Star Wars_ Millennium Falcon - James Luceno [48]
A droid-piloted vessel in stationary orbit between the planet's two inner moons transmitted live feeds of the battle to an enormous holo-screen in the resort's gaming room, around which a mixed-species crowd of rowdy bettors had gathered for near-continuous drinking and impromptu wagering on whether the space station itself would survive. The remote vessel captured the moment of the Desolator's reversion from hyperspace in what was to have been a sneak attack on anti-Imperial forces, as well as the insurgents' swift counterstrike, which not only caught the Imperials off-guard but drove the TIE fighter kill count to twenty in a matter of minutes. Cix was relieved that he hadn't wagered on the over–under of forty-five, but suddenly found himself having to root for a rally by the Imperials lest the insurgents ruin the spread by destroying too many TIEs.
Gnawing at a fingernail, he studied the updates on the screen, shutting his ears to the game room's caterwaul of energized voices. The insurgents had scored thirteen kills; the Imperials, five. But TIEs were still buzzing from the Desolator's launch bays and the Star Destroyer itself, safe within its combat shields, was beginning to bring its turbolaser arrays to bear on the flights of Headhunters and ARC-170s.
Cix kept his eyes riveted to the scoreboard. The Imperials were beginning to score, driving the number of insurgent kills into the teens. But the Imps were going to have to do a whole lot better in order for Cix to collect on his bet.
Evading individual engagements with the TIEs, the foolhardy militia pilots were actually going after the big ship, flinging at it everything they had in their limited arsenal, and disappearing one after another in short-lived blossoms of roiling fire.
The crowd was in an uproar, clearly split down the middle in terms of those who had bet the spread and others who had wagered with the Hutts—the over-under number already closing on forty-five with a lot of fight left in both sides.
All at once the holoimages grew noisy with static then vanished altogether, with the score standing at insurgents with nineteen kills; Imperials with twenty-eight. A deafening shout rose from the bettors, many of whom were clambering onto the tables and waving balled fists at the club's Givin proprietors.
“The remote has been destroyed!” one of the owners finally announced. Receiving an update from somewhere, he added: “The Desolator intercepted the coded feed from the remote. The Imperials believe that we're furnishing intelligence to the militia. The Star Destroyer is coming around … We're being targeted!”
“To the ships!” someone in the crowd yelled, and twenty beings leapt from their seats and raced for the corridors that led to the moon's small spaceport. Chaos gripped the room as bettors began to scurry every which way, colliding into one another, tripping, slipping on sloshed drinks and going head over heels. Wading into the turmoil, Cix located his copilot and the two of them managed to squeeze into one of the crammed corridors and run for where the Falcon was docked—all the while Cix asking everyone he passed for an update on the score.
The Imperials were still leading the kill count, a Rodian said; the insurgents had evened the score, said another; the Hutts' over–under number had already been superseded.
The first ground-shaking volley from the Desolator struck the moon base as the Falcon was warming for launch. Half of the docking bay collapsed, and the ceiling aperture froze a few meters short of fully opened. Cix nosed the YT up through rampaging flames and clouds of black smoke and shot for space even while packets of scarlet energy were continuing to rain down on the hapless moon. Ships to