Jaren had fought for five years during the Great Galactic War, and had spent the long years of the Cold War running intelligence operations as an independent contractor to the Republic Strategic Information Services and its private, off-the-record affiliates. This particular operation had been a disaster by every estimation, but he’d kept his cool, as he always did. A non-lethal shot to the back of an armed and dangerous enemy was a slow day at the cubicle for him.

Not so for this girl.

“Hey, easy,” he said, attempting something akin to reassurance, “we’re almost out of here.” Not particularly effective, really, but he was on edge himself. She followed close behind. Not that she had much of a choice, he figured. They were in the shit now.

They entered the stairwell and began descending, but Jaren paused as he heard the clamor of hurried boots on the stairs above them. “Go, go,” he urged her to continue down, and angled his blaster upward. He discharged the WESTAR one, two, three times. Wild blue lances shot upwards, warning shots threatening to stun anyone coming down. The stairwell’s occupants were clearly dissuaded from continuing their descent, judging by their shouts and hurried backpedaling. 

He pressed onward after her, and they came to the fifth level of the [i]Sailer[/i]. The lowest level of the ship was sparse, two narrow corridors on either side of the vessel lined with escape pods. Some of them even looked operational. 

“Check to see if they’re operational,” he said, moving to the first one. He pressed the buttons, but it was nonresponsive. “At least some of these have to be in working condition.”