[Han Solo] - 03(60)

Have the Y-wings moved out to their patrol stations?”

“Yes, Commander. We’ll have at least fifteen minutes warning if anyone decides to join the party …. Of course that’s just in case the slavers managed to get a distress call out before we jammed their transmissions.”

“Good work, Captain.”

Bjalin nodded, but did not salute. Discipline in the Rebel forces was far more informal than in the Imperial Navy. It had taken Bria two weeks to break him of the habit of saluting at the drop of a “Sir!”

“Good luck, Commander,” he said.

“Thanks. I may need it. My people have pushed them out of that forward hold, but they had lots of time to set up strong defenses. I’m betting they’ve holed up in the bridge and the access corridors and are working on the electronics. I think I’m going to have to be a little .

. . creative.”

Bjalin smiled. “You’re good at that, Commander.”

Ten minutes later, Bria’s boarding shuttle had docked with the portable airlock and her reserves were jogging down the corridor of Deck 3 after her, blaster rifles ready.

In the eerie, wan illumination provided by the emergency battery lights, the crippled Shackle seemed deserted; Bria knew that was an illusion.

Dimly, she could hear the wailing of some of the slaves. Probably they’d been herded to the security hold on Deck 4 and locked in. The commander hoped fervently that none of the slavers had hit upon the bright idea of driving the slaves into Rebel blaster fire in an attempt to delay the invading soldiers while they made their getaway. That had happened once, and Bria still had nightmares about it … the pale, shocked faces of the unarmed slaves, the reverberations of the blaster bolts, the screams, the crumpling figures, the meaty sizzle-reek of burning flesh ….

Bria led her troops forward, toward the master’s cabin in the bow of the ship. It was located directly beneath the bridge, and was the key to her plan.

She keyed her comlink. “Prize crew … how’s it going?”

“Commander, hull damage appears to be minimal. Our Y-wings targeted well.

We have people working on repairs now.”

“How about the electrical systems and the computers?”

“That’s going to be harder. We can’t start up the systems until you’ve captured the bridge. We don’t want to give them any control over the ship.”

“They’re probably trying to do a restart themselves up there. Can you block that?”

“I think so, Commander.”

“Good. Concentrate checking out the systems, then, and the engines.

Wait for my signal to reinitialize.”

“We copy, Commander.”

Bria and her squads met only one pocket of resistance on their way to the master cabin. About ten slavers and one unfortunate slave whom they’d armed and pressed into service were holed up behind a hastily erected barricade in a companionway.

Bria signaled her troops to retreat back around the corridor, then addressed them in a whisper. “All right, people. We’re going to lay down a suppressing fire while Larens, here—” she nodded at a short, slight, very agile soldier, “crawls under our fire until he’s in range to toss a stun grenade right into the middle of that nest of vermin.

Got me?”

“Right, Commander.” Larens dropped down, prepared to scuttle forward, the stun grenade held in his teeth.

“On the count of three, then …. One … two … three!” Bria and the other Rebels dodged into the companionway firing bursts at the barricade, careful to aim high enough not to scorch Larens’ rapidly scuttling rear.

Blaster bolts screamed in the confined space. Bria caught a glimpse of an arm with a dagger tattoo, aimed and watched the arm (and its slaver owner, presumably) fall back behind the barricade. She remembered the first time she’d ever shot a blaster, and had a brief, sharp memory of Han that she suppressed. No time for memories … time only for the job at hand ….

Bare seconds later there was a loud whump! and suddenly the returning fire was gone. Bria motioned her people to follow her. “Remember, the Pilgrim will be wearing a tan robe!”

She ran forward, saw the nest of slavers lying sprawled about. Three were already dead, one of them from having his arm blown off. The Pilgrim was stunned, moving feebly.

Bria stood looking down at the carnage at her feet, and felt hatred surge up in her. Six slavers still alive … her finger twitched on the trigger of the blaster rifle she held.

“Commander, shall I set up a guard detail?” Larens looked at her inquiringly. He was new to Red Hand Squadron. Several of the veterans gave him impatient glances.