Star Wars_ Children of the Jedi - Barbara Hambly [28]
The five occupants of the ship—Luke, Pothman, Cray, Nichos, and Threepio—lined up along the console, looking down through the front viewport at the melee outside.
“We can go back to fixing the engines now,” said Pothman after a few moments. “There’s no way they can break into the ship, but they’ll be fighting each other until it’s too dark to see, at which time we can break out the lights and finish work outside.”
“They can’t see well in the dark?” asked Cray. Outside, Ugbuz picked up a smaller boar by the scruff and seat and heaved him at the rest, ignoring the shower of darts and rocks that fell around him like grimy rain.
Pothman looked surprised. “It’ll be suppertime.”
Shadow fell across the meadow.
Cloud, Luke thought. Then he realized it wasn’t.
It was a ship.
Gleaming, massive, gray as hypothermic death, it descended like a steel flower under its five outspread antigrav reflectors. Imperial without a doubt, though Luke had seen nothing like it anywhere: It was far too large, too sleek, for a smuggler craft. Short legs unfurled from the lander’s underside, and the grass of the meadow swirled around the crude hide boots of the Gamorreans as they stopped, lowered their weapons, stared.
“The Emperor.” Pothman’s face was filled with awe and a sort of terrified confusion, as if he weren’t quite sure what he should feel. “He didn’t forget.”
The lander touched ground, the displaced air and gravitational currents joggling the Huntbird, fifty meters away. The tall central column of the unmarked craft, bigger than a fodder barn for a herd of banthas, settled a little, the movement reminiscent of some huge insect gathering itself together. White arc lights beneath the shelter of the antigravs flared on, automated vid pickups swiveled silently, triangulating on the silent horde of watching Gamorreans. Then the round column of the base rotated, and wide doors hissed smoothly open. A ramp reached forth, extended to the ground.
With a howl of delight audible even in the explorer’s bridge, all the Gamorreans in the meadow piled up the ramp, weapons upraised, and foamed into the lander like a dirty and violent tidal race.
“Get the repairs finished,” said Luke softly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
The doors remained open. The vid pickups turned, recalibrating on the smaller ship. A moment’s silence. Then the Huntbird’s intercom crackled to life. “Exit your ship,” commanded a cold male voice. “Escape is futile. Survivors will be considered in sympathy with Rebel forces.”
“It’s a recording,” said Luke, still watching the lander’s open door. “Is there—”
“Exit your ship. In sixty seconds vaporization cycle will be initiated. Escape is futile. Exit.…”
Cray, Luke, and Pothman traded one look, then headed for the hatch. “I’ll take the center,” panted Luke, gritting his teeth as the deck seemed to lurch under his feet. “You go left, Cray; Triv, head right.” Luke wondered just how exactly he was going to elude whatever was going to come out of that lander, let alone give any help whatsoever to his companions. “Threepio, Nichos, get clear of the ship and head for the woods. We’ll rendezvous at Pothman’s base, it’s two kilometers west of here.…”
He saw the lander’s autocannons turn, half hidden by the protective petals of the antigrav, as he and his companions were halfway down the emergency ladder. He yelled, “Jump!” and threw himself off, falling the three meters to the long grass as white stunbeams seared noisily off the Huntbird’s sides. The impact with the ground was almost as bad as being hit with a beam. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see … but even in that moment he was rolling, dodging, trying to collect enough of his concentration to concentrate the Force—any quantity of the Force—on clearing his spinning head.
“Do not attempt escape.” The hateful metal voice clanked through his swirling