Star Wars_ Darksaber - Kevin J. Anderson [60]
“Fine words, Admiral Daala.” Warlord Harrsk mockingly clapped his hands. “And how do you propose that we do that?”
Daala pounded her gloved fist on the table. “By forging an alliance. If the Rebels can do it, so can we.”
Superior General Delvardus at a far corner of the table stood up to leave, brushing himself off. “I’ve heard enough. This is just a poorly disguised power grab. I’ve spent more funds than any of you on military buildup.” His forehead wrinkled, and his bright white eyebrows crawled together. “I’m not sharing my glory.”
As the skeletally thin man turned his back to Daala, she touched a hidden control panel under the table. The heavy durasteel door heaved up on hydraulic pistons and slammed into place, sealing gaskets around the edges. Multicolored lights scrambled like outraged insects on the square panel of the operating mechanism.
“What is this!” Delvardus said, whirling.
“That is a cyberlocked door with a timing mechanism,” Daala said. “Even I can’t open it for the next three hours. You will sit down, Delvardus.”
Several of the warlords lurched to their feet. High Admiral Teradoc attempted to rise, but his bulk dragged him back down, and he simply smacked a sweaty palm on the tabletop. The Imperial commanders shouted and bellowed and hammered their fists and lashed out at each other, but Daala stood firm, weathering their tantrums. Pellaeon remained beside her, looking decidedly uneasy.
“This is not a power grab,” Daala finally said when the uproar had died down. “I know that other Imperial officers have left the fleet, throwing their lot in with criminals and lowlifes because it gives them a chance for a pathetic personal gain, but you—while I resent your destructive tactics—at least hold a shadow of allegiance to our once-great Empire.
“You have three hours to choose a nominal leader. There’s nothing else you can do. We are all sealed inside this chamber—so you may as well make the best of it.”
She sat down and clasped her hands, squeezing the black leather between her fingers with a soft strangling sound. And she waited.
Hour after hour the squabbling grew more strident, more childish. Rivalries erupted between competing warlords: old vengeances were redeclared, allegations of betrayals and threats of reprisals hurled in each other’s faces.
For the first hour Daala was disturbed, but still held out some hope. In the second hour, though she kept her anger well hidden, she wanted to bash their skulls together. By the middle of the third hour Daala gave up any attempt to mask her contempt for the squabbling warlords.
Finally, Warlord Harrsk lost control of himself during a shouting match with Teradoc; the little scar-faced man leaped across the table, scrambling on his knees, and launched himself at the obese High Admiral, trying to wrap his short fingers around Teradoc’s fat throat. The chair tipped over, and both crashed to the floor, cursing and shouting.
The other warlords stood up, some cheering, others yelling for them to stop. Pellaeon finally stormed over to the scene, grabbed Harrsk, lifted the short man bodily in the low gravity, and cast him onto the flat table. Teradoc bellowed in rage, his face florid. His breathing rasped into his lungs like a damaged air-recirculation system.
Daala turned and ripped one of the electric-blue glowtorches from the floor behind her. “Enough!” she shouted. She raised the durasteel staff high and smashed it down upon the tabletop. The glowcrystal exploded into shards with crackling blue sparks, and transparent fragments flew in all directions. She hammered the rod down again and again, denting the table, bending the staff, and fragmenting the end. Five minutes remained on the cyberlocked door.
Her action, unexpected and violent, brought the dissenting leaders to a surprised standstill. She tossed the metal pole to the floor, where