Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [117]
Shalla turned and handed her datapad back to Face with a nonchalance that belied its contents, then turned back to her foe. Netbers, despite the blood streaming from his face and the pain he had to be feeling in his groin despite the armor, had taken her momentary distraction to assume a fighting posture—left side forward, most of his weight on his back leg, hands up and ready to strike. His expression was serious, his eyes intent, but unlike many fighters he didn’t offer a stream of taunts and invective.
Shalla circled around him, her pose more upright, a mocking smile on her face.
Melvar moved beside Face. “He has reach on her,” he said. “She has to close if she’s to affect him.”
As if on cue, Shalla moved a half pace forward, her advance coming with jolting speed. Netbers reflexively retreated the same distance. But she stopped her advance, keeping that distance between them. Netbers smiled and gestured for her to come on again.
She brought her hands up, a high guard, and circled, then suddenly advanced.
Netbers brought his left foot up in a high kick. But his right foot slipped, and Face saw that it was square in the middle of a puddle of blood, his own blood. Shalla caught his left foot and calf with her hands, wrenched them upward, sending him off balance, so that instead of striking at her he could only flail, and then she lashed out with her own left foot and connected with the inside of his knee.
He let out a grunt as he hit the hangar floor. She stepped forward for a follow-through kick, but Netbers continued rolling and had his hands up to intercept or trap her leg if she followed through. She didn’t; still smiling, she continued circling, forcing him to do the same. Netbers tried to stand, but his right leg wouldn’t sustain his weight and he remained in a kneeling position.
“Enough,” Melvar said. “This exercise wasn’t intended to result in injury—just to give Netbers an opportunity to evaluate the lady’s performance. Netbers, I assume you consider her proficient?”
Netbers grimaced. “I would say so, sir.” He fingered his nose. “My node is brogen again.”
“Do you think she could kill a Wookiee? Or was that mere hyperbole?”
“I don’t think anyobe gould gill a Wookiee habd to habd, sir. But she gomes gloser than anyobe I’be seen.”
Melvar turned a cool expression on Shalla. “You were a bit treacherous, though. You were supposed to shake hands before opening hostilities.”
Shalla lost her smile. “Nonsense. He came at me with the intent of taking my hand and then applying leverage to it. I could see that in his stance as he approached.”
“Netbers?”
“She’s right, sir. Anb if she’s going on this mission, it’s good that she can recognize the difference.”
“Well, then.” Melvar returned his attention to Face. “Will you be deploying your TIEs for launch from our bay?”
“No. Kettch is agitated enough as it is, and being exposed to too many strange humans would unsettle him. I think we’d prefer to launch from Sungrass.”
“Understood. Please switch your comm systems to our frequency and cancel your starfighters’ usual encryption; we do want to be able to talk to one another. Launch and stand by at your convenience, and I will deliver this formidable young woman to the unit she will be working with.”
There were eight of them. Three men and a woman, all large, with movements like natural fighters, were dressed in the nondescript uniforms of maintenance workers, the words KUAT DRIVE YARDS emblazoned above the left breast of the uniforms. Four others were in stormtrooper armor. Melvar introduced them and Shalla filed their names away. He also succinctly explained the difference between the mission as described earlier and the way it was now. Shalla let her eyes open in simulated surprise when she “discovered” that the target was no cargo satellite but a Super Star Destroyer.
“At this hour,” Melvar continued, “on this shift, Razor’s Kiss—that’s the