[Republic Commando] - 02(152)

Fi leaned a little further out, trusting the safety harness. “But don’t you think it’s amazing?”

“Yeah, every rotten stinking shift,” said the pilot wearily. “Get him back inboard, will you?”

Niner jerked on the line. “Fi, don’t frighten the civvies,” he said. “It’s not nice. And put your helmet on.”

Cloud cars filled the airspace. The Coruscant Security Force pilot was trying to edge the custom VAAT/e between crammed civilian traffic packed solid in three directions, cursing under his breath. The pulsing wail of the emergency klaxon and flashing lights were enough to make the dead clear a path. But nothing moved in the gridlock. Speeders almost scraping the bodywork tried to escape into gaps that weren’t there; 25 meters of assault ship didn’t fit well into the tight skylanes.

All that Fi had ever seen of Coruscant was barracks and a compound bounded by security walls. None of the commandos had ever been on a run ashore, a social adventure that Skirata had said they should experience at least once in their lives. From the crew bay he could see crowds of every species pressed up against barriers, brightly-lit shops and bars and apartments, exotic and unimaginable places that beckoned. Yes, he’d have that run ashore someday.

Omega Squad chatted on the privacy of their helmet comlink, audible only to each other. Fi dragged his gaze from the outside world and settled into the bittersweet cocoon of his helmet, at once both reassuring and confining.

“Receive schematics, people,” said Niner. “And real-time view.”

A display of lines and fly-through images filled Fi’s HUD. The image that Niner had transmitted from his datapad was the plan of the spaceport building; long walkways led off vaulted halls and service areas, cubes of offices lined corridors, and power conduits wove through the image in green light. Superimposed on top of the overview, a real-time image of the main spaceport arrivals area showed knots of blue-armored Senate Guards and CSF squads in yellow vests crouched behind security barricades, some engaged in animated conversation.

A blue hologram figure of a thickset man in uniform shimmered into life in the hold, a little paunchy but still looking like he could give as good as he got. “Commander Obrim here, Senate Guard. Can you see this, Omega?”

Niner spoke for them. “Got it.”

“They’re holed up in a customs clearance corridor and they’ve threatened to detonate explosives. Two sets of doors, and we’ve left them control of one to stop them panicking and doing something stupid.”

“How many confirmed?”

“Six passengers, and we’re trying to get pictures of them.”

Obrim might not have played this game before but he had some common sense. “Witnesses report four perpetrators armed with blasters and carrying something in backpacks, which we have to assume are explosives. No ID on them yet, but they were all on the same flight.”

“Any contact with the targets?”

A pause. “If you mean the gang, they’ve issued demands and we have a secure comlink established with them.”

“And you have primacy?” Are you running the show? Fi could hear the doubt in Niner’s voice. “I thought the city came under CSF jurisdiction.”

“Not as long as I have a Senator and his aide in danger,” said Obrim. The hologram began to waver again. “Obrim out.”

The CSF pilot brought the assault ship to a sudden halt. The understated black-and-white marble facade of the spaceport terminal shimmered with ruby under flashing police lights. The front of the building was a crush of speeders and other emergency craft, none of them making a good job of keeping an access corridor open.

“Can’t get in any closer, ” said the pilot. “You’ll have to rope it down the rest of the way.”

“Don’t wait for a tip,” said Fi and wondered where he’d picked up the phrase.

We are citizens of Haruun Kal. The Republic has fueled the civil war on our world and now brings a fresh war to us. Remove your presence from our planet now or your Senator and the passengers die. Now you know we can reach into the heart of the Republic. (Message sent to RHN newsroom by Nuriin-Ar, leader of the group claiming responsibility for the hostage incident.)

Fi braced his legs, placing both boots on the outside rail of the ship’s troop hold. He gave the rappel line one last tug to check it was secure before dropping fifteen meters to the walkway, DC-17 ready in one hand, a sea of openmouthed faces staring up at him from behind the police cordon.

A sudden movement in his peripheral vision made him raise the rifle. A hovercam with an RITN logo was sitting motionless 5 meters to his right, too far inside the cordon, outlined against the clean, white facade of the port. There was no point being covert ops if you were on the news and your target might be watching. The rest of the squad could see Fi’s field of vision via an icon in their helmet links.