I don't own starwars. This is a one-shot, feel free to comment. Thanks!
For the Rebellion
Torne Dyartes was dying. Lying propped against a duracrete barrier, his hand gingerly explored the two holes in his torso. The bluish hue of the blood was much darker than the Nelvaanian’s fur. Ah. Those, I believe, are some of my vital organs. My friends, just because storm troopers have opened a door does not mean I give you permission to escape.
A flare of intense pain caused Torne to bare his teeth for a moment, his body’s automatic reaction to his hand gently maneuvering his guts back to their appropriate places. Tearing a broad strip off the flap that was the back of his tunic, Torne bound it into place.
Must buy them time. Left to die…my choice. The Nelvannian turned, grabbed the top of the duracrete barrier, and pulled himself up, his left hand dragging the blaster carbine to his side. The weapon scraped against his protection, and he sighed. Raised as a warrior and hunter all his life, he had thrown in his lot with the Rebellion. He was part of a team that infiltrated worlds, pulling hit and run missions on Imperial garrisons, causing as much damage as possible while seizing weapons for their own forces.
“Freeze, Rebel!”
Torne sighed mentally, though his physical response would have caused one to disbelieve that a Nelvannian was capable to doing anything slowly. He whirled, flipping over in midair, claws extending from the pads of his feet and “hands”, as the humans called them. His right foot and left hand claws opened both stormtroopers at their neck pieces, going deep enough to sever the vertebrae. They collapsed, and Torne noted they had tried to bluff him with empty guns.
He was still young for a Nelvannian — approximately forty years had passed since his birth. From the beginning he had been a warrior, at age twenty-five he had fought to free his friends who had been turned into cyborgs by General Grievous. That mission had been deemed impossible, like this one. Only when Anakin Skywalker, or Holt Kazed as they had called him, had arrived were they able to overrun the Separatist forces. Holt Kazed meant “Ghost Hand”, referring to the Jedi’s use of the Force.
Too bad he’s not around anymore. He would have thrown in with the Rebellion in a heartbeat.
Making a conscious decision to focus on the then and now, instead of what might have been, Torne surveyed his inner city environment. He had been working on Toprawa for a long time in the Rebel Cell, and now they fought to the death.
A TIE fighter exploded overhead, and a ship of the Red Hand squadron zoomed by. The fighter trailed smoke, wounded.
We will hold until we are dead. They cannot be allowed to continue. Moments ago, the communications station had been destroyed. They had transmitted some sort of plans, Torne knew, but nobody knew whether the Tantive IV had successfully received them, or if it had escaped after doing so.
There was no chance to be retrieved, and no place to escape to. They would fight to the death, and Torne, for one, was determined to sell his life as dearly as possible.
He was in a broad street, barricaded by Imperial forces. The forces had now ransacked and destroyed their own comm station, and now it was a game of cat and mouse. Wherever the Rebels went, the Imperials followed until they were dead.
Running over to a dead stormtrooper, Torne rolled the body over, pausing when he realized that he had killed this man early in the battle. Shrugging off the irony, Torne relieved the corpse of its blaster packs, and then realized the trooper also carried a grenade.
That would be a valuable weapon, and Torne scooped it up gratefully. Now, to inflict as much damage as possible.
Being a hunter gave him many advantages. He knew what the Imps were thinking: find where the Rebels have hidden, and kill them. The obvious conclusion would be to search the best hiding places. Torne knew Imperial arrogance was too great for them to consider the next step—that Rebels would try to hide in the most open and obvious places.
The remote command center. There would be a large amount of forces gathered there, and high ranking officers. If he could get in there, he would pull some serious damage off before he went down.
Scrambling inside the nearest skyscraper, Torne moved down the hall quickly. Pain was a nuisance, and his mind forced his body to respond in ignorance to its own protests. He had his blaster carbine and five blaster packs, with the grenade, and his knife.
Half an hour and one patrol later, Torne had gained two more blaster packs, another grenade, and thirteen kills. The odd number was due to the officer supervising the patrol, and whose hesitance had allowed Torne the advantage and time to kill them all without being harmed more than he already was.
Peeking through a window, Torne glanced down with surprise at the remote command center. The Empire worked fast, no doubts there. Three tents had been set up to house the wounded, and the hub itself was in a two story building, normally a huge red-red hovercraft that had unfolded for such a situation as this. What really interested Torne was that it had also become the site for a small airfield. Two landing strips protruded from the hub. One was for TIE fighters, and the other was for shuttles that ferried stormtroopers from Star Destroyers to the ground and the wounded back.
Torne also noticed with interest the temporary fuel containers positioned near the TIE’s airstrip.
First things first: he had to clear the roofs of the four skyscrapers that surrounded the command center, and eliminate the snipers and spotters that were sure to be on top. When on the ground, he would deal with those who saw him, but if they could see him from above, he was dead. And a Nelvannian would be easy to pick out in the human crowd.
A pair of stormtroopers guarded the entrance to the roof, and Torne dropped both with a precise shot to the face of each helmet, the men dead before they had seen him. This time he stripped them of their equipment belts and slung both over his shoulder. Working quickly, he disabled the motion sensors on the door leading to the roof and then used a crank handle to open them manually. It cost him five minutes, but that was the price paid for silence. Snipers would have their ears primed for the sound of it opening, and Torne could not afford for the tell-tale hiss.
He crept out unnoticed, glancing about before he spied the snipers. One in each corner with their spotters, he picked a pair and crept up behind them.
Torne felt naked in his exposed position on the roof, but the snipers and their spotters were so focused on the ground battle that they were blissfully unaware. Moving forward quickly, he thrust his knife to the hilt through the back of the spotter’s neck while wrapping his other arm around the sniper. With a quick twist he broke the man’s neck, his other hand catching the rifle before it fell.
Lowering both to the ground, Torne took up the rifle with glee. It was a fine weapon, and marked that he was fighting the 501st, as it featured a silencer. Leaning against the exhaust tubing that shielded him from the other snipers, Torne adjusted the scope and then sighted in on the other skyscraper roofs.
They were like his, a sniper and spotter pair in each corner. Most were firing on distance Rebel targets—he would have to be fast, but he always was. Four minutes later, the snipers on the other roofs were clear, and so far they were unnoticed. Digging in his pocket, Torne took out a small beacon and set it to activate in three and a half minutes, then attached it to the underside of a duct and exited the roof.
I hope some of the Red Hand squadron is still alive.
This time he used the turbolift, zipping down to the basement levels. Emerging, he sighted another pair of stormtroopers. They spotted him at almost the exact same time, but he was ready. They got off only one shot, and Torne had dodged to the right even as he fired. This time, he took only their grenades, leaving him with four. Using an access tunnel, he crossed beneath the streets to the skyscraper opposite the one he had just vacated, then rose to the top and entered the abandoned lobby, where he surveyed the activity outside and then checked his chronometer.
Three minutes.
The seconds ticked by slowly, and Torne took the moment to think of home. He thought of his wife of fifteen years, and the few but sweet times they had had together. Juntah Klivian had been the loveliest of his species as far as he was concerned, and he had won her heart before they had been allowed to married. They had impatiently waited, and as soon as she was deemed old enough by her father and custom, they had married.
I’ll miss you, Juntah. But you’ll be proud of my death. Tell our children of it.
A hum of an approaching starcraft broke him from his thoughts, and he glanced outside. The scattering of techs and doctors accompanied by the thunder the anti-aircraft guns told him that some of Red Hand squadron was indeed alive, and they were homing in on the target he had provided them.
This suicidal attempt I’m making wouldn’t work without it.
The X-Wing shot over the plaza and command center in a small strafing run, then blasted the roof of the skyscraper that Torne had left. It was a good shot—lots of smoke and shrapnel, but the building was relatively undamaged but for the roof, and hopefully no pedestrians had been slain.
Two missiles struck the X-Wing and it exploded, and everyone in the area turned and pointed at the twin explosions—while Torne dashed from the lobby and into their midst.
He had set his carbine on full auto, which depleted each blaster pack every ten seconds. Luckily, he had perfected reloading to the point it was hard to tell he had done so, the half second break of changing clips missed by the untrained eye.
The two squads of newly arrived stormtroopers went down to his firing, and then Torne scooped up another carbine and fired both while running, with no target really in mind. Just so everyone scattered in a panic. Leaping onto a speederbike left unmanned by his careful targeting, Torne broke the extra carbine over the head of a fool-hardy officer and then gunned the engine before slinging his personal rifle over his shoulders.
The bike shot forward, and Torne fired the built in blaster, leveling everything in his path, which just happened to go through the command center. Just before reaching the rust-red shelter he halted his firing and concentrated on flying with one hand, while the other grabbed a thermal detonator.
Men dove out of his path, and Torne shot through the center unharmed and unarmed, the detonator left behind. It exploded a moment later, shredding the command center. Ignoring it, Torne continued on his wild ride, reactivating the built in blaster as he zipped toward the TIE airstrip. Red blaster bolts flew around him, but his ride was erratic and far too speedy for anything but the luckiest shot to hit him.
Four TIE fighters were sitting on the field, and Torne gunned down the pilots before turning his tender attentions on the fuel tanks. One exploded after his withering fire penetrated the tank, and it exploded, the other fuel tank going with it.
With no time to do the same with the other pair, Torne resigned himself to using another grenade, tossing it against the second tank. The grenade bounced off, hits the tank’s partner, then clattered to the ground before rolling beneath the tank on the left. Four seconds later, it detonated.
A piece of shrapnel caught Torne, tearing through his left shoulder. At almost the exact same time, the lucky blaster bolt found the speeder’s engine. It barked and then the bike slowed, and Torne flew over the handle bars. His body skidded for thirty-five feet, depositing him behind a flaming medical tent.
Gasping in pain but overriding it in his mind, Torne opened his eyes, and then rolled over with a shudder. His body was trembling, but he steeled himself and forced his feet to grip the ground, pushing himself back to his feet. He had lost most of his fur, bloody skin exposed to the sun. Hey…I’m missing a kidney. His head hurt miserably, and a cloud had settled over his mind, making him unsure of why he was there or what to do.
A stormtrooper came around the corner of the tent and fired, his catching Torne in the right thigh. Responding on instinct, Torne brought his carbine to bear, and found it bent at a right angle. The second shot from the stormtrooper caught the rifle and knocked Torne spinning. Even as he fell, he threw his knife, and it buried itself to the hilt in the trooper’s neck.
Picking himself back up, Torne surveyed the remnants of the best weapon he had ever had and then limped toward a corner before more stormtroopers arrived. He could not go back for the knife, but it didn’t matter if he was going to die.
Using a cable from one of the equipment belts, Torne picked off any stormtroopers he approached the hiding places he used. He sorted through their weapons, discarding any for one he felt was a higher quality.
For twenty minutes he was a wraith, moving around the burning command center and sniping officers, dropping troopers, sabotaging speeder bikes. He even destroyed a water tanker trying to put out the fires caused by his explosions.
A sudden rumble alerted him that the battle for Toprawa was almost over. It could only come from a HAVr A9 Floating Fortress, the same unit that had been engaging the Red Hand squadron.
They’re dead, then. Knowing he could do no more good, Torne abandoned his latest hiding spot of the past thirty seconds and limped away, keeping to cover. He had deliberately ignored the field that the shuttles were on, in hopes that they would believe he had no designs for it. In truth, it was the second part of his plan. Place his remaining grenades in the shuttles and destroy them, then take an empty one up the Star Destroyer. There he would make his final stand, attempting to blow up the capital ship.
The shuttles were unguarded but for a trooper beside each ramp. Even as Torne calculated his assault, a shuttle arrived, and he marked that as the one he would make his escape in. Hot and ready to go, with no injured to worry about.
He strangled the guards one by one, then moved down the line, tossing a grenade up the ramp into each. The first two exploded, and then Torne used his new rifle to fire at the fuel tank through the opening. It took twelve shots, and then the third shuttle finally blew up. With a sigh of satisfaction, Torne limped to the final shuttle, knowing that more stormtroopers would be moving his way.
His luck had been good so far, and it was better when he found no guards. Limping up the ramp, Torne was surprised to find no medical officers or supplies. Ignoring his curiosity, he moved to the cockpit and began to fire up the engines.
A thump in the cargo area told him somebody had boarded, and Torne noted that no guards were outside. He would deal with the intruder, and then be on his way. Already he could feel his body starting to shut down, sealing itself from the iron will that had kept it going for so long. To his surprise the door opened, and nobody stepped in.
Torne frowned, his rifle ready. Suddenly, his knife clattered in, scrabbling along the floor and stopping right as his feet. Then he heard the hiss.
It was a breathing noise, and Torne knew it. His luck had come to an end, and fittingly, it was on board Darth Vader’s private shuttle. The Force must have a sense of humor, he thought, before calling out.
“Come in, Lord Vader. I fear you nor nobody else.”
Vader entered, and Torne dropped the blaster rifle on the floor, knowing it was useless to try. He bent over from his seat and scooped up the knife.
“Thank you.”
“A pity it had to end this way, Torne.”
The Nelvannian looked up, startled. “Have we met?”
“We fought together, long ago.”
“I don’t recognize you.”
“You will, as you die.” Vader extended his hand, and Torne found his airflow cut off. The invisible vice around his neck tightened, and Torne recognized the Sith: The Holt Kazed.
“Since when does a warrior turn thief?” Vader asked, curious and unfeeling as he strangled his old friend. “Why die for the plans to the Death Star?”
The Death Star? What’s a Death Star? Torne stilled gasped out a reply. “I die…for the Rebellion.”
As the world faded to black, Torne thought only of his wife. Goodbye, my love. Good hunting.
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