Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 02_ Shield of Lies - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [11]
“Modifications?”
“Yeah,” said Lando. “I think we need a frame for our door.”
Clinging to the sled with one hand and wielding the cutting blaster with the other, Lando slashed away where the grid joined the sled frame. When he was finished, the sled was in two pieces. Lando pushed the wobbly, heavily loaded grid toward Artoo. “You tow that through to the other side.”
The droid’s grappling clamps appeared and latched onto the grid securely.
“Give me a hand here, Lobot?”
Lobot eased forward and grabbed a handhold at the opposite end of the gutted sled frame. “I am remembering something I accessed earlier,” he said. “The chief designer of the Ma’aood funerary temples directed his draftsmen that all obvious passages should be booby-trapped, and all traps should be made as inviting as possible.”
“Thank you for that uplifting thought,” said Lando. “If we get out of this, you should think about a new career as a morale officer. Everyone ready?”
“Master Lando, what should I do?”
Lando checked his combat blaster in its holster, then slid the selector on the cutting blaster to WIDE. “Add this to our apology,” he said, and pointed it at the bulkhead. “Hang on.”
The brilliant flare of the cutting beam momentarily dazzled the viewscreen of Lando’s contact suit, and the vaporized material from two and a half square meters of bulkhead filled the air as a gray cloud. Before Lando could even see clearly, the hole began to close.
“Let’s go, let’s go—get it lined up!” Lando shouted. The two men maneuvered the frame into position, and the bulkhead closed around it as though it were a tailored fit.
But as they did, they heard a deep, rumbling groan from the ship, a sound that had no direction. Though the surroundings were alien, the sound was familiar—the signature of a form of stress that aged large vessels’ hulls and led to the spectacular form of self-destruction known as an exit breach. It was the exit growl, the characteristic sound caused by portions of the ship emerging from hyperspace nanoseconds before the rest as the jump field collapsed.
“I hate it when I’m right,” Lando said, gesturing with his free hand. “Move it, Artoo. Now!”
The little droid jetted quickly toward the opening, towing the heavily loaded grid behind it. For a moment Lando thought the frame looked too small for Artoo to pass through it. But the droid retracted his treads as far as they would go, turned his body, and cleared the opening by bare centimeters. The equipment grid smoothly passed through behind him.
“Wait for me, Artoo!” Threepio called, flailing his arms and legs in midair.
“Go ahead,” Lando said to Lobot, passing him the cutting blaster and waving him on. “I’ll get Threepio.”
Lobot didn’t wait to be told twice, swinging himself feetfirst through the improvised doorway as neatly as a gymnast taking a turn on the parallel bar. Meanwhile, Lando clipped the safety line from the contact suit’s belt to the handhold of the frame and launched himself toward the droid, his gloved hand extended to him.
“Oh, thank you, Master Lando,” the droid said relievedly as he grabbed hold of Lando’s arm. Then Threepio saw Lando’s eyes suddenly widen in alarm. “What is it, sir?”
Watching from the inner passage, Lobot saw the same thing Lando had seen when he looked past Threepio toward the outer bulkhead: a small opening appearing and quickly irising into an airlock that revealed a stark, starry blackness beyond. Moments later the external mics on the suits picked up the hiss of out-rushing air.
Lando did not take the time to answer Threepio’s concerned inquiry. “Heads up—incoming!” he bellowed, and swung Threepio by the arms toward the inner doorway. Bracing himself against the frame, Lobot reached through, caught Threepio