Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [136]
“What makes him think they’ll keep their word?” Han muttered. “He’s been larding it on passenger runs too long.” A small part of him chased after that thought. When was the last time a pirate raid had been made near the well-patrolled inner environs of the Authority? An attack of this sort was nearly unheard of in this part of space.
“Solo, look!” Fiolla pointed to an open hatch, this one set into the liner’s outer hull. He ran to it and found that it gave access to a gun turret. The hatch had obviously opened at the first alarm. The twin-barreled blaster cannon was unattended; either its assigned crew hadn’t made it to their station or the captain had recalled them.
Hiking himself through the hatch, Han settled into the gunner’s saddle as Fiolla lowered herself into the gunner’s mate’s place. Through the blister of transparisteel enclosing the turret they could see the pirate craft, a slender predator painted in light-absorbing black, warping in adroitly on the passenger liner. The pirate was apparently going to match up against an airlock in the Lady’s midsection somewhat forward of the gun turret.
The emplacement was fully charged. Setting his shoulders against the rests, Han leaned against the padded hood of the targeting scope, closing his hands on the firing grips.
“What’ve you got in mind, Solo?” Fiolla queried sharply.
“If we start maneuvering the turret, they’ll pick the movement up,” he explained. “But if we wait, they will drift right across our sights. We can get off one volley, maybe even disable them.”
“Maybe even get ourselves killed,” she suggested tartly. “And everybody else into the bargain. Solo, you can’t!”
“Wrong; it’s the one thing I can do. Do you think they’ll keep their word about not hurting anyone? I don’t. We can’t escape, but we sure can take a swipe at them.”
Ignoring her protests, he put his shoulders to the rests and sighted through the targeting scope again. The pirate’s menacing shape came into the edge of his field of fire. He held his breath, waiting for a shot at the raider’s vitals, knowing he would get off only one salvo.
The control section didn’t quite come into his line of fire and he let the crew quarters pass; they were probably empty, with most of the crew mustered at the airlock for boarding. The pirate wouldn’t even have to put out her boats, thanks to the liner captain’s meek surrender.
Han peered through the scope at the next length of enemy hull, then pushed himself away from the twin cannon and began drawing himself headfirst out of the gunner’s saddle. “Let’s go,” he prompted Fiolla.
“What’s this, the sudden onset of senile sanity?”
“Inspiration’s my specialty,” he replied lightly. “I just hope I remember the layout of this old M-class right. It’s a long time since I shipped in one.”
She trailed him forward again as he studied engineer’s markings on the liner’s frames, talking to himself under his breath. There quickly followed the hollow, heavy concussion of the pirate making fast to the liner’s hull. Han skidded to a stop and drew Fiolla back into the temporary safety of a side passageway.
Not too far ahead a covey of passengers had foolishly gathered near a main airlock in defiance of the captain’s instructions. Among them Fiolla recognized the priest of Ninn in his green vestments, an Authority assistant supervisor of plant inoculation from an agroworld, and a dozen others she had come to know. All of them shrank back from the pneumatic sounds of the airlock’s cycling.
Then the passengers rushed away like game-avians flushed from cover as the airlock’s inner hatch swung open and armed boarders poured into the passageway. The boarders, wearing armored spacesuits, brandished blasters, force-pikes, rocket launchers, and vibro-axes. They had the look of faceless, invulnerable executioners.
There were orders from helmet speaker grilles and cries from the passengers. The latter were ignored