Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [146]
And then he remembered.
Sergeant Stihl’s midi-chlorians. He’d put up an inquiry on the MedNet weeks ago concerning them. He’d never gotten a response, and, eventually, what with the workload and all, he’d forgotten about it. He remembered wondering at the time if posting the question had been a good idea.
Evidently not …
POLAR TRENCH TWELVE, DEATH STAR
Vader said to his two wingmates, “Stay in attack formation.”
There were three Y-wings diving at the station, making for one of the trenches. Were they mad? They couldn’t do any real damage even if they deliberately plowed into the hull. But they must have something in mind …
Vader switched to the Command Channel: “All guns in the D-Quadrant cease fire immediately.”
Three Y-wings, and they’d obviously chosen some kind of target they deemed vulnerable. To his wingmates he said, “I’ll take them myself. Cover me.”
They acknowledged his order, but he wasn’t listening.
The trio fell in behind the Y-wings. It was but the work of a few seconds to lock on to the rearmost fighter. Vader thumbed his firing buttons …
A hit.
The ship exploded into a fireball. He flew through it.
He lined up on the second fighter. He didn’t even need to use the Force. There was no room for the fleeing Rebel pilot to maneuver.
Vader fired. Another one destroyed.
He lined up on the last Y-wing. Shot it. Another explosion.
Too easy.
Was this all they had?
UPPER DECK CORRIDOR, DEATH STAR
Uli walked with his two captors along the gently curving corridor. He’d often heard it said that once hope has been truly extinguished, once one realizes in one’s heart that the race is over, there comes with the realization a feeling of serenity, of acceptance, of peace. There’s often even a sense of relief at having the terrible uncertainty that is life resolved by death’s inevitability. He believed it; he’d stood at the side of too many deathbeds, watching the occupants’ final moments, to think otherwise. It wasn’t the way everyone died, of course. But of those who passed away at least semiconscious and reasonably in possession of their faculties, a surprising number reported, moments before breathing their last, that they had entered this state of grace.
Not Uli. He wasn’t on his deathbed, but he certainly had reason to believe that his life had just ended. Maybe his value as a surgeon could save him, but he doubted it. His only chance at finally getting out of this lifelong insanity that was war had been snatched from him at the eleventh hour. Maybe it was because he was still in shock from the unexpected dashing of his escape plan, but what he was feeling certainly wasn’t serenity. It was anger.
His life had gone wrong the moment he’d set foot on the pestilent dirt of Drongar two decades earlier, although he hadn’t realized it at the time. His plan had been to do his tour and rotate out, then start in private practice. Big Zoo on Alderaan had been his first choice. He’d seen himself, at this age, mostly retired save for the occasional consulting job, with a wife and kids.
Instead his life had been one long series of bush assignments, front-line care, Republic and Imperial Mobile Surgical Units, and other work, most of it dangerous, wearisome, and thankless. And now, just when it looked like he might finally have the opportunity at last to change it, to be hoisted by an earlier attempt to do his job responsibly and morally, well …
There was much to be said for it if one was a fan of irony.
He might as well accept it—if such a thing as destiny existed, then his was obviously to be a military surgeon for the rest of his life—assuming said life wasn’t cut short by blasterfire in the very near future. Perhaps it was only in resignation, in bowing to the inevitable, that he would find peace. Because it would take a miracle to rescue him now.
The sound of a muffled explosion, more felt than heard, rumbled around them. Several passersby reacted nervously.
“What was that?” Uli asked.
At first he thought he wasn’t going to receive an answer, but then one of the officers said, “Rebel fighters bombing