Why Cracken insisted the boy accompany him was beyond Cassian. The only explanation Cracken gave was: “Pash needs experience.” Roughly translated, that meant Cracken saw some sort of potential in his son as an intelligence operative.
Cassian was quite sure that was wishful thinking on the general's part.
Anyone with even the slightest bit of common sense could tell that Pash Cracken would make a terrible spy. He was hardly the sort who could make himself look forgettable – lanky and awkward, with bright red hair sticking out in several directions, a face full of freckles, and clothes that were just a bit too baggy. He also had all of no stealth ability. His track record in the fifteen minutes they'd been off the speeder bus spoke for itself - the kid had managed to knock over three fruit stands and trip over his own feet so many times that Cassian lost count. How he was going to get the kid through the open air market that lay between him and the meet point for Cracken's contact was a whole other problem.
Steeling himself, he turned to survey the latest round of damage. Pash was scrambling to collect some sort of bright pink fruit and trying to return it to a stand in front of a grocer. Nothing looked permanently harmed. It probably could have been worse. Probably. He briefly debated sending the kid back to the speeder bus depot to wait for him. Tempting as it was, he suspected it would only result in being demoted even further in Cracken's opinion. The only thing that could be worse than being demoted to babysitting a child and going on a joke of an assignment was having no assignment at all.
He'd given up too much for the rebellion to let Pash Cracken be the end of his Intelligence career.
“Sorry.” The kid returned the last of the fruit to the stand, then hurried over to where he was waiting.
Cassian gave him a long look, considered ten different ways to chew him out from here until next Sunday, and swallowed all of them. “We're late.” He turned back towards the street. “Don't touch anything else.”
Pash fell into step beside him and dutifully shoved his hands in his pockets as if to say See? Cannot touch. “Is there anything I should be doing?”
“Not touching anything,” Cassian reminded him.
“Anything else?” Pash asked hopefully. “Is there anyone I'm supposed to look out for? Suspicious people? Contacts?”
“No.” He turned into the market and prayed to whatever Taanabian deities existed that this would all be over soon.
“Should I count red shirts?” Pash added.
Don't ask, Andor. You don't want to know the answer. Despite his better judgment, he heard himself do the exact thing he'd decided against half a heartbeat earlier. “Red shirts?”
“Dad says you should always pay attention to your surroundings. We play this game where we walk through a crowd and, when we're on the other side, I have to tell him how many red shirts I see,” Pash explained, as if these sorts of behaviors were normal father-son bonding activities. “Sometimes, he changes the color, so I can't get away with planning for the questions in advance. When we're around pilots, it can also be helmets.”
He was right. He hadn't wanted to know. “You don't have to count shirts.”
“Do you have another lesson I'm supposed to work on?” Pash asked.
“No.”
“Captain Andor?” Pash asked as they began to cut across the market.
What could the kid possibly want to ask him now? Cassian was sure they'd depleted all possible sources of questions. He suppressed a sigh. “Yes?”
“Dad said we're picking up some information about Imperial shipments from someone who works for Jorj Car'das.” Pash said.
Cassian's shoulders tensed. Why not announce it to the entire planet? At least, he reminded himself, no one on Taanab cared what they were doing. He'd seen all of three stormtroopers since landing. All three were lazily resting with planetary control officers at customs checkpoints in the spaceport. Even the Empire knew there was nothing of use to the Rebellion on Taanab. Nonetheless, it was stupid to tempt fate. Cassian ground his teeth together and made a mental note to explain how the galaxy worked to Pash Cracken once they were back on base. “Yes.”
“That doesn't make any sense.” Pash frowned. “Car'das – he's got connections to the Empire. What's to stop him from selling us out? They'd know what shipments we'd be targeting, and could set a trap. You don't actually trust him, do you?”
Cassian could count the people he trusted on one hand without using all his fingers – and even one of those people was a droid. “Of course not.”
“So then why....oh.” Pash said as they came to a stop outside an old building bearing the sign Ye Olde Ale Hall. “You're counting on Car'das selling us out.” He looked thoughtful as he worked through it. “The Imperials will be looking for a raid at the wrong places, meaning it'll be easier to go after a different target.”
He had to hand it to the kid. He'd started seeing different ways information could be used. Cassian nodded once. “Something like that. Now, listen. You.” He gestured at Pash, “Are going to wait here. I'm going to go in and talk with this contact.”
Pash pouted, looking even younger than his fifteen years. “Why can't I come?”
Because my orders didn't say you had to meet Car'das, and I can't trust you not to blow this. “Because I told you to wait here.” He stuck the boy with a look. “I could have told you to wait at the depot.”
Pash sighed in what Cassian defined as 'that privileged obnoxious teenager way,' but leaned against the side of the building and got comfortable.
“And don't talk to anyone.” Cassian added.
“You won't let me do anything, so no chance of that happening,” Pash muttered under his breath. He crossed his arms against his chest, but stayed put.
For half a heartbeat, he wondered if keeping the kid outside was safest. He didn't know what was happening inside, but, if he brought Pash with him, at least he could put himself between danger and the child that he was supposed to ensure did not die. At the same time, he also wasn't sure what to expect from anyone associated with Jorj Car'das. A man did not get a reputation for brutality for no reason, and that sort of man would value others who shared his opinions on those types of topics. Cassian took one last look around the small central city. There were mothers pushing strollers, people buying vegetables, and a teenage boy trying to impress a group of girls by a nearby fountain. Not exactly a war zone. It's Taanab. He reminded himself. How much trouble can one teenager get into in a farmer's market on Taanab? “Stay here.” He repeated as he ducked inside the door.
He'd expected some sort of hole in the wall or seedy bar. Instead, he found a sparsely populated, halfway decent restaurant. A few nicely dressed Bothans were holding some sort of business meeting over a meal in one corner. A young couple appeared to have opted for an afternoon caf as a first date, while a man with thick black hair and a shirt that likely cost more than Cassian's entire life perused a wine list at the bar. A woman in a waitress uniform had even taken up residence at a large table inside the door and appeared to be doing schoolwork.
For the first time in a long time, Cassian found he didn't belong. How, he wondered, had no one bothered to include this information in his orders? While he should have known that anything safe enough for Cracken's son to tag along on wouldn't be the sorts of places he normally frequented, someone should have warned him to at least bring a jacket that didn't look like it had been to a war zone.
“Ah.” The man with the wine list laid it down on the counter. “Something tells me you're looking for me.”
Cassian nodded. “If you're waiting for Schopf.”
“I was.” The man gave him a thin smile, then asked conversationally, “Will he be joining us?”
“Unfortunately, he won't be able to make it.” It was, after all, quite difficult to make a meeting when you're dead. Another good man. Another mission incomplete.
“I'm sorry to hear that.” The man did look sorry. “He had a rare appreciation for good food.” He pushed the wine list across the bar and fixed his full attention on Cassian. “So.” This time, the man's smile carried all the way up to his ice blue eyes, “What can Jorj Car'das do for you?”
There was no way this man was Car'das. He was too young – at most, only a few years older than Cassian. A lackey, then. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse. It didn't matter; his personal feelings on the issue weren't important. “I understand you have shipping records.”
“Ah. Yes.” The man motioned to the bartender to pour him a glass from the bottle she was holding. “Do you enjoy wine, Mr. …?”
“Not particularly.” Cassian replied.
“That's a shame. They have a local variety on world that is quite good.” The man watched him carefully. When Cassian didn't react, he shook his head slightly, as if disappointed. “Well then. Shipping.”
Shipping schedules for Imperial supply freighters. “Yes.”
“I hear it's a booming market out there these days.” The man picked up his wine glass and sniffed at it as if they were in a vineyard tasting room and not a building alongside a street market. “Cargoes going everywhere, comprised of every sort of thing imaginable.”
“So I've heard.” Cassian agreed.
He tasted the wine and smiled slightly. “Good vintage.” He set the glass on the edge of the bar and gave Cassian his full attention once more. “Well then, down to business. I'm afraid I'll have to ask for cash. Car'das is a bit behind the times and refuses to deal with accounts.”
“Cash is fine.” Cash didn't leave a paper trail. Cassian couldn't imagine anyone would be stupid enough to pay by account – especially since that account information could easily be sold to the highest bidder. “Assuming you've got what was promised Schopf.”
“If I didn't, I wouldn't be a very good businessman.” He smiled again. “You can't honestly think we're all savages.”
Businessmen. Was that what they were calling themselves these days?
Before he had a chance to respond, his contact's comlink chirped. The man gave him an apologetic look, murmured, “Excuse me one moment,” and motioned for Cassian to check out the datacard before directing his attention to the comlink. “Go ahead.”
Cassian pulled his datapad out and slid the card into it. Pages of dates, shipment numbers, and freighter IDs sprung to life. He pretended to inspect it as he tried to catch what he could of the conversation.
“And what sort of shape are they in?” Car'das' man asked. Cassian strained his ears to try to catch the other voice, but the comlink's sound was turned down just low enough that, to anyone even slightly outside the range, it sounded like nothing but a garbled mess. “Ah. Yes, I'm interested.” The man said softly. “Tell Ms. Hallik I'm finishing up with a client, but I'd like to meet her and see if we could do business. Say – an hour? Thank you.” Stowing the comlink, he turned back to Cassian. “Sorry about that. One of my colleagues stumbled upon a potentially profitable deal. I trust the datacards are acceptable.”
He couldn't see anything wrong with them. The information certainly looked legit. Cassian nodded and handed the stack of credits over to Schopf's contact.
The man smiled genteelly as he pocketed the money. “A pleasure. If you'll excuse me?”
Yes, go find a new home for whatever spice or guns someone wants to sell you. Cassian nodded at him. He withdrew the datacard from his datapad and stashed it in an inner pocket to his coat.
“Oh,” the man laid a few cred chips on the bar to cover his tab, “One more thing, Captain Andor. If you're interested in doing business in the future, just contact the owner of this establishment and ask her to put you in touch with Sabacc. She'll be able to arrange whatever meetings are necessary.”
Cassian blinked. His mind tried to put the pieces together – tried to figure out how Sabacc (what kind of a name was Sabacc anyway?) knew the first thing about him – and reached two potential solutions: either Schopf had mentioned him (possible) or there was a mole in Alliance Intelligence (something he did not want to consider but now had to). His potential new contact smiled once more as he slid his hands into his pockets and walked towards the door.
Cassian had half a mind to tail the man before he remembered the flaw in that plan. It was going to be impossible to tail anyone with Pash Cracken tagging along. He sighed to himself, then pushed away from the bar. Finding out more about Sabacc-the-man would have to wait. At least, he told himself as he crossed the restaurant once more, the mission was technically a success. He had the information. No one had died. He wasn't sitting in an infirmary somewhere. All things considered, it was better than most of the things he did for the Alliance.
He blinked in the sudden brightness of the sun as he stepped outside and turned towards where he left Pash. The wall the kid been holding up earlier was now standing just fine on its own. Damn. What part of stay here had been that hard to understand? Cassian spotted the kid a moment later, standing by a nearby vegetable vendor with the boy from the fountain as they poured over a magazine. The boys' eyes were wide as they stared at the images.
Pathetic. The Galaxy's Worst Spy could not only not understand the concept of orders, but was easily distracted by a skin magazine. Cassian strolled towards the kids. The other boy pointed at something in the magazine they held between them, and Pash nodded enthusiastically. Cassian snatched it from their hands. Rolling it up, he glared at his charge. “I thought I told you not talk to anyone.”
Pash frowned. “I thought you meant people who could be dangerous.”
“Anyone,” Cassian repeated.
“But,” Pash tried again, “Wes had a magazine about TIE fighters,” he said as if that made it all better.
How was he even supposed to respond to that? How? Wordlessly, Cassian unrolled the magazine. Imperial propaganda images stared back at him. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse than a skin magazine. Deciding that was Airen Cracken's problem, he shoved the magazine into the inner pocket of his coat.
“Is this your dad?” The other kid (apparently Wes: owner of TIE magazines) piped up. “Maybe he can help us.” He looked up at Cassian for a moment, then asked, “How do you get girls to talk to you? I've tried 'hi,'” he began counting on his fingers, “And compliments, and jokes. And my new buddy here said he tries to talk with them about spaceships-”
“We're leaving.” Cassian interrupted.
“But this is important information,” Wes protested.
Cassian ignored him. Motioning at Pash to follow him, he started into the market once more. “Sorry.” Pash muttered over his shoulder at his new friend.
“Bye Pash,” Wes called after them as they rounded the corner of the building. “Bye, Mr. Cracken.”
Cassian froze. Beside him, he felt Pash falter at the sudden stop.
“What's wrong?” Pash looked around the market in confusion.
“You told him your name?” Cassian asked softly.
“Yes?” Pash's confusion doubled.
Cassian resisted the urge to find the nearest wall and repeatedly bang his head against it. Airen Cracken's son thought telling people who he was ranked among his better ideas. Tilting his head back, he stared at the sky and counted slowly backwards from ten. What kind of idiot...? He grabbed Pash by the back of his jacket and pulled him behind the nearest building. Seeing the empty alleyway, he turned to face the kid. “Listen. When you aren't on Contruum, or with your father, and someone asks you your name, give a fake one.”
“I'm a nobody,” Pash reminded him. “It's not like I'm Bail Organa. My name is as worthless as if it was John Antilles.”
Cassian lowered his voice, “Do you have any idea how valuable you would be to the Imperials? Your father liberated a planet. He's helped set up resistance cells across the galaxy. He's one of the biggest thorns in the Empire's side. What do you think would happen if they could get their hands on you?”
Judging by the look on Pash's face, he never thought that through before. And, Cassian suspected, right about now, he was probably trying to envision how his father would rescue him should the unthinkable happen. For half a moment, he considered letting Pash keep his childish illusions...but he couldn't. Cracken clearly thought it was a good idea to send Pash with one of his operatives. Pash needed to know what that meant.
“Best case scenario?” Cassian told him, “They kill you quickly. Most likely, though, they'll slowly torture you to get every bit of information you might possibly know. You'd be surprised how much valuable information is already in your brain – things your father told you, things you've overheard, things about your family. You might tell yourself that you would never tell them – we like to think that – but you will. In the end, you will. Everyone always does. And after they've gotten everything out of you, after you've betrayed each and every secret you have, they will kill you. I can see what you're thinking, but before you kid yourself that there's a rescue coming, it's not. You aren't valuable to the Rebellion. Your father might love you – he might even be willing to die for you - but he can't send dozens of good men to their deaths to rescue someone who doesn't gain the Rebellion anything. They capture you. They torture you. They kill you. That is the only way it ends.” Cassian watched as Pash's face continued to lose color with each word he heard. When he still didn't speak, Cassian added, “Do you understand?”
Silently, Pash swallowed, then nodded.
“Good.” He held up two fingers. “Next lesson. Unless you are on base, never imagine for a second that you are safe. To the average person, Taanab is not dangerous. It's a farming world and Imperial oversight is lax. Just because they're lax, doesn't mean you are, because your stakes,” he pushed a finger into Pash's chest, “Are too high. You have everything to lose. The moment you forget that, or discount that? Is the moment you put yourself and your team at risk. And if your commanding officer gives you an order, you follow it unless you have a damn good reason not to. Do you understand?”
Pash nodded again.
“Good.” Cassian turned towards the entrance to the alley. “Let's go. Do not touch anything. Do not talk to anyone. Stay by me.”
For the first time all day, Pash obeyed, no questions asked. The boy did not make a single peep as they waited for the speeder bus. He didn't even kick at the pebbles in front of his feet. Most of the time, he hung his head and stared at his shoes. Given what he'd seen so far from Pash Cracken, Cassian doubted it was an act. He almost felt sympathy for the boy, but pushed it away.
Airen Cracken wanted Pash to learn about intelligence work. Cassian had told him what that meant. The sooner Pash came to terms with how war worked – with how the galaxy worked – the better. People didn't survive long in this sort of work. The ones who made it a little longer than most knew how to play the game, knew how to avoid stupid mistakes, and knew how to think on their feet. It didn't matter how many red shirts there were. It mattered whether you got the information you needed into the hands of the person who needed it.
Period.
The end.
The transport bus slid to a stop in front of them and its doors whispered open. Cassian motioned for Pash to climb aboard, then dropped two cred chips into the bin in the front of the vehicle. A cold blast of air conditioning hit him in the face. Who, he wondered, felt the need for air conditioning on a day like today? It didn't matter. In thirty minutes, they'd be at the spaceport. He could probably get a slot to leave within an hour after that.
His time babysitting was drawing to a close.
Cassian leaned back in his seat and propped his knees on the back of the seat ahead of him. He resisted the urge to pull out his datapad and scroll through the information they'd purchased from Car'das to find anything of use. Whatever was there wasn't his business unless someone higher up decided it was. Considering how far he'd fallen, he doubted anyone wanted to trust him with any sort of useful information at the moment.
Beside him, Pash looked out the window and shivered. Cassian watched him – watched the stubborn look building around the kid's eyes – and then shrugged out of his jacket. “Here.”
Pash looked at him.
“I'm warm,” he offered by way of explanation.
Pash took the jacket and pulled it on with a mumbled, “Thanks.”
“Guard that with your life.” Cassian told him.
“Because it's your favorite?” Pash asked.
“No.” Cassian tapped the side of the jacket with the datacard. “Because it has my cred chips and your magazine.”
Pash nodded and zipped the jacket as if this would keep everything safe. It would, Cassian had to admit, protect against pickpockets. He hoped that the kid had done it for that reason. It would show risk management – or at least thinking.
“When we get to the ship,” Pash finally spoke, “Can I do anything to help you?”
“You can com home and let them know we're en route,” Cassian told him.
“I can fly.” Pash's session of silence was apparently over. He should never have given the kid his coat. It wasn't meant as a silent everything between us is fine now. It was a I don't want to explain to the man who holds the future of my career in his hands how you died of hypothermia.
“Can and will are two different things,” Cassian replied as the transport came to a stop. “I'll fly. You'll be on communications.” He tapped Pash on the shoulder. “This is us.”
The spaceport was slightly busier than it had been when they arrived. While that wasn't saying much, “busy” on Taanab did come with a line all of seven people long at the Customs station. Cassian let his gaze sweep over the others, picking out five cargo pilots, an employee for a civilian transport company, and a kid not much older than Pash dressed in a coat with a crop dusting logo on the back. A discussion broke out over the transport company employee's papers, and Cassian leaned against the metal railing for the line area to wait.
“Is it okay if I read?” Pash asked.
Cassian nodded – it wasn't as if Pash could get in trouble reading – and watched as the kid pulled out his magazine and flipped it open. Now that he was paying attention to it, he could see the logo of the Imperial Flight Academy on Carida blazoned on the front. Of course, Cassian thought bitterly, It had to be Carida. Pash looked at it with the sort of rapt awe that Cassian had only seen on the faces of religious fanatics. Remembering the kid's requests to fly their shuttle, he asked, “You want to be a pilot?”
“Yup.” Pash nodded as he turned a page. “As soon as I turn seventeen, I'm going to apply. My simulator scores are already better than most cadets' and my scores in mathematics are on track. Carida is my top choice – they have the greatest variety of programs – but Dad says Vensenor is a better program for pure flight training.”
Pash needs experience. Cassian felt something settle in his stomach as he watched Pash read about Imperial starfighters. Sweet Force. Cracken wasn't planning to send Pash into the field to do what Cassian and countless others did. He was planting a mole into the Imperial military.
“Next.” The Customs officer called out.
“We're after her.” Cassian tried to keep his voice neutral as he played through the implications of Cracken's plan. “Find your travel papers.”
What sort of man sent his own child into the Rancor's pit?
You've been fighting since you were younger than Pash. Cassian told the voice in his mind to be quiet. That was different. When he joined the fight, he didn't have a family. There hadn't been anyone left to look out for him.
The woman who had been talking with the Customs officer moved off into the spaceport. The officer waved at them to step forward. “Papers?”
Cassian handed his over and waited for Pash to retrieve his from the rear pocket of his pants. He made a mental note to explain the importance of stashing papers in places from which they could not be easily stolen to Pash on the ride home.
“Name?” The Customs officer looked bored.
“Britt Dorset,” Cassian matched the officer's bored tone.
“I'm Jon.” Pash put in.
The officer glanced at their photos, then at them. “Your kid?”
“Nephew.” Cassian offered.
“Purpose on world?” The officer began stamping the documents.
“Picking up a shipment of turnips.” Cassian replied.
The Customs officer nodded once, then passed them their documents. “You're good to go. See Control on the second floor about scheduling an exit window.”
“Can I meet you at the ship?” Pash asked as they moved into the spaceport. “I want to see if I can do the calculations for the nav computer and then compare them with yours. For practice.”
Cassian tried to find the catch to that. The spaceport was pretty dead. It wasn't that far to the shuttle. The kid wanted to do math – and Cassian believed he was being truthful about that. “Sure.” He handed Pash a control chip. “Just lock it up once you're on board and don't let anyone until I get back.”
He waited until Pash disappeared in the direction of the shuttle before taking the stairs to Traffic Control. Several rounds of paperwork – the boring predictable sort – and the traditional bribe, and he had an exit slot within the hour. It would have been perfect except that, upon returning to the ship, he was greeted with a locked hull and no Pash.
You have got to be kidding me. Cassian stared at the hull of the ship and wondered how – how – he'd let himself be played by a fifteen year old kid. He was the galaxy's greatest idiot. No wonder Cracken no longer trusted him. He was dumb enough to believe a fifteen year old actually wanted to do math.
“Are you looking for the redhead boy?”
Cassian turned and saw an older man leaning against a pile of crates and smoking a pipe. “Yes.”
“He went off with the Roat boys.” The old man pointed at Cassian with his pipe.
He didn't know who the Roat boys were. He found he didn't care. All he knew was that he was going to make that kid's life a nightmare from now until they arrived back with the Alliance. “I don't believe it,” Cassian muttered.
“Oh, believe it,” the man told him. “If it helps, he didn't really have much of a choice in the matter. They jumped him right quick. Can't say I'm surprised after all that nonsense with his old man.”
Cassian felt himself turn cold. There was bad, and then there was bad. Pash Cracken being made as Pash Cracken – someone taking Pash Cracken because of Airen Cracken – that was about as bad as it could get. Cassian bit back a growl. Apparently, Pash's little revelation in the market did not go unnoticed. “Which way did they go.”
“Can't seem to remember.”
Cassian held up his last cred chip.
“Just remembered.” The man pocketed the chip. “Their ship is docked in Bay 17.”
A quick check of the spaceport map revealed Bay 17 was one of the furthest landing bays from the center of the spaceport. Of course it was. The sort of people who abducted children weren't going to do their dirty work where anyone could see them. If they were smart, they were also the sort who wouldn't hang around long.
He ran.
He ran because he needed to return Pash in one piece to keep his place in the Rebellion. He ran because he had orders and he'd be damned if some thugs named Roat were going to keep him from following them. He ran because Pash was a stupid, naive, privileged little idiot, and some damn foolish part of Cassian wanted the boy to stay that way – to stay a child even if it was just for a few more months.
He needn't have worried about the Roats leaving Taanab. When he reached Bay 17, he found stacks of crates, some as high as the ship, that were either being loaded or unloaded. For now, they were forgotten. For half a heartbeat, Cassian wondered if the bay was deserted or if he had been misled. Then he heard the voices.
Walking around the crates, unarmed, to confront people who almost certainly were not in compliance with Taanab's spaceport blaster restriction laws did not seem like a good way to recover his charge. Cassian glanced at the piles of crates, mentally measuring the heights of various stacks against the height of the ship. If he could get above them, he might be able to jump them....
He climbed.
It was, as climbs were concerned, one of the easier ones. The crates were large and stable, despite not being tied down or otherwise attached to anything. At a height of about one standard story, he was able to transition from the boxes to the wing of the ship, and from there, crawl along the wing towards the voices near the back of the ship.
“But that's what I'm trying to tell you,” Pash was saying as Cassian peered over the back edge of the wing. “ I'm not Jon Dorset. I'm not even from Taanab.” He looked between two scrappy looking thugs, neither of whom had been anywhere near a sink for days and both of whom held battered blasters.
“You're a terrible liar,” the thug on Pash's left said. “We saw you in the market. Don't look at me like that. Everyone knows you run with the Janson kid. How many redheaded friends do you think Janson has? Mort here was even behind you in line when you went through Customs.”
The thug on the right, obviously the “Mort” in question, looked down at Pash at sneered. “Yeah. How dumb do you think we are?”
“Next he's going to tell us his daddy really doesn't have any money,” the other thug joked, waving a blaster under Pash's nose. Pash's eyes somehow managed to get even larger.
Cassian rolled onto his back and took stock of the situation. It was not good. If K-2 was here, he could give Cassian a percentage of 'not good,' but Cassian was going to take a stab in the dark and say it was 100% not good.
Alliance intelligence had messed up. Their names were supposed to be objects of fantasy, but either sloppy work or failed research resulted in Intelligence giving at least Pash the name of a real Taanabian. Worse yet, it was the name of a Taanabian that he resembled and that petty criminals cared about. Cassian silently hoped Jon Dorset was worth more alive than dead – and that the men would give him an opening to reclaim his teenage charge.
Mort looked at Pash, who was doing a good job of saying nothing, and cycled through several more sneers. “Not so clever now, are ya?” Another four versions of sneer crossed his mouth. He caught his partner's eye and jerked his thumb around the back of his ship. “Load him in the speeder. I'll contact his father.”
Cassian ran through a quick mental catalog of what he had available to him for use as a weapon. It turned up nothing useful – no knives, no sharp implements...he didn't even have his coat any longer. Beneath him, the remaining thug was waving the blaster in the direction of the speeder and ordering Pash inside. If that happened, his chances of recovering a breathing Pash Cracken went down dramatically. Don't get in the speeder. Don't get in the speeder.
Pash hesitated.
“Kid, don't make me tell you again.” The thug's slid the safety off the blaster. “Mort might want money from your dad, but I'm fine with my revenge the old fashioned way.”
He was done waiting.
The drop wasn't as bad as it could have been. Landing on the thug helped. And then there was nothing – no emotions, no pain – just simple, basic flashes from his senses. The clatter as the blaster fell to the floor. The hard muscles in the back of the other man. The flash of light against metal as his opponent drew a knife. The crack of ligaments as he manipulated the wrist of the knife hand. The way the knife bit into the skin of his arm as he tried to wrest it away. The heavy breathing as his opponent moved to throw him. The feel of a clean snap as he broke the neck of the other man.
And then it was over, and Cassian found himself staggering backwards from his opponent. He was aware that his breath was ragged, and that his heart was racing, and that less than a minute had passed since he leapt from the top of the ship's wing. Regaining his footing, he straightened and looked at Pash.
The kid's eyes were huge. They moved from Cassian, to the body on the floor, and back to Cassian. His right hand, Cassian noted, clutched the blaster the thug had dropped. “Is he...?”
“Yes.” He retrieved the knife from where it had fallen and set to work cutting a sleeve off the thug's shirt. He didn't even want to think about how the gash on his arm was going to feel once the adrenaline began to wear off. Thrusting the fabric at Pash, he pulled back his own sleeve. “I need you to cover the wound, and bind it with this.”
For a long moment, it looked like Pash was going to do nothing more than stare at the corpse. Then he blinked once, grabbed the stripped away sleeve, and pressed it against Cassian's forearm. “How much pressure?” He began to wrap the makeshift bandage.
“I'll let you know if its too tight.” It was starting to hurt already. Damn. He couldn't get a good look at it, but he knew it was bad if it hurt already. Cassian waited in silence until the bandage was tied off. As long as the knife hadn't gotten an artery, that should hold until they got back to the spaceport. If the knife had caught an artery, well, then it wouldn't matter.
“Here.” Pash shrugged out of Cassian's coat and held it out to him. “This is bulky enough that it should hide the, uh, bandage so we won't attract attention on the way back to the ship.”
It was a little less bulky on him than on Pash, but at least the kid was thinking. Careful of the arm, Cassian pulled the coat on, then motioned to Pash with his good hand. “Okay. Good work. We're leaving.” He took three steps, watched the world swim, paused, then shut his eyes. “Kid?”
“Yes?”
“When you said you knew how to fly a shuttle,” while asking me to let you fly every five minutes on the way here, “How much experience do you have?”
“I've been doing solo flights in a Z95 since I was twelve.” Pash told him. “Are you going to let me fly?”
“No.” Cassian said gruffly. “But if I pass out on the way out of here, then you are allowed to fly.”
~*~
“Are you sure you don't want to use Bacta patches for this?” The medic set down a metal tray on to the table.
Cassian cast a look at the suture needles and thread on the tray, then made a point of looking anywhere but at the tray. “Positive.” Bacta patches might be painless, but they were also not as plentiful on bases as the more archaic methods of healing. “It's just a scratch.”
“It'll probably be a good twelve stitches.” The medic corrected him coolly. “You're lucky your assailant didn't nick anything important.” When he merely held out his arm in response, she shook her head once, then got to work cleaning the wound.
He tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on developing a decent explanation for why a routine pick up had gone wrong. Sometime around the fourth pass of the needle through his skin, he had to admit the worst: there was no good way to spin your kid almost died on my watch to a commanding officer.
There was also a good chance this was the end. Cassian shut his eyes and kept his teeth clenched together. He still wasn't sure what he'd done to get this unofficial demotion, but the day's events had surely cemented whatever poor opinions Cracken and the others must have had of him.
This job was all he had. This fight was all he had. Everything had been lost or taken or given in the name of this cause.
It would all be for nothing.
“How bad was it?” Airen Cracken's gruff voice interrupted the silence. Cassian opened his eyes to see the general just inside the room, his shoulder leaning against the wall.
“Twelve stitches.” The medic replied as she finished a knot on the sutures. “But the wound wasn't dangerously deep. He'll live.”
Cassian gave her a wane smile and reached for his sleeve.
“Don't even think about it, Captain.” The medic stuck him with the sort of stern look he always imagined school headmistresses would perfect for unruly students. “That shirt is filthy. Unless you'd like to be back in here with an infection?”
He dropped his hand back to his lap.
Cracken gave the medic a tired smile as he pushed himself upright. “Do you mind if we use the room for a few minutes?”
“As long as you make sure he doesn't try to roll down that sleeve,” the medic waved a hand in Cassian's direction, “Be my guest.”
As Cracken took up the spot that the medic vacated, Cassian found himself subconsciously reaching for his sleeve, only to stop under Cracken's gaze. He forced his hand away again and his chin to stay up. He opened his mouth to report, only to have Cracken hold up a hand. “Pash filled me in.”
Cassian took a moment to run that through his mind before choosing the neutral response of, “I see.”
“Not exactly how I expected things to go.” Cracken continued.
It was the sort of moment where someone could use the phrases “I can explain” or “I'm sorry.” Either of those phrases implied guilt, however, so Cassian said nothing.
Cracken sighed heavily and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the small table. “I just thank the Force you were the one with him.”
Cassian blinked. That was not exactly the direction he expected the conversation to go. “Sir?”
Cracken favored him with a tired look. “I suspect you're wondering why I pulled you from your typical roster of assignments to accompany a fifteen year old.” He rubbed at his temples, then leaned back in his chair once more. “Pash is a prodigy at military spaceflight. He was better than me by the time he was thirteen. He can beat any of the old simulator scenarios we have, and he's likely better than at least half of the military grade pilots we've got in the Rebellion. What he's not good at is espionage.”
“He told me about the flight academy,” Cassian offered.
Cracken blinked. “He told you?” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Figures. Yes, I plan on sending him to one of the flight academies if I think he can handle it. We're setting up some small training ops for him – things like spending a month at a boarding school here or several weeks in a group home there. They're ways for him to practice being someone else without the stakes being quite so high – and tests to make sure he won't make the sort of mistake that could end his life.”
The several hours he'd had to mull over the idea of Cracken using his own son as a spy hadn't given Cassian any additional guidance on how to feel about that. Part of him wanted to shake the man and tell him how lucky he was to have a normal family, and that he needed to do everything he could to never, ever risk that. Another part of him had to admit that planting a mole Cracken knew he could trust was smart. Neither of those thoughts were thoughts he could voice, so he chose to stick to the practical aspects. “He's not going to be like your regular operatives. He sees life as black and white.”
“He's young.” Cracken nodded. “Fortunately, he just has to attend classes and fly fighters and keep an ear to the ground. And when the time comes...well, he's starting to have his eyes opened to the realities of war.”
Yes, watching a man get his neck snapped had that effect on a person. Cassian wasn't about to share that thought either, and returned to the safely neutral response of, “I see.”
Cracken studied him a moment, then announced, “I'm looking for people to act as handlers.”
“Handlers,” he repeated.
“People to train Pash, get him ready. Make sure he knows how to take care of himself. Make sure he learns how to blend in and cover his tracks. Make sure he understands what he's getting into before it's too late. Make sure he stays alive.” Cracken continued. “I was wondering if you had anyone you'd recommend.”
Cracken meant him. Cassian took a moment to consider the implications. What he'd seen as a demotion was, in fact, an audition - one he'd apparently passed with flying colors. There was probably some sort of promotion in it. It was most definitely meant to be some sort of honor. At the end of the day, though, he couldn't see himself spending the next two years grooming a kid for a long term undercover op. There were better ways he could be useful. “I'd recommend Lena Cavert. She's smart, trustworthy, and has a fair bit of undercover experience thanks to her days at CorSec.”
If Cracken was surprised, he didn't show it. He merely picked up a pencil and jotted the name down on a piece of flimsy, as if he had just heard it and hadn't been speaking with the woman the day before. “That's a good recommendation. Anyone else you can think of?”
“If I was going to send my son into an enemy stronghold, I'd want Cavert training him,” Cassian replied.
Cracken was silent a long moment. Finally, he climbed to his feet. “Draven has a neutralization assignment on his desk.” The unspoken care to reconsider hung in the air.
No one liked neutralization work. It was a necessary evil – and the sort he'd do dozens of times over during the two years he could be spending training Pash Cracken to infiltrate the Imperial military. He tried to imagine switching from ops to training, what it would be like to work behind the scenes and play an occasional character role if the situation required it. It was a relatively safe assignment – and a relatively unmessy one. And it was all to get one kid ready to do one thing two years from now. There was too much to do now. Cassian cleared his throat. “Thank you, sir. I'll report to him once we're back on world.”
Notes:
- There’s a lot of conflicting information on Pash’s age. Based on his story arc pre-RotJ, I calculated he'd have been born 15 or 16 ABY. *shrug*
- Janson was one of the younger pilots at Yavin (despite not getting to fly because he was ill). I have him about Pash's age here.
- Cassian suspects Car'das's organization would sell them out. Ironically, he deals with Karrde, who wouldn't have done so, as selling people out is terrible for business. Also “Sabacc Card” seemed to me like the type of absolutely horrible pun Karrde would love.
- The “count the red shirts” game is taken from Psych, where the main character's father would have him count hats. I used red shirts because...red shirts.
- Liana Hallik was one of Jyn Erso's pseudonyms. In about a year, “Liana” will be arrested for, inter alia, having weapons she shouldn't.
- Johnny Dorset is the name of the kidnapped child in 'The Ransom of Red Chief.'
- When I originally wrote that Pash had a brochure for the Imperial Academy on Carida, I did not know of Cassian's family connection to it. It actually came from some old Pash-centric stuff I'd written that he'd wanted to go there, but ended up elsewhere and just re-used it. The Universe apparently decided this was Meant To Be.
