Spice Mines

He didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Behind him, the sound of fighting filled the air; lightsabers hummed and thrummed, and Janos knew that at this point, he'd only get in the way. No, he'd have to lend his meager skills in another fashion. Dragging Fel, the pair passed through the blasted hole in the hallway; nearly immediately, his breath was stolen away as the last of the internal air was whisked away into the unforgiving atmosphere of Kessel. The damn place had a type three atmosphere - breath mask required, due to very low levels of oxygen. Fumbling at his belt, he brought out a single rebreather with a one hour supply of oxygen - strapping it to Fels head, Janos gritted his teeth and dragged him on their way. The starship sat on the ground, not a hundred meters away - even now it belched fire at the the gathering troops on the ground. Most fired rifles at the ship - an aged assault craft of some type, by the look of it - though here and there crews fumbled with old imperial E-webs, while others deployed newer age Megablasters. Worse still, maybe two or three brandished single tube missile launchers. Taking aim, Janos calmly and precisely shot one of these launcher wielding troopers in the back - who promptly fell forward, his muscles spasming; not a half second later, an explosion bloomed where the trooper had been standing, the launcher firing its payload into the ground.

Dragging Galdaart to a pile of wreckage, Janos took a long breath from the man's rebreather before peeking out from cover, taking potshots at those troopers who were aware of his presence. They would be counting on the ship's pilot to clear a path to the ship - and then to cover them as they advanced.

The ramp fell with a thud. Peeking out from cover once more, Janos watched as the ship drew fire and powered up its engines; it was now or never. Taking the rebreather mask from Fel, Janos took in several deep and long breaths, gathering his strength. Gritting his teeth, he put the mask back over Galdaart's face, before shifting the man onto his own back in a fireman's carry. With a shout - not that it could be heard over the din of battle - he charged forward.

Around his cover and forward he ran - a laser blast struck the troopers right in front of him, and Janos ran through the smoke and debris as clods of dirt fell on his head. Among them, body parts and bits of armor rained down as well, but he paid them no mind. Scrambling to the right, he ducked behind a fortuitous rock outcropping, wincing as a smattering of bolts struck his hiding place, then shouted once more as he abandoned cover. With his free arm, he returned fire with his appropriated rifle - the wild bolts sending troopers scattering.

The ramp loomed ahead. But between them and the ramp was a long stretch of ground absolutely devoid of cover. His breath was failing; he was quickly running out of time. Running full tilt, Janos ducked and zagged as best he could, bolts flying about him and his head. Behind him, cannon fire from the assault ship put up great gouts of dirt and smoke, helping his run immensely.

And then they were there.

Stumbling up the ramp, collapsing to the ground, Janos and Galdaart made it to the entrance of the cargo hold - and no further. To exhausted to move, and to much in need of oxygen to continue, Janos vision swam before fading entirely; unconsciousness settling over him like a dark cloud. While Galdaart would be fine, Ellie would have to be quick indeed to make sure that Janos would not perish.

*Things didn't seem to be going very well in Ellies mind. She was injured, Erpon seemed ro be suffering some force attack and now there were two Sith. There was some relief, though, as Fel and Janos made it to the ship. Well, sort of. Her attention turned from Vasari to the two small objects the Barabel had just thrown, thermals.* "Crap.." *Was all Ellie muttered as the two explosives flew through the air. She didn't need to be told twice to run. Breaking from combat, she willed herself down the hall towards the ship as fast as her injured leg would take her. Almost there. She thought as the ramp drew closer. She had drawn out her blaster and was firing rounds behind her to slow down the Sith. The steel ramp of the met her boots as she stumbled up into the ship. Grabbing Fel and Janos's unconscious bodies, she drug them onboard before collapsing to the ground. Reaching out with the force, she hit the switch to close the ramp. Hopefully signaling Mila to take off.*

Much was happening at once. The wind rushed about his head, as the internal O2 pressure in the hold attempted to regulate itself after Ellie had slammed the planetfall ramp shut. Janos groaned in his unconsciousness, turning on his side... and Fel was slowly regaining a form of consciousness. At least, it felt slow. There was something about being aboard ship. Any ship. The feel of the duralumin decking plates as Ellie's boots clanked beside his ears as she dragged them aboard. The hollow, fizzling clangs of blaster-fire impacting the hull. The smell of gear oil and hydraulic fluid, and maybe a hint of electrical scorching. The inherent sounds of being aboard a ship -- the living, breathing entity that ferried beings where they needed to go. The soul of the ship stirred him. The life's blood of the ship thrummed in his ears. He opened his eyes.

Ellie -- Medical is through there. he hooked a thumb over his shoulder to the only door aside from the stairwell leading out of the hold Check on Janos, and get yourself patched up. I'll be on the bridge. He levered himself up, using the wall, and the stair-rail as hand-holds to steady himself. He placed an open hand over the wound in his abdomen, and red-black, semi-congealed ichor oozed against it, as he held his innards together. He groaned deeply, keeping the pain at bay (or telling himself as much) as he climbed the stairs, leaving a pattering blood trail behind him on the open-grate plating of the floor and stairwell.

He staggered onto the flight deck, and Melia would've done a double-take as she saw him, were it not for her fingers on the triggers, keeping their skins alive. Miss me? The smirk in his voice was curtailed by a fit of wretched coughing, and Fel motioned for her to vacate the pilot's seat. Melia knew better than to argue, and in one fluid motion, she was out, and Fel was in. Once seated, his eyes glazed a little, and Fel's hands flew over the controls. Switching to the ship's small compliment of concussion missiles, he obliterated the two semi-concealed points from which the FO troops could mount an offensive, and checked the ship for any immediate issues. Fore shields were down by 15%, but nothing too alarming. Flipping back to the nose cannon, he could immediately tell it was in danger of overheating, and instead flipped controls over to the much slower, but far more deadly triple turbolasers, while also feeding power directly into the ventral thrusters. Kark the repulsors. A massive cloud of dust and debris was kicked up as the ship lifted clear of Kessel's terrain, and Fel backed them off a hundred meters, before firing a volley directly at the remaining troops, and for good measure -- what remained of the wall of the base behind them. Feeding power to the main thrusters, he angled them forward and over the compound, steadily gaining altitude. Picking up visual acuity, he noticed the terrain dropped off sharply a few kilometers past the base, and instead of heading for atmo-break right away, he dove for the planetoid's floor, hugging the deck. He's blast for open space in a fifty miles or so, putting distance between them and the fracas.

Next posts in Open Orbit

An alarming sight. Dropships. A dozen of them. Heading to several mines at the very same time. This particular mine's supervisor had been itchy and fearing the worst since he saw a Providence cruiser in atmospheric flight over the surface, heading towards Kessendra. His worst fears were confirmed when he saw the dropships coming down. The Pyke overseer hurried himself to the entrance, followed by a dozen fellow syndicate members and various employees and guards. A dropship had landed nearby, vomiting scores of battledroids. Shortly thereafter, a shuttle appeared: from it, a one-eyed Quarren walked down, followed by two Superbattledroids.

"In the name of His Magnificence, Lord Yurgo Bisadii Orube, Master of A Dozen of Star Systems, Head of Clan Bisadii, Vigo of the Black Sun!"

He yelled, at the top of his powerful lungs, made to breathe under high pressures and beneath the waters of Dac.

"Consider this mining operation under a new management! From now on, your spice shall be processed and owned by His Obesity Lord Yurgo. You all may keep your current employement and role in the mine!"

One of the overseers stepped forward and started complaining in Huttese: he was promptly shot down by a rain of blaster fire, coming from behind them. The Pyke quartermaster remained silent, but he then noticed the commando droids taking position behind them, one had simply slaughtered the one who dared to raise his voice.

"Inspectors will arrive in a rotation to make sure everything is in place and running accordingly. If the production is halted or the results are a disappointment to His Magnificence you shall regret it"

The single beady eye of the Quarren inspects everyone before him. All nod, complying to the terms laid on the metaphorical table.

"Alright, let this be a reminder"

He gestures towards few of the staff members before him and the battledroids slaughter six of the remaining staff, reducing their number almost to a half.

"No dissension is allowed. To the sunset and the rise of a Black Sun!"

The Quarren turns heels and enters the shuttle, which takes off inmediately. The figures of enforcers and droids bearing the crest of the Bisadii clan and the Black Sun started to multiply on the mine. The Pyke overseer turns to face his terrified workers.

"You heard! New management, go back to work, you rancor-spawn, farking sleemo!"

He cracks his whip and everything returns to normal. The slaves, who had been silently watching the scene return to work and the blood-stained spice starts flowing again.

Bussiness is bussines.

Thinks the overseer, smoking through a gap on his mask, going back to his office, while leaving a trail of heavy-scented smoke behind his cloaked figure.