Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [64]
So the question here was: How to give the tenants more room? At the very least, one needed a two-meter-square box, so that most of the occupants could stand erect without smacking their heads into the ceiling, or stretch out their arms without hitting the walls—and even that was marginal. You needed four times the room currently allotted. The problem was, where was it to come from? The available space in the civilian sectors had already been designated for other uses.
Stinex knew this as well as she did. And he most likely had an answer in mind. But it was always a test with him. It wasn’t as if he wanted her to fail; she didn’t think that at all. But she knew he took delight when she came up with solutions, and the more novel, the better.
This one, however, wasn’t going to roll off the top of her head anytime soon. She’d have to think about it.
She said as much. He nodded. He was of the measure-twice-cut-once philosophy, and knew that it was better she considered the problem with due gravitas rather than just blurting out whatever came to mind.
“You have until tomorrow,” he said. “Zero eight hundred.”
G-12 BARRACKS, SECTOR N-SEVEN, CONSTRUCTION SITE, DEATH STAR
Nova ducked a wild swing, caught the attacking guard’s arm, and spun him into the trooper behind him. Both men fell, but he had no time to rejoice—there were others coming for him, lots of others. He waded into a pair of guards and hit both at the same instant with a double punch, smashing their noses, then dropped and swept, upending another one, and before that one hit the deck he was up again firing a side kick into the belly of yet another—
He was aware that someone was fighting at his side, a human like himself, but huge, and just as good a fighter as he was. His nameless ally grabbed a guard by his front, lifted him off his feet and head-butted the man, knocking his helmet off, then dropped him, whirled, and took out two more with a spin kick.
“We’re having fun now, aren’t we?” the big man said. He laughed.
Nova had no idea where he was or why he was here, fighting an entire phalanx of stormtroopers. He didn’t know who his mysterious ally was, either. He only knew that they were going to lose. They’d taken out a goodly number of guards, but there were still seven or eight of them standing, and the only reason Nova and the big man hadn’t been roasted yet was because the fighting had been too close for the guards to use their blasters. That was about to change, however. The guards were backing away, going for their weapons. The game was about to be over.
Nova felt fear welling inside him. Not for himself; he knew he was a dead man fighting. Two against fifteen, the latter armed with blasters? A win was never in those cards. But it was vitally important that he prolong the fight as long as he could, to give the others—
To give them what? To give who what?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that this would be his last dance, and he wanted it to be the best he could manage. Going up against impossible odds, going down swinging, using what he knew.
There were a lot worse ways to check out.
He saw the trooper draw down on him, saw the blaster’s muzzle aimed at his head, knew he could never reach it in time—
Nova awoke, sitting up soaked in sweat, his heart hammering.
Blast!
The glow of the life-support monitors bathed the small room in dim blue and green lights, enough to see that Mantologo, the other NCO who was also off-shift, was sleeping like the dead, snoring lightly. It was just the two of them; the other two sergeants who shared the room were working.
Nova sat up on the edge of his rack, then slid off onto the cold floor plates. He padded into the refresher, a small unit that held a sink, a toilet, and a tight sonic shower pad. He splashed tepid water onto his face, toweled it off, looked