Star Wars Rebels: Rise of the Rebels Page 3

  “One,” Zeb said, pointing the finger at himself.

  The pilot kept his blaster trained on Zeb. “Commander, just get over here!” he said into his comm.

  “Copy that!” the commander said.

  With reinforcements coming, the time for fun and games was over. Zeb leapt toward the TIE fighter. The pilot fired.

  Zeb grabbed on to the wing rod of the TIE fighter and spun around it like he was a juvenile Lasat on a tree branch. All the pilot’s blasts missed. The pilot stepped closer for a better shot. Zeb kicked, gaining speed as he revolved around the rod.

  The pilot fired again. But Zeb no longer held the rod. He had launched himself into the air—and landed on the pilot’s shoulders.

  The pilot yelped, yanked off the ground by Zeb’s toes, while Zeb reached out for a landing strut. He swung around the strut like a monkey-lizard, released his toe grip, and flung the pilot away. The man impacted the pad with a thud. This time he didn’t get up.

  Zeb did another spin around the strut to vault himself atop the TIE fighter. A familiar voice buzzed him on his comlink. “Zeb, are you embarrassing the Imperials again?”

  “Honestly, Kanan, it’s not hard to do,” Zeb said.

  He looked down with a grin at the eight stormtroopers coming from the nearby alley. Two of the troopers had dents in their helmets. These must be the ones he’d bashed together after they harassed the Ugnaught fruit seller. Zeb’s grin widened.

  The stormtrooper commander looked up at the TIE where Zeb stood. “Weapons to ‘stun.’ Bring him down,” he ordered.

  The troopers switch-clicked their weapons and fired. Zeb catapulted off the TIE high into the air. Blaster bolts flew to the clouds while Zeb crashed down right in the middle of the squad. He kicked, grabbed, and punched, tossing stormtroopers around like they were snowflakes.

  “Can’t get a clear shot!” said a trooper.

  Zeb knew that in a close fight like this, blasters were hard to aim, because shots might hit comrades. So he kept smashing the troopers together, making them as close as could be.

  “I mean, do they even bother training these bucket-heads?” Zeb said, wanting both the troopers and Kanan on his comlink to hear. “My old gran’s a better fighter, and she’s only two meters tall!”

  The commander stepped away from the brawl. He lifted his sidearm and aimed carefully. Zeb didn’t see him shoot. But he sure felt it.

  The shot had hit Zeb in the chest, sizzling fur. Electricity coursed through Zeb’s nerves. The other troopers held their positions, watching the giant Lasat sway.

  Zeb gritted his teeth. He thought of his old gran. She’d lived for three hundred dust seasons on Lasan, through much worse troubles than this. He was going to do the same.

  He was only hit by a stun bolt, after all.

  Zeb slowly turned toward the commander, his expression of pain returning to a grin. “That…stung.” He pulled free his bo-staff from his back.

  “Weapons on ‘kill’!” said the commander.

  It became a race between Zeb’s shifting his staff into rifle mode and the commander’s changing the energy setting of his blaster. And it was a race the commander lost.

  “Weapons on—” the commander repeated, cut off when the energy blast from Zeb’s rifle knocked him back.

  Four of the troopers, however, got their weapon settings changed. At once, they fired at Zeb.

  The Lasat dove under the TIE fighter and rolled under the pod-shaped fuselage that contained the cockpit. Blasts ricocheted off the metal. Zeb got up on one knee just as a bolt scorched a lower panel on the TIE. Liquid fuel began to drip out.

  “Well, that’s not good,” Zeb said.

  “What’s not good?” Kanan inquired over their link.

  Zeb scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as his long legs would carry him. The troopers continued to fire. None hit the Lasat, yet many of their blasts ignited the liquid fuel.

  Seconds later, the TIE fighter blew apart into a million pieces, sending the stormtroopers flying across the landing pad.

  Yes, Zeb thought, there’s nothing like embarrassing Imperials.

  The Ugnaught fruit seller and his rusty astromech neared from the mouth of the alley. Flames shimmered out on the landing pad. Stormtroopers groaned, trying to push themselves up.

  Zeb suddenly blocked the view, striding into the alley with his bo-rifle over his shoulder. He brushed off all the black soot that covered his fur.

  As Zeb moved toward the Ugnaught and the astromech, the Ugnaught ran to his crate of goods and grabbed his credit box. He rattled it, offering what little was left in it to Zeb. The astromech droid tweedled.

  Zeb ignored the credit box. Instead, he picked up a round, juicy fruit and held it up to the Ugnaught. The Ugnaught’s snout puckered, but then he bowed, saying, “Dobrah gusha tu trawbbio grandio, mendeeya.”

  In Huttese his words meant something like “It would be an honor if the great one took it.” Zeb thought it was probably the first time a street merchant called one of his species “great” rather than “oaf.” But Zeb was too hungry to reply. These fruits looked mighty tasty. He brought the one in his hand to his mouth for a bite.

  “Zeb! I see smoke,” Kanan commed over the link. “Was that a TIE fighter exploding?”

  Kanan seemed to know when to press Zeb’s buttons. Instead of tasting a sweet morsel of fruit, Zeb coughed out a tiny black cloud. He’d breathed in the wretched stuff from the explosion. But he couldn’t let Kanan know.

  “No.” Zeb coughed again, unable to hold it back. Kanan would hear it and get angry if Zeb didn’t tell the truth. “Okay, yes.”

  There was silence over the comlink. Kanan was probably mad. Kanan usually got upset when embarrassing Imperials wasn’t part of the plan.

  “Nice,” Kanan said.

  Kanan’s approval caught Zeb by surprise. Maybe the human was turning over a new leaf. “I thought so,” Zeb replied after taking a big bite of the fruit. He knew it was rude to talk with his mouth full. But he couldn’t help it, not with Kanan actually complimenting him.

  “Okay, stay put,” Kanan said. “I’ll follow the smoke and pick you up.”

  The droid’s dome suddenly swiveled. The Ugnaught ducked behind his crate. Another squad of stormtroopers charged into the alley.

  “I’ll be here,” Zeb said. He took another bite, then tossed the fruit over his shoulder and unslung his bo-rifle. He hoped Kanan would be late. He had more Imperials he needed to embarrass.

  Ezra Bridger adjusted the straps of his backpack and walked over the rise. The plains before him stretched out to the horizon. There was no marker of civilization except a rust-colored communications tower in the distance. Everything else was just grass, a calm and endless stretch of it, stroked by a gentle wind and warmed by the golden light of the late-afternoon sun.

  Ezra descended the hill into the plains. He was fourteen. Most looked at him and saw a boy. A kid. Sometimes they even called him that horrible name: urchin. But he didn’t think of himself as any of those. Not after all he’d been through. Kids had parents. Kids had apartments or houses. Kids had supper served on plates while sitting at tables.

  Kids didn’t live on the city streets, like Ezra.

  On the streets, you grew up fast. You had to if you wanted to eat and protect yourself from scavengers, Imperials, and other villains. You learned how to survive.

  But outside the city was different. Here there was no noise. Here there were just the sun and the wind and the grass and the night sky full of stars. Here, on the rolling prairies of Lothal, there was peace.

  Here Ezra could be just a kid.

  He felt a sudden tingle, a nudge. He could never pinpoint where it came from, whether his head, heart, or chest. Those who knew him thought he had lightning-fast reflexes. But it was more than a reflex. It was like an instinct. And it alwa
ys came without warning—or more appropriately, it was a warning…that something was about to happen. Something serious.

  Ezra looked around. He didn’t feel in danger. There weren’t any predators this close to the city. But he trusted this instinct. It had saved his skin too many times for him not to.

  Then there was a screaming across the sky—the sound of engines being pushed to their limits. Ezra looked up to see a diamond-shaped cargo freighter, pursued by a flat-winged TIE fighter, fly overhead. The TIE closed in and fired its cannons.

  The lasers shot past, as the cargo ship had started a loop. Within a few heartbeats, it was behind the TIE, adding cannon fire of its own.

  These shots hit.

  The freighter passed over Ezra and rocketed off into the clouds while the smoking TIE corkscrewed downward. It barely cleared a hill before making a fiery crash. The ground shook.

  That little feeling nudged Ezra again. Not to go hide, but to seek. Somehow, in some way, he was connected to this crash. Maybe he could even find something of value in the wreckage.

  Ezra held on to his backpack straps and ran toward the rising smoke.

  Ezra crested the hill, breathing hard. Down below burned what remained of the TIE fighter. Bits and pieces lay strewn all over the charred grass. Smoke coiled out from its cracked cockpit.

  Ezra scanned the land around him. He didn’t see signs that anyone else had noticed the crash. Grass rustled as it always did for miles in every direction.

  He looked back at the crashed TIE. His lips curved into a crooked grin. He’d never had an opportunity like this. The TIE’s military-grade hardware could fetch a mighty price on the black market.

  Ezra hurried down the hillside toward the crash site. Soon he was climbing the TIE’s broken support and swinging toward the cracked canopy. He hadn’t seen any movement inside the cockpit, but he had to make sure. If the pilot was still alive and needed help, he might be able to get a reward.

  “Mister!” he shouted.

  A form shifted in the cockpit, then groaned. Ezra climbed closer for a better look inside. “Hey, you okay? You alive?”

  The form shifted again, turning a black helmet toward Ezra. The pilot, it seemed, was very much alive. “Get your hands off my craft! This fighter is the property of the Empire!” he yelled.

  “Guess that’s a yes,” Ezra said to himself. He backed off a step to breathe. More smoke came out of the cockpit—so much that the pilot began to cough. His helmet must be damaged if it couldn’t filter out all the fumes.

  The pilot hit the emergency switch to open the canopy. It popped up a few inches, then jammed.

  Ezra grabbed a free edge of the cockpit, watchful for jagged shards of transparisteel, then swung himself up behind the canopy hatch. He hated helping Imperials, especially ungrateful ones. But if he didn’t get the canopy open, the man would suffocate. And then Ezra would never get a reward.

  Ezra wiggled his fingers under the canopy hatch and began to yank it upward with all his strength.

  “I told you to get off this ship!” the pilot said, struggling between coughs.

  “Not much of a ship anymore.” Ezra pulled and pulled, his backpack bouncing behind him. The hatch was really stuck. “Besides, I’m just trying to open her up—”

  Ezra nearly lost his balance as the canopy snapped open. Dense clouds of smoke puffed out. Ezra let out a deep breath. That had been hard work.

  Free from the smoke, the pilot removed his helmet. His coughs settled as he breathed fresher air. He stared up at Ezra. Without his TIE helmet, the man seemed like any regular guy, not a brainwashed Imperial. He seemed like a person who might actually be grateful for having his life saved from smoke inhalation.

  The man’s face hardened. His eyes pinched into mean dots. He was not appreciative in the slightest.

  Ezra met the man’s stare. He could play this game, too. “Hey, don’t say ‘thank you’ or anything.”

  “Thank you?” The pilot bristled, insulted. He looked like he wanted to spit at Ezra. “Please. I’m an officer of the Imperial Navy. I didn’t need your help.”

  Ezra tilted his head, looked at the man again, and smiled. “Course not.”

  The pilot huffed and began to rise out of his seat. “Wait!” Ezra said. He bent down and pushed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Your sleeve’s caught on the flight recorder.”

  “It is?” asked the pilot. He couldn’t move, the confines were so cramped.

  “Let me unhook it for you.” Ezra reached past the pilot with his other hand. Some of the technology here could buy him a month’s worth of food.

  A panel hinge squeaked as he wrenched it free. “What was that?” the pilot asked, attempting to look around.

  Hands behind his back, Ezra stuffed the gadget into his pack. He had no idea what he had gotten—and he didn’t want the pilot to know, either. He continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. “Why were you chasing that cargo ship? Were they smugglers?”

  “That’s confidential information,” the pilot said, again attempting to rise. Ezra pushed him back down.

  “Whoa, there, sir. Bit of metal caught on your, um, posterior,” Ezra said, indicating the man’s rear. “Wouldn’t want an ‘officer’ of the Imperial Navy to split his pants.”

  The pilot shook his head, flustered. “No, I—”

  “That just wouldn’t be dignified. Hold still, now.” Ezra leaned into the cockpit again, reaching for the other side. “Almost got it,” he said, rotating an interior bolt near the man’s waist.

  “There!”

  Ezra stood tall, darting his hands behind his back and shoving a second high-tech gadget into his pack. “Now, remember, sir,” he said, stepping back. “No thank-yous.”

  The pilot fumbled with his helmet as he climbed out of the cockpit. “Here, I’ll take that,” Ezra whispered, snatching the helmet. He didn’t have a TIE pilot’s helmet in his collection. It would look nice on display inside the tower.

  Ezra raised his voice, continuing where he’d left off. “Because, like you mentioned, you didn’t need my help. And besides…” He planted a hand on the man’s bare head, using it to vault into the air. “I didn’t come to help.”

  “Why, you little…” The pilot spun, but he was too late. Ezra somersaulted down and landed on the ground, running, with the pilot’s helmet tucked under an arm.

  “Just came to score a little tech for the black market, you Loth-rat!” Ezra yelled back to the pilot. These gadgets were going to buy him a soft bed and a fancy dinner. Many fancy dinners.

  Ezra had made it halfway up the hill when he felt that tingle again. Actually, it was more than a tingle. It was like his spine was being rattled. He had to move or he would die.

  Ezra followed his instinct and flipped to the left. A cannon blast pounded the hillside where he’d just stood. Unfortunately, he’d dropped the helmet. It tumbled down the hill, skipping over rocks.

  Ezra couldn’t go back for it now. Incessant blasts came from the TIE fighter. Ezra rolled, making himself a difficult target to hit. He could almost hear the pilot’s voice: Lucky kid.

  The man was wrong. This wasn’t luck. And while Ezra was technically a kid, he played harder than any other kid he knew.

  When he came up to a knee, Ezra was holding his most valuable possession—the other thing that had saved his life countless times.

  His slingshot.

  Ezra pulled back on his slingshot’s energy stream. A bright, sizzling stunball formed in the pocket field. The TIE laser cannons fired again.

  Nudged by his special instinct, Ezra leapt high over those blasts. And still in the air, he quickly slung two stunballs in rapid-fire fashion.

  The stunballs were perfectly aimed. They hit the TIE’s viewport—then fizzled out. Shocked, Ezra lost focus. His landing didn’t go as planned. He fell back onto his rump.<
br />
  Ezra knew he probably lay in the dead center of the TIE’s targeting scope. A sitting hawk-bat if there ever was one. He could see the pilot looking out at him through the broken canopy. Fingers on the cannon trigger, the pilot allowed himself a cocky grin.

  Ezra used that moment to shoot a stunball.

  The energy globe arced high—too high to do any damage to the cockpit. Instead, it nicked the edge of the canopy, causing the globe to ricochet—into the back of the pilot’s head.

  The man crumpled in the seat, dazed. His fingers fell from the trigger, and his face slammed the cockpit dash. He never knew what had stunned him.

  Ezra rose, dusting his clothes off. “Well, that was fun.” He took a breath and looked around. “Now, where…”

  He found the TIE fighter pilot’s helmet leaning against a rock. He picked it up and examined it. Then he put the helmet on his fist and shook it back and forth like a puppet’s head. “This helmet is the property of Ezra Bridger,” he said, mimicking the Imperial’s stern voice.

  Ezra stared into the dark lenses that were supposed to shade the pilot’s eyes. “Or it is now, anyway,” he said, and put the helmet on.

  The helmet bounced on Ezra’s head, many sizes too big. He could hardly see out of those dark lenses. He could hardly breathe.

  Discomforts like that had never stopped him before. Ezra came out there to have fun—to be a kid—and that was what he’d do.

  He held the helmet in place with a hand and turned toward the outline of the TIE fighter. With his other hand, he saluted. “Sir! Thank you, sir!”

  Then he walked away, skipping over blast craters and weaving around smoldering wreckage. Only when he had reached the summit of the hill did he pause and look back. Smoke plumed up from the crash site like phantom snakes.