Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [104]
“Not from Iron Fist. But it could be that one of the planet-bound laboratories has lost one—and covered up the loss.”
“I’m going to have to execute someone for that, Melvar. Find out who lost him, then kill that idiot.”
“Yes, sir.”
• • •
Face made it clear, by gesture and private code, that he wanted the others to remain silent even as they accelerated away from Iron Fist. Only when they had entered hyperspace on their first leg out did he speak. “Report.”
“He was already dead.” The words burst from her like water finally breaching an old dam. “He was gone, Face.” Pain tugged at her words, made them waver. There was bleakness in what he could see of her face.
“He was breathing.”
“No, he wasn’t. It was some sort of trick. Some sort of mechanical pump, I don’t know.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “He was completely limp when they brought him in. Not unconscious limp. Dead limp. There was blaster charring on his armor’s pelvic plate that should have continued up into his chestplate but didn’t, so they had to have put a new chestplate on him—to replace the one that was burned through when he was killed. And the guards carrying him, their posture said they were hauling cargo, not a prisoner who might wake up someday.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Body language is something I know a lot about, Face. He was dead.”
“Accepted.” Face sighed and leaned back. “Dammit. If only he’d followed orders. Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be—I’ll be—” Her voice choked off. She gulped a couple of times and then just stared.
“Dia?”
She shrieked as if stabbed and was suddenly a whirlwind of motion, lashing out in all directions. Her random blows landed on Kell, on the command console, on the windscreen, on the shuttle wall beside her.
Kell leaned between her and the controls, fending off her blows. “Face, get her off me before she bumps the wrong things and sends us down a blind hyperspace path.”
Face leaned forward, grabbing at Dia, received a blow to his chin from a brain tail for his trouble. “Dia! Power down!”
But her shrieks and blows redoubled, joined now by what looked like painful spasms. Face reached around the copilot’s seat and got both hands on her, then bodily hauled her over the chair and into his lap. He took another pair of random blows before getting his arms around her waist, pinning her to him.
She let out one last, keening moan and collapsed. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks and Face found himself frozen, staring at them, evidence of emotions he had never believed she possessed. “Dia?”
Her voice was a moan. “She’s dead.”
“She? She who?”
“Dia. Diap’assik. She is dead.”
He put heat and anger into his words. “No, you are not.”
“Yes! She would not have done that. She would not have shot him. She would have died first. She is dead, Face.”
He heard a snap, heard metal slide on leather, and was prepared when her hand came up with her blaster and its barrel came in line with her chin. He released Dia with his left hand and got his thumb under the trigger, preventing her from squeezing it.
She shrieked again, a haunted noise compounded of agony and bottomless guilt. “Face, let me!”
He wrenched the blaster from her hand, held it over Kell’s shoulder until he took it, and pinned her again. “No.”
“Then kill me.”
“No.”
“Yes. I will not live this way.”
“You have to. We need you.”
She surrendered then to silent tears and racking sobs. He held her to him and finally had a moment to think.
Dia, who in simulator combats cut down the enemy with a cold-bloodedness that sometimes shook the other squadron members—where had she gone? Who was this doppelgänger, torn by grief, in his arms? She had to be a Dia who lived under her shield of ruthlessness, some remnant of the Dia who had been stolen as a child slave off