Star Wars_ Planet of Twilight - Barbara Hambly [37]
At precisely the right moment the defender wrapped an extra bight or two of line around one arm and, hefting a beltful of grenades in the other hand, kicked away from the wall in a long, flying parabola, coming pendulum like close to the underside of the makeshift assault platform. The men on the platform fired wildly down at the bloodred form swinging toward them through the darkness, but the rail of the speeder impeded their aim.
The timing was flawless. The lone defender hurled the belt of grenades up into the speeder’s undercarriage, with an expert flick that tangled it with the emergency balance gear, then struck the wall and kicked off again, swooping on the end of the line back into darkness. The line was already shortening, those hidden in the superstructure pulling the grenade thrower in. The platform headed groundward, seconds ticking away—the crew bailed at eight meters, jumping outward, and the speeder exploded in a rain of red-hot shrapnel two meters above where the attackers’ heads would have been had anyone still been standing underneath.
Searchlights flowed out over the gravel from the direction of the open plain. Lances and arrows glittered in flight, and a smattering of red laser fire stitched the night, accompanied by the flat snaps of pellet guns. Focusing his mind through the Force to pierce the darkness, Luke saw a ragged agglomerate of men and women approaching in speeders and on speeder bikes, more poorly dressed than the assault forces—whom he presumed to be Newcomers—but without the raffish tatters of the Therans.
They were far more numerous than either of the other groups, however, well over a hundred strong. The Newcomers turned, yelling and brandishing their weapons, and Luke could make out curses and accusations on the harsh night air. Very few shots were fired once the two sides joined. It seemed more like an enormous brawl, men and women pulling and pushing, hitting with clubs or wrenches or hoes, grappling and punching and pulling hair—enemies, he thought, but enemies who know they’ll be meeting one another in the same food store tomorrow morning.
“Are those the Oldtimers?” he guessed, and Arvid nodded sourly.
“Cheesebrained idiots,” muttered the younger man. “What business is it of theirs if we bring in ships or not? If we trade our crops for pumps and processors and transport? They can live like animals if they want to, but why make us do it?”
Disgusted, he shoved over the levers, backed the speeder, and headed down the ridge. Luke thought, Maybe because it’s their planet?
Over his shoulder he saw forms standing among the struts and timbers of the gun station’s superstructure, silhouetted against the glare of the lights: the thin, gawky, graceful form of the crimson warrior and the lean, tiny shape of what looked like a youngish man with long, braided hair. Behind them, a thin lance of cold green light stabbed straight upward from the station’s main gun, losing itself in the sheer distance of the night overhead.
A moment later a second light shot up from far over the hills. Tiny in the infinite distance above, a bright pin of fire burst in the sky.
“Sithspawn,” whispered Arvid, with a quick glance over his shoulder, as quickly reverting to the ground ahead. “Somethin’ coming in.”
The attackers around the wall ceased to shove and curse. They, and the Oldtimers who had taken them from the rear, only stood in sullen groups, panting like dragons in the cold. They glared upward as the gun station’s cannon flared again.
“Got one of ’em,” muttered Arvid, braking to a halt at the foot of the ridge. “Didn’t get ’em all, though. Gerney’ll know what stuff came in and what they’ll