Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [120]
She checked the map Bradan had transmitted to her datapad, turned left into a cross corridor … and bumped straight into a lean Imperial naval lieutenant standing there. The man rocked back, reached for his sidearm—and then got a good look at Shalla and relaxed. “Identify yourself,” he said, his voice more curious than angry.
Shalla put her hands on her hips, a pose of naive irritation. “I’m Qatya, of course.”
“Let me see your authorization.”
She put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. No need to be so loud. I’m just looking for Stoghi.”
“Stoghi?” He frowned. “Stoghin Learz? Major Learz?”
“That’s him.”
“Your business with Major Learz?”
She shrugged. “I missed him. It’s been days since he visited.”
“I see.” It was clear the lieutenant didn’t. “I’ll check with the bridge to find out where the major is.”
“I’d really appreciate that. I’ve been walking for kilometers and haven’t found him.”
“Uh-huh.” The lieutenant brought up his comlink.
Shalla grabbed his hand with both of hers, twisting it and forcing his palm forward and down at a painful angle. He dropped the comlink before he understood what was happening, and as he stiffened and tried to draw away, she twisted his arm up and behind him, then shoved him forward into the bulkhead. The metal rang with the impact of his head against it. She hammered the back of his head with her forearm and the metal rang again.
The unfortunate lieutenant went limp.
Moving fast, she took his sidearm and tucked it under the waistband of her pants, beneath the hanging folds of her tunic. She bound him with his belt and stuffed his holster under his tunic. By the time her team arrived, she was merely in charge of an unconscious prisoner and there was no sign that he’d been armed.
She rose. “Was that more quiet?”
Raslan gave her an abashed look. “Yes. You’re doing your job. That’s what you’re here for. You have my apologies.”
They arrayed themselves outside the door to the security foyer leading to the bridge. Bradan took the security panel next to the door, checked it for alarm switches, and began the methodical process of opening it. The four false stormtroopers stood at the ready beside the door, as if waiting for it to open so they could relieve the previous shift on duty, and the others kept to the shadowy sides of the corridor as much as they could.
After long minutes, Bradan spoke in a whisper: “I’ve got it. I’m putting it on a delay. Three seconds after it opens, it closes. Don’t start shooting until it closes, if you can avoid it; we don’t want the sound to carry.”
They formed up, stormtroopers to the fore, Shalla at the rear, and the door shot up with the customary speed of Imperial barriers.
The security foyer was beyond. Unlike the hallway, it was brightly lit, and Shalla had to blink at the sudden brilliance. But their stormtroopers, protected by the lenses of their helmets, advanced without hesitation, and Shalla heard one of them say, “Don’t move and you don’t die.”
Shalla moved in with the others, heard the door whoosh shut behind her, heard the clattering of feet as the stormtroopers spread through the security foyer and into the bridge beyond, and her eyes cleared.
Still in the foyer was a naval officer wearing the insignia of an Imperial captain. His hands were up, his round florid face wearing an expression of extreme displeasure.
Raslan stepped up to give him a shove toward the command walkway. “Get moving.” He glanced back at the sole stormtrooper remaining in the security foyer. “Guard the door. Bradan, secure the turbolift; we don’t want some ambitious fool trying to get at us through the shaft. Then secure the doors out of the crew pit.”
Bradan nodded and summoned the turbolift. The stormtrooper stationed himself before the doors to the main corridor. The other members of the