Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [101]
Castin slapped the near control panel and the door slid shut. He turned back to the technicians; they already had their hands up. One couldn’t take his eyes from the smoking mass that had once been the head of his colleague.
It would take just one blast to blow out the near viewport. He could leap through and get back to the turbolift before the three stormtroopers still mobile were likely to catch up to him. That was it, then. But as he traversed to aim at the viewport, he saw the Talz looking at him. Its four eyes seemed to be holes leading to a world of pure pain.
He hesitated, then pulled his vibroblade from a belt pouch. He cut through the Talz’s ankle restraints, then went to work on its wrist straps.
“Don’t!” That was one of the technicians, his eyes wide. “That’s not a Talz anymore, it’s a killer—”
“Right.” Castin finished with the last strap, then backed away.
The technician who’d spoken bolted, got to the doorway, slapped the control. The door opened … and the technician caught a blaster bolt just beneath his gut. He folded over, still alive, and began screaming.
The Talz rolled up off the table, tubes still gruesomely inserted into its skull. It glared with malevolence at Castin, then turned toward the remaining technicians and advanced on them. The rolling carrier holding the bottle of drip chemicals tipped over and was dragged along. The Talz spotted something through the door, probably the stormtrooper who’d last fired, and paused, obviously trying to decide what foe to attack first.
Castin fired at the viewport, blowing it out, and leaped through the hole he’d made. There was nothing between him and the turbolift door. He dropped his vibroblade and dragged out his datapad as he ran.
Then there was pain, an agony so intense he couldn’t even tell where it began, and he was falling, slamming down onto the passageway floor.
Pain bent him as though he were a puppet in the hands of a malevolent child. He could see, and even barely understand, the spot on the back of his left thigh where a blaster bolt had cut through the stormtrooper armor and the flesh beneath. He could see the stormtrooper who’d shot him; the man was advancing at a walk, his rifle ready for another shot.
And then there was the turbolift door, too far away for a man reduced to crawling.
They had him. They had him, and they had his datapad, which contained everything Zsinj would need to know about him and his mission here.
Hands twitching from the pain, he held his datapad out before the barrel of his blaster rifle and squeezed the trigger.
“Now,” Zsinj said over the iced pastry that was their dessert course, “to the matter which has led to our meeting.”
Face sat back, assuming a false expression of contentment. “Please.”
“I am about to embark on a mission. It will be a large-scale military engagement.”
“You’re going to attack your Rebel enemies?”
“That’s correct. I anticipate starfighter and capital ship response and need all the starfighter support I can get—especially considering my recent squadron losses.” He made a growl of that last statement. “But if you’re as effective against my enemies as you have been against me, I will have lost effectively no strength.” An aide appeared over his shoulder and whispered to him. His expression did not change, but he rose. “I must attend to business for a few moments. Melvar, please continue this briefing.” He took a few steps away with the aide.
Melvar smiled, an expression that suggested he’d be happiest if pulling the wings off insects. “It’s an orbital refueling and trade station. In its warehouses is a considerable quantity of material we need—critical supplies. We also need some time to load that material into our cargo vessels—not a lot of time, but enough time for the planetary defenses below to begin sending up squads of starfighters from the surface … and to