Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [83]
“Maybe.”
They were almost to the deck. Motti turned to look at his old commander. “ ‘Maybe?’ ”
“Did I ever tell you ’bout Lieutenant Pojo?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Thirty-five, forty years back, Kan Pojo was the range officer and small-arms instructor on the training ship Overt. He was fleet champion with any arms you could carry—carbine, sniper rifle, sidearm. He could use a blast pistol to pick flies off a wall at ten paces. I never saw a man who could shoot as well as he did. It was uncanny.”
“Uh-huh.” Motti resisted the urge to yawn. He admired and respected Jaim Helaw as he did few men, but the old trooper did take his time spinning a yarn.
“We ran into a bit of trouble in the Vergesso—pirates had taken over a moon. We were sent down to teach them the error of their ways.”
Motti nodded. “And?”
“Pojo wanted to get into the fray. It was a lot of close-quarters stuff: the only city on the moon was domed—we’re talking a maze of alleys and narrow streets. Nobody could use big guns, because anything larger than a blaster rifle might rupture the dome. So the CO thought, Why not?
“I was doing a tour as a naval adjunct, a second loot, and Pojo was assigned to our squad. So we drop, access the dome, and start hunting pirates. They were a ratty bunch, maybe a hundred, hundred and twenty of ’em, but spread out.
“Our squad came across a group of ’em, about twenty-five men, and we all commenced to have a shootout. Pojo was knocking them down, left, right, and center, like targets on the range. Only thing I’ve ever seen to compare it to is that old holo of Phow Ji taking out the mercenaries. Ever seen it?”
Motti nodded. What soldier hadn’t?
“So Pojo takes out half the group before any of us can even crank up our guns, using nothing but his sidearm—a blaster modified with a heavy-duty capacitor to fire more charges than your standard model.
“The survivors broke and ran, and we started chasing them. Pojo and I took off after a group of four—three men and a Rodian, I think. Pojo’s grinning like an overfed sand cat; this was what he was born to do.
“The pirates couldn’t shoot for sour whool poop, so they split up. I took off after the first two, and they shot their guns dry, at which time I plinked ’em. Then I circled back to Pojo. He had the last two cornered, they had drained their blasters, and he had holstered his.”
“He holstered his blaster?”
“Yeah, to give them a chance. They were six, eight meters away. So Pojo says, ‘Okay, boys, here’s the deal: Take off, and if I miss, you’re free.’ ”
Motti shook his head. Un-fripping-believable.
“So the two, figuring they’re dead men anyway, charge him. Pojo pulls that customized blaster faster than you can believe—his hand, the gun, they were just a blur—those guys hadn’t taken two steps. He cooks off a round and shoots the sodder on the left right between the eyes, zap! Then he aims at the second pirate, who’s still running at him, and squeezes off another bolt.”
“Let me guess: he missed?”
“Nope. Blaster shorted out. Hiss, pop, crackle. The capacitor must have overloaded, and the gun flared. Pojo drops it, goes for his backup—no gunnery loot would carry just the one gun, but by that time, the pirate was in his face. Sodder had a shiv. Just a low-tech blade, not even a vibro, one step above a flint knife.
“By the time I lined up and shot the pirate, he’d buried that knife in Pojo’s throat. The medics couldn’t get there in time.”
Motti smiled. “A multibillion-credit battle station is not exactly a pijer-rigged blaster, Admiral.”
“The more complex a weapon, the more likely it is to have flaws,” Helaw said. “Kan Pojo was