Star Wars_ Darksaber - Kevin J. Anderson [138]
The Imperial officer stood stiff with self-importance, but his expression was wild and panicked. His cheeks flushed scarlet, and his close-set eyes flicked back and forth. The other guards grasped Madine’s arms, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
Durga the Hutt leaned forward and smacked his huge lips together, the distorted birthmark across his face rippling like spilled ink. “General Sulamar—you know this saboteur?”
Madine laughed, making sure he spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “Did you call him a general?” he said. “That buffoon’s no general.”
Sulamar waved his hands in a frenzy, as if he could wipe out Madine’s existence with a gesture. He blinked his eyes like the fluttering wings of a night insect drawn against its will to a bright hot light. “Don’t listen to this man, Lord Durga! He’s a traitor to the Empire—”
Madine snorted. “And you’re a good-for-nothing junior technician, third grade—transferred from assignment to assignment because you kept screwing up your duties!” He made a rude noise.
Sulamar stormed forward, but stopped, his fists clenching and unclenching. He looked about to choke on thick, syrupy anger. He whirled to face the Hutt. “Lord Durga, you’ve seen my command abilities—don’t let this traitorous spy lie to you.”
Durga jiggled as he laughed. “Hoo, hoo, hoo! I have seen your so-called command abilities, Sulamar … and I’m inclined to believe this man.”
Sulamar gasped and stammered as if seeking just the right words, but his tongue kept getting in the way. The motley assortment of armed guards looked uneasily from Madine—their known enemy—to Sulamar, perhaps another target in their midst.
“Sulamar,” Durga said, his voice low and rumbling. Madine noted with a satisfied leap of his heart that the Hutt had intentionally left off the title of general. “We will take care of this prisoner. You need not fear. Please surrender your blaster pistol to me.” Reclined on his repulsor platform, the Hutt extended a stubby-fingered gray-green hand.
Sulamar stood rigid. Beads of sweat appeared on his high forehead. His Imperial general’s uniform—no more than a costume, Madine knew—appeared immaculately cared for: all the seams neat, all corners pressed with sharp edges, all the command insignia polished until it gleamed.
“But … Lord Durga,” Sulamar said. “Perhaps I should be the one to—”
Durga bellowed with all the threatening volume he could generate from his vast trembling belly. “Do you question my orders, Sulamar?”
The Imperial impostor leaped to obey. He snatched his blaster pistol from the holster on his hip and extended it barrel forward, pointed at Durga; then he realized his mistake and quickly fumbled to turn the weapon around, handing the butt end to the crime lord.
“Good,” Durga said, holding the weapon but keeping its energy barrel aimed at Sulamar. “Next, you will seat yourself there in the Darksaber’s pilot chair.” Durga gestured with the blaster to an empty station surrounded by command terminals and a navigational array.
Madine could see that the chair was rigged with some sort of booby-trap system, power cables running up the stem of the seat, electrodes spaced across metal contact points in the chair.
Sulamar looked at the pilot seat and paled. “There, Lord Durga? But I can serve you so much better if I—”
“There!” Durga said.
Sulamar seemed absolutely terrified—much more so than simply having his lie exposed should warrant. But he moved like a droid under incontrovertible programming, resigned as he shuffled toward the empty seat. Strapping himself in at the Darksaber’s piloting station, he slumped, seemingly more resigned to his fate than Madine, who was already marked for death.
Crix Madine stood battered and sore and utterly exhausted. He clenched his hands, waiting and waiting. Eyes closed, he sensed the silent invisible signal pounding out from the implanted transmitter, summoning help, pleading for a rescue party now.