  “I accept your oath.  And, in return.  On the lives of those I hold most dear, as well, do I so solemnly swear that I will see you join your family in freedom and neutrality.”
“I accept your oath as well,” she said.  “Thank you.”  As Castor stood, she looked down at each of her hands.  “May I move now?  These old arms are falling asleep.”
“By all means,” Castor granted.
“I’ll need your help.  You see, there is a small deadman’s trigger, underneath both of my hands and one more under my feet.  It’s manually rigged to an explosive device which would have taken this entire section of the ship.  Had you given me that tranquilizer shot, I would not have been able to hold the circuit open, and the charge would have taken everything within twelve decks of here.  Had I released any one of the three switches, the charge would have gone off.”
“Thorough,” Castor said.  “How did you have access to this kind of stuff?”
“One of the officers you drugged was a ground assault trooper, in for a scheduled checkup.  They are required to have their gear with them at all times.  He had orders to protect MedOps when things started blinking.  I had him set it up.  I had to be sure, you see, Imperial propaganda being what it is, and you, not necessarily YOU, being such an unknown factor.”
Castor could see the logic.  “Where is the charge?”
“Underneath my feet,” she replied.
“Ah.”  Castor turned to rifle through the supply cabinets.
“The tape is in the cabinet three doors to the left of where you are,” guessing the object of his search.
Castor switched his comlink on.  “Teke, I need an explosives expert in MedOps.  Right now!”  He went to the indicated cabinet, and barked into the comlink.  “All groups, report!”  As he found the tape, and stripped off a dozen long pieces of the wide tape, the reports came in.  Almost all were ‘status green’.  A few of the groups were still dealing with some resistence.  Using the tape Castor fastened her hands down firmly to the console.  If her arms tired, he didn’t want her to move a hand involuntarily.  “I’m sorry.  This isn’t my area, but someone will be here very shortly.  What can I do to make you more comfortable?”
“Defuse the explosive?”  Zalla smiled, indicating that there wasn’t much else he’d be able to do for her.
“They’re on their way.  We’ll have you out of here as quick as we can.”  He taped her feet to the floor, effectively holding that switch open as well.
The door slid open, and Castor watched the end of a blaster pistol snake one way and the other with a speed such that it seemed nearly a blur.
“In here, Teke!  Situation secure.  I’ve just got a little problem for someone to sort out,” Castor called.  He saw the end of a very small snakelike device appear near the floor in the doorway that Teke had opened.  A remote visual sensor.  On one knee, next to Zalla’s chair, he waved at the sensor, then he waved for them to enter.
Teke was in full imperial commando gear, sans helmet, and came more into the doorway.  Castor gave him a thumb’s up, and Teke came all the way in.
“Get your people in here,” he said as Teke rushed forward.  “We’ve got a three lead deadman’s switch.  Both hands and a foot.  She’s taped ‘cause she’s getting tired.  We’re going to keep her, but I’ll tell you about that later.”  Castor rushed through what he had to say.
“Range?”  Teke barked.
“Apparently twelve decks.”  Castor answered.
“Damn!  Get Sunshine in here!”  Teke yelled.  “NOW!”
Another fully suited and armed commando rushed around and into the room.  He dropped to the floor next to the doctor’s feet and instantly recognized both the situation and device, and didn’t ask any questions.  Nor did he make any comments.
“This isn’t good,” the specialist said past his chewing gum held between his front teeth.  “It’s got an additional timer, so it’s going to go off anyway, even if we don’t do anything, and it’s got a failsafe, that sets it off if we attempt to defuse it.  We’ve got about four hundred and thirty seven seconds before it goes off.  We’ve got to get her into the docking bay.  Best to kill her now, because it’ll be a helluvalot easier.”
“No can do.  She lives.  No other option acceptable.”  Castor said rapidly.
“Oh, damn.”  The man called Sunshine went limp where he laid on the floor, as if he was surrendering.  “I was afraid you’d say that.”  The demolitions specialist yanked a long flat tool out of a thigh pocket and separated the hand triggers from the console, wrapping the tape around the devices to hold them to her hands.  “Make sure you don’t drop these if you really want to see the next ten minutes,” he said adding a little more tape to secure the flapping ends.  Sunshine turned to Teke, looking as if his gum had turned bitter.  “I need Kanashaak,” he said to Teke, who immediately called for the wookiee.  The specialist separated the explosive from the floor and quickly taped it securely to the doctor’s boots, leaving the footwear fasteners clear.  “Admiral, I gotta have the docking bay magnetic field to be ready to be dropped again, and one of our medic teams standing by.”
A mountain of moving fur appear in the doorway and Zalla’s eyes grew wide as she saw his image appear on the screen in front of her.  Teke barked more orders into his comlink.
The specialist patted the doctor’s leg.  “Ma’am, he’s no luxury speeder, but we gotta move.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”  He turned to the wookiee, “Edge of the docking bay.  Breakable.” He said pointing to the doctor. “Bad.”  He said pointing to the devices.”  To Teke he called, “We’ll need lines and masks!”
“Go! Go! Go!”  Teke started out the door, and barked more orders through his comlink.
The wookiee had picked up the doctor unceremoniously, and bolted out the door, passing Teke like a Slagball runner.  Considering his size, his speed was amazing.  Kanashaak opted not to wait for one of the lift tubes, instead taking the tube service access.  He grabbed one of the tube slide rails, and dropped three decks.  The landing, cushioned by one of the wookiees huge arms and slowed by his tightening his grip on the slide with the other, could have been much rougher, but not much.  She survived it.  Barely.  By the time the rest of the group caught up everyone was set to go in the docking bay.  There was forty two seconds on the clock.  The specialist yelled, “Masks and lines!”  And every one was handed a mask, had it in place quickly, and strapped to something solid.  The wookiee helped Zalla on with her mask and line after his own was secure while Sunshine undid the fasteners on the doctor’s shoes.  “Hang on.”  He said to Zalla, and he slit the tape at the sides of her hands.  Thirteen seconds on the clock.  He stood and pointed at the explosive and told the wookiee, “That’s gotta go now!”  Then he barked, “Field!”  The wookiee yanked on the device, and the doctor’s boots popped free of her feet.  The hand contacts were ripped out of her fist as the device shot toward the opening.  Seven seconds.  Everyone was jerked from their feet, snapped to the end of their straps, and thrown to the floor as the magnetic containment shield dropped.  The rush of wind was deafening.  When the device went past the shield limit, accelerated by the force of the vented atmosphere, the field generator lights went back on.  Three seconds.  The wind stopped and no few of those present hung by their straps from the edge of the great hole into outer space.  The force of the blast shorted the field generators for a fraction of a second causing momentary lapse in pressure, but the shield came back up as the backup systems kicked in.  One of the men hanging by his strap had been thrown into the edge of the floor, yanked back down, and he just hung limply by his tether.
Teke slowly stood and took off his mask.  Blood flowed from his nose, and a little from his ears.  Pretty much the same condition as every one else, Castor noted as they all removed their masks.  He wiped his face and the amounts of blood that clung to his hand suggested that his saber burn had reopened.  Teke seemed to be speaking, but Castor couldn’t tell what he was saying because of the ringing in his ears.  Castor turned to removed Zalla’s mask and saw the tears streaming from her eyes, and mixing in with the blood streaming from her nose.  She was holding onto one ankle very tightly.  It was bent at an odd angle.  The wookiee came over and helped her sit up.  He pulled her close into one of those engulfing wookiee hugs and rocked her gently.  He softly crooned to her in apology for the damage he’d done her.  Castor watched her as she cleared the massive amount of wookiee fur from her face, and patted the giant arm.
“It’s okay,” she said between the quiet sobs.  Castor could only barely hear her as the ringing was starting to subside.  “At least it’s still attached.  And we’re still alive.”
The medic made his way over to her by now, holding the things he’d need to brace the ankle after he set the bones.

-------------------------------------

THIS IS A GENERAL SHIP WIDE ANNOUNCEMENT.
ALL HANDS STAND BY...
ALL HOSTILITIES ARE TO CEASE...
THIS IMPERIAL CLASS STAR DESTROYER IS NOW
THE PROPERTY OF THE NEW REPUBLIC,
UNDER THE COMMAND OF ADMIRAL CASTOR EFRATA-LANDIS
OF THE REBEL SQUADRONS.

I REPEAT...
ALL HOSTILITIES ARE TO CEASE IMMEDIATELY.

ALL SAGUARO PERSONNEL ARE HEREBY INSTRUCTED TO DEFEND ONLY,
DEADLY FORCE IS DISCOURAGED FROM THIS POINT ON.
THE FOLLOWING SECTIONS HAVE BEEN TAKEN AND SECURED:
BRIDGE, SECONDARY AND EMERGENCY CONTROL,
WEAPONS AND SHIELD CONTROL,
MEDICAL, LIFE SUPPORT AND ESCAPE POD CONTROL,
COMPUTER, POWER AND ENGINE CONTROL,
COMMUNICATION AND LAUNCH CONTROL,
TURBOLIFT AND STATION ACCESS CONTROL.

ALL IMPERIAL PERSONNEL WILL BE ALLOWED TO LEAVE THIS SHIP
UNDER CONTROLLED CONDITIONS AND NO HARM WILL COME TO YOU.
NOR WILL YOU BE HELD AGAINST YOUR WILL.
CONTACT THE BRIDGE FOR MORE INFORMATION.
THOSE WISHING TO COOPERATE IN THIS EFFORT
MAY SURRENDER THEIR ARMS IMMEDIATELY TO SAGUARO PERSONNEL
TO BE TAKEN TO THE MAIN LAUNCHING BAY TO AWAIT TRANSPORT.

ALL ACCESS HATCHWAYS HAVE BEEN LOCKED OPEN
AND HAVE BEEN REPROGRAMMED TO FAIL OPEN.
LIFE SUPPORT WILL BE SHUT DOWN ON ALL DECKS IN THREE HOURS.
SAGUARO PERSONNEL ARE INSTRUCTED TO PREPARE
FOR ATMOSPHERIC VENTING,
AND ARE INSTRUCTED TO USE DEADLY FORCE
ON ALL UNESCORTED IMPERIAL PERSONNEL
OR PERSONNEL SEEN WITH PORTABLE LIFE SUPPORT UNITS.
EFFORTS ARE CURRENTLY UNDERWAY FOR THE EVACUATION
OF ALL IMPERIAL PERSONNEL

I REPEAT...
ALL IMPERIAL PERSONNEL WILL BE ALLOWED TO LEAVE THIS SHIP
UNDER CONTROLLED CONDITIONS AND NO HARM WILL COME TO YOU.
NOR WILL YOU BE HELD AGAINST YOUR WILL.
CONTACT THE BRIDGE FOR MORE INFORMATION.
THOSE WISHING TO COOPERATE IN THIS EFFORT
MAY SURRENDER THEIR ARMS IMMEDIATELY TO ARAGORN PERSONNEL
TO BE TAKEN TO THE MAIN LAUNCHING BAY TO AWAIT TRANSPORT.

THIS ANNOUNCEMENT WILL BE REPEATED IN ITS ENTIRETY...
PLEASE STAND BY.

-------------------------------------

The Greys had been flying against the Advanced TIEs for a very long time, and the waiting for the announcement was even more frustrating than the maneuverability of their enemy.  But soon the voice they all heard was Castor’s, low and calm, on a general ship to ship open channel.

Grey Squadron, this is Admiral Castor Efrata-Landis.
I am now in command of the Black Widow.
Black Widow Squadron, you have a choice.
Surrender, and you will be treated fairly.
You will not be harmed unless you force it.

Vender, flying his Interceptor, was looping in a tight turn trying to break the missile lock of whom ever was tracking him, when the announcement finally came.  “Bocci balls!!  That crazy old white haired sonuva krayt dragon did it!!  He actually did it!!  It worked!!”  He yelled to no one in particular.

------------------------------------

Ace flipped the toggle to shut down the Eyeballs twin ion engines.  As he heard the whine of the station-keeping thrusters wind down, he flipped off the toggle for the craft’s repulsors.  The resounding clang, as the starfighter settled into its cradle, rang through its hull as it dropped the last fraction of a meter.  He unsealed and removed his flight helmet, and placed it on the hook he’d welded to the environmental control unit on the front of his flightsuit.  Pulling the towel from a large pocket he’d had the ships tailors add to the left thigh of his suit, he wiped the sweat from his head, leaving his hair spiky and pointing in all different directions.  The entire inside of his flight suit was so soaked with sweat that it felt like he was swimming in it.
“Sithspit!  I hate these gods-rotted suits.  Especially these freakin’ HELMETS!!”  He could feel the marks the helmet left indented in his face without even bothering to use his hands.  Of course, his fingers were gloved anyway, so it wasn’t like he’d be able to feel much with them.  Imperial starfighter combat suits weren’t much for conveying tactile impressions.  Because TIEs of all types didn’t have craft life support, if you were flying one then you had to wear a suit that did.  Breathing was decidedly better than not.  But they left much to be desired in the way of comfort.
“Say again, Grey?  We missed your last.”  Flight Control reminded him that he’d forgotten to power down his communications.
NUTS!  “Nothing, Control.  Just commenting on how glad I am to be on board.  Out.”  He punched off the comm, hit the main power shut down, and popped the Fighter’s hatch.
Shock was outside with blasters ready, in case the starfighter’s pilot wasn’t one of the Greys.  Ace lifted his hands waved and smiled, and the Shocks lowered their weapons.  Ace jumped down to the decking.  The weight of the responsibility of being a combat pilot, not just ANY combat pilot, he was a GREY, grew intensely and suddenly oppressing for a moment, and he had to sit down.  The edges of his sight began to darken and little spots that flashed like tiny shooting stars getting sucked down into a black hole danced in his direct line of sight.  “Cool,” he thought, and then realized that he was on the verge of passing out.  He felt his head bounce once on the floor, and from far away he heard someone yell for a medic.  He felt himself raised to a half sitting position.  He felt his back supported by someone, and something was pressed to his lips.  He felt his head pushed back a little as some one poured a cool sweet liquid into his mouth.  He started to choke a little but had enough sense left to swallow.  The liquid soothed his throat, but he still wasn’t able to move his body.  His head lolled because he just had no energy left to keep it up.  It felt like getting stunned, except there hadn’t been a flash or the tingling feeling as if he’d cut all the circulation off in his body and the whole thing was waking up without him.
Ace knew only distantly that he’d been put on a med-lift and was being taken to MedOps as he vaguely noticed passageway lights flashing by.  He remembered to be confused.  Or at least that he ought to be.  It was so hard to think.  He didn’t remember his craft or himself being injured.
“Whaa?!”  Was all he could manage to whisper, and he immediately felt a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve been in that starfighter for just a little longer than you had the life support to handle.  You’re okay, but you shoulda swapped that cannister out about ten minutes ago.  That, on top of the adrenaline rush backlash you got going, is putting you down for a while.  We’re just going to drop you off at MedOps for an little hydration and reoxygenation.  Otherwise you’re not physically hurt.  It kinda just adds up to exhaustion.  You’ll be fine in a few hours, and you won’t even need suck bacta.  Go to sleep, dude, and leave the flying to us for a while.”  The MedTech looked into Ace’s eyes, but his hand remained on the pilot’s shoulder.  He was trying to make sure the pilot knew the situation, but the way Ace’s eyes rolled made it pretty clear that he’d gone a little bit past the point that the MedTech had stated, and that he might not be in any condition to actually understand what was just said him for at least a day or two.
“Mom?”  Ace knew THAT was wrong, and he only heard the medic’s words as a dull buzzing in his ears, but he knew that he’d be safe, regardless of whether or not it was Mom, and what ever the other person, or persons, were doing.  He was back with Batman on the Odin, after all.  The buzzing kept going.  It sounded a lot like one of those little stinging lizard-birds from Dagobah, and Ace tried once to weakly to swat at it, or at least he thought that he’d tried, before his world turned black.  His last thought was that he must have gotten it.  Whatever-the-heck it was.

------------

From: Med Command, Major Elyen Ototh
To: Grey Leader, Admiral Castor Efrata-Landis

Re: Recovered Greys, Flight 1.2 and 3, and Flight 2.1 and 2

Report:
Grey’s recovered by Brier.
Triage personnel report following Greys D.O.A.
Lee Yuan Sheng.  Cause: ruptured flightsuit, debris puncture
Nils Omar Hadziselimovic.  Cause: ruptured flightsuit, debris puncture
Talon Custer.  Cause: Internal bleeding, apparent contact with startfighter
Nolan “Lightning” Sinjaria.  Cause: failed starfighter ejection sequence

My regrets, Admiral.

****************************

Battle 4, Mission 2: Honey, I’m home!

Castor stood in front of his command team with his hands clasped behind his back.  Grey was present in the back of the conference room.  The dark bags under his eyes were gone, as were those of all the Grey pilots, most of whom had slept for about fifteen hours after boarding the Black Widow.
Many of the crew hadn’t fared as well, though.  Those in the escape pods got what rest they could, knowing that their destiny was entirely in the hands of the Greys.  If they were retrieved, then they’d need to be at their best.  The Shocks which had originally been left on board the Aragorn, rested when they could, cooperated when they had to, and got physically abused when their captors felt like showing their temporary superiority.  The Pit had been working non-stop once they got on board to get the existing fighters back into combat condition.  The comm crew had been working around the clock to get the Admiral the command codes to all the rest of the  departments.
Shock had the worst of all of it, though, staying on board the Aragorn and then running through the Widow capturing it.  All they’d had was the little rest during the time it took to get released from the Widow’s brig after they’d got themselves set up on the Aragorn.  Most of them were still going, checking the ship for traps or other various pockets of resistence.  They even looked like they were enjoying running on empty.  But they weren’t all exactly right to begin with.
The Black Widow had sat where it was while Castor and Grey had seen to the bodies, then rested while everyone else had run around like headless nerfs.
Twenty three hours afte