Chapter Text
Present day – Undisclosed location
“It’s not possible,” Cassian declared firmly as he looked over the facility’s schematics one more time. “There’s no way to get in and out of there without being noticed. Too much security.”
Coming to that conclusion upset him more than he would admit. He was the one who’d come to Rael with the lead on this biochemical weapon the Empire was working on, but he hadn’t said a word on how he’d come by it while searching for information on the fate of Kenari, or how personal the topic was to him.
He rested back in his seat, arms folded across his chest, and looked up to Luthen on the other side of the table. They’d just spent the last few days working on strategies for a couple of missions to get more information about that weapon, including the topic at hand: infiltrating an Imperial Technology Administrative Center. Under the poor lighting of their temporary sanctuary’s meeting room, Rael’s wrinkles seemed deeper, making him look even graver than he usually did.
Luthen tapped his fingers on his armchair, looking back at Cassian with a hint of disappointment in his eyes. “We need the plans to this prototype.”
“I know,” he agreed. “But if they find out we’ve been snooping, we’ll lose any advantage we may get from this operation. And I can’t guarantee discretion considering the heavily secure context.”
Luthen pressed his lips together with discontent. “Maybe you can’t – ”
“If you know someone who can,” Cassian immediately contested, “go and ask them, be my guest.” After nearly two years of dedicated service to the Rebellion, after accomplishing so many risky missions successfully, having his abilities called into question was a low blow.
“Let me finish,” Luthen grumbled. “Maybe you can’t do it alone. But you could. With a team of your own.”
As he had before, Cassian shook his head at the proposal. “No.”
“Your ridiculous posture keeps you from more ambitious missions,” Luthen scoffed. “What’s stopping you?”
Cassian clenched his jaw. Embarking on a dangerous mission willing to sacrifice your own self if needed was one thing. Being the one on that mission who made the calls that may precipitate or even require someone else’s death was an entirely different one. One he wasn’t comfortable with. “We’ve talked about this.”
“Well I’m done letting you waste opportunities like this because of some misplaced qualms. This is war, we do what we have to do, there’s no time for your misgivings,” Luthen reminded, his nostrils flaring. “You’re getting a team,” he announced with an irrevocable tone. “Captain…”
Surprise made Cassian look up at the last word. Luthen had let it hang with a crooked smile. “Are you promoting me?”
Rael shrugged. “Call it whatever you want. These missions, and the ITAC infiltration in particular, require a full team and I want you to take its lead.”
Cassian pursed his lips with annoyance. He could tell when someone was forcing his hand, and there was only one way he would agree to this. “If I’m doing this, I get to choose my team.”
“You’re the Captain, you have the final say of course,” Luthen agreed.
Cassian observed Rael. “Do we even have someone who can hack into a system like this and get me in?”
“I think we do, if you would allow me to suggest someone… You recruited them yourself, so you should approve.”
“Who?”
Luthen grinned. “Do you remember the Czerka Arms factory on Kothlo?”
* * * * *
10 months before present day – Kothlo
Cassian raised his hand to catch the bartender’s attention. The man, a middle-aged human busy cleaning glasses on the other side of the counter, nodded at him. As he took a s ea t on a stool, Cassian gave a quick look around the room. Its simple, worn décor was rather typical of a mid-rim cantina. The low attendance was exactly what he had hoped for when he chose to come at this time of day, and apart from a few patrons sitting at a table in the back, he was the only one there.
He stared into space for a moment. Kothlo was a minor temperate planet in the Edo system, only noteworthy for the Czerka weapons factory established in its only major city. A sudden increase in production – all destined for the Empire as per their exclusivity contract – had aroused the Rebellion’s interest. Which, in turn, had put Cassian on his current intel-gathering mission.
His stool gave a metallic ringing when he tapped his foot on its legs impatiently.
“There you go,” the barkeep declared as he presented a glass in front of him, filled with an unappetizing, thick, murky green liquid which was, presumably, what he had ordered – or rather, the one and only drink available served to all customers.
“Thank you,” he said politely, and took a sip. He grimaced when the liquid burned down his throat. There wasn’t much alcohol in it, but it was as pleasant to the tongue – and the nose – as it looked. “So. Slow day,” he managed – his voice barely croaked.
The barman looked around and shrugged without enthusiasm, resuming his cleaning activities.
His casual demeanor contrasted with his impressive large frame. The glass in his muscular hand looked like it could easily break if pressed in anger. Not to mention the intimidating scar across his face. Most would probably assume the man had been in one too many bar fights, but Cassian had a different theory. The scar was too large to have been made by a knife or even a vibroblade. His money was on a vibrosword, a weapon much more readily encountered on a battlefield than in a dark alley.
Which would make that man a former soldier. Now the question was: what side had he fought on?
Barmen were usually the best source of information on any planet, and Cassian needed all he could get on the Czerka Arms facility next door. But until he knew for sure what the man’s former allegiances were, he’d have to tread carefully.
“I expected it’d be crowded with workers from the factory,” he lied.
“Droids don’t drink Ketrol,” the man said with an encouraging bitterness in his voice.
So, that was the name of this repugnant liquid. And it confirmed previous intel Cassian had gathered: human workers – slaves, knowing Czerka – had been replaced by droids. Czerka had increased the pace and didn’t want a soul to spill what they were doing.
“Well at least the spaceport is in full swing. Barely managed to find myself a spot in the middle of all the cargo ships. What’s all of this for?” he asked innocently, feigning astonishment.
The barman tensed visibly, and Cassian scolded himself for his impatience – too direct, too quick, he had to be more careful. “Your guess is as good as mine,” the man finally replied before turning his attention away from Cassian – a rather clear request to stop asking suspicious questions.
That was probably all he’d manage to get out of him that day, Cassian concluded.
He looked down to his nearly intact glass, wondering if he should give the drink another chance. On some planets, it would be considered insulting not to empty it, and it would spoil any chance to carry on this conversation later.
He brought the glass to his nose tentatively. His nostrils were immediately assaulted by an undetermined putrid stench. Nope, he was not drinking more of that.
As Cassian put the glass back down permanently, the main entrance door creaked open behind him. The gush of wind that came with it made the hair on the back of his neck st an d on end. When he looked up at the mirror behind the counter, what he saw made him freeze. His heart skipped a beat and his throat tightened.
The reflection of a distinctive white silhouette stepping inside. A stormtrooper.
He’d never forget the first time he’d seen one, a few hours before his father had hanged. A single glimpse of that armor had been enough to fill him with a deep and burning hatred ever since. A hatred he had to fight for now.
Cassian instinctively placed his hand on the side of his thigh, his blaster within reach at his hip. He inched his hand even closer when the armored soldier headed straight toward him.
He quickly evaluated his escape options. The stormtrooper probably had friends right outside, so any exit through the main door was out of the question. Behind the counter, there was an opening that likely led to the kitchens. There had to be a backdoor for deliveries. This would be his best shot.
He wasn't sure if he was truly upset by this turn of events, or if he was actually grateful for the unexpected change of pace on what had been an incredibly dull day so far. If he were honest, probably the latter.
He remained vigilant, ready to jump while the stormtrooper got even nearer.
It took all of Cassian’s self-control not to gape at the series of events that followed.
First, the stormtrooper settled on a stool, two seats from him. Second, he hailed the barman. Third, he removed his helmet and laid it casually on the counter. Fourth, he turned to Cassian and greeted him with a very polite “hello”.
That was when Cassian realized he was staring. He barely managed to articulate a vague “hey” before turning to his glass.
“The usual?” the barkeep asked. The question was received with a nod. “Rough day?”
“Don’t get me started.”
The usual . Wow. Definitely not a dull day anymore. Cassian gulped his drink down, ignoring the blaze in his throat, and waved for a refill.
Once done with Cassian’s glass, the barman returned his attention to his other customer and motioned his chin towards the helmet. “Buzzing again?”
“Yeah. I keep asking for a replacement, but they say nothing’s wrong with it.”
“Must be the weather.”
The stormtrooper was slightly slouching over the counter, his shoulders down. Tired eyes, disheveled hair, an air of despair about him. He didn’t look half as intimidating as he would in full armor. Actually, he looked pitiful. Did they all look like that once they removed their helmets?
The discussion continued, consisting mostly of the trooper complaining about this or that malfunction, and the barman lending an understanding ear – as one would expect from any barman in the galaxy – periodically blaming the weather again. Considering the turn of the conversation, the stormtrooper was a regular, and this wasn’t the first time he came lamenting over malfunctioning equipment.
This called into question. Kothlo was a mid-rim planet, which could explain a little negligence from the Empire, but not a significant deterioration of their equipment. The Empire was all about order . This was far beyond unusual.
After a little while, when the conversation reached a natural stop, the trooper finished his glass and stood, leaving a handful of credits on the counter. Cassian couldn’t help but watch him put his helmet back on with a resigned sigh and head outside.
When he turned back to the counter, the bartender was standing in front of him, a huge smile on his face and a bottle in his hand. “Looks like you finally got yourself a taste for Ketrol,” the man mocked and refilled his empty glass for the second time.
Cassian observed the green mass wobbling. “I’m sorry, I have to ask. What just happened with that stormtrooper?”
The man tensed again at his question. But before he could display a neutral expression, before he managed to hide his thoughts again, Cassian saw it, briefly: a sparkle of pride in his eyes. And that sparkle, there, was all Cassian needed to know . That kind of sparkle was not something one could feign .
“It’s Kothlo’s local weather. Don’t agree much with the Empire,” the barman declared casually with yet another shrug. “Messes with their apparatus.”
“So… this is not an isolated case?”
The man shook his head. Cassian must have looked incredulous because a slight smile returned to his lips. “Many of them come over here every now and then, and most have the same issues. Others must have them too.”
There was a hint of bragging in those words. That man knew how these malfunctions happened, and there was no way the weather had anything to do with it. Cassian had traveled the galaxy enough to have seen the Imperial armors work flawlessly in every harsh climatic conditions – scorching heat, arctic cold, you name it – and Kothlo’s weather, albeit a bit wet, was your standard temperate one.
Cassian peeked over his shoulder to the other patrons to make sure they were all still out of earshot, and bent closer to the barman. “I happen to have a special interest in… meteorology . I’d love to discuss this in more details with your local expert, if they would have me.”
The man glared at Cassian with an interrogative frown. Cassian held his gaze until the frown softened, eventually giving way to a slight smile of, he hoped, mutual understanding.
Then, reaching in his pockets, Cassian dropped payment for his drinks on the counter. The barkeep looked at the slabs, counting the credits, his eyes rounding slightly as he realized the size of the very, very substantial tip. He locked eyes with Cassian again, quizzical.
“For your trouble,” Cassian concluded, and headed out.
He pulled his hood up and ambled down the main street, zigzagging expertly between the pedestrians. The rain was still pouring down heavily – didn’t seem to have stopped since he had landed. He quickly reached one side of the Czerka factory, a three stories building with thick cement walls. Grey, austere and uninviting, in stark contrast with the colorful and lively stalls installed on the other side of the street.
He went on his way along the walls without stopping or slowing down, while making a mental note of every security element he passed by. Cameras, every fifty feet, doubled at corners. No blind spot . Two troopers stationed on each side of the main entrance, sheltered from the rain under an overhang. On the other side of the facility, an open-air loading bay. Cassian walked by just as a shipment passed the heavy metallic gates. An armed escort, eight troopers. At the gate and inside the bay, even more troopers, keeping watch over the street and over droids preparing a new shipment. Fifteen feet high walls – not worth the climb if you were to be shot by two dozen soldiers the instant you reached the other side.
His inspection tour finished, Cassian headed back toward the spaceport, thoughtful.
This wasn’t going to be easy. If he wanted to find out what they were building with such haste, with no human worker to interrogate, there were only two options left. First one, raid a shipment. Tough to get past the troopers escort, not impossible. But would bring way too much attention. Second option, infiltrate the factory. But for that he’d need to find a flaw in their security…
As he reached the spaceport, he decided to go in discreetly through a secondary entrance and to stay in observation a couple of minutes in the shadow of a corner. Normal activity all around. People and droids going about their business. But above all, nothing suspicious around his own ship. Hopefully, that meant the barman hadn’t reported him for his questions and his… interests .
Cassian boarded his ship, rain still dripping from his hood as he removed it. When he entered the cockpit and discarded his drenched coat on the copilot seat, a blinking light immediately caught his attention. He stared at it with circumspection for a couple of seconds. A message, waiting for him. Quite unexpected. He and Luthen had agreed he’d be the one to initiate contact when – if – needed.
He pressed the display button with curiosity.
The message was short. The coordinates of a location in the city, an after dark time, and a few choice words. “ For the best meteorological predictions ,” they said.
His lips curled up into an amused smile. Well, at least, if he didn’t manage to get anything on the Czerka factory, he may have something else to return to the Rebellion with.