Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [14]
Face was at the viewports, staring down into the dark depths of Coruscant’s streets, trying to shift his tastes around, trying to become the sort of man who would look upon this world as a thing of beauty. Trying to become a loyal Imperial officer, if only temporarily, to understand how they thought, reacted.
“You’re saying the Iron Fist is his hammer, symbolically as well as effectively?” That was Janson, stretched out on one of the lounge sofas, a tumbler of brandy on the table at his head.
Face nodded absently. “He uses it for strikes against high-profile targets. Not targets that are easier than the others, nor harder, just more visible. Such as the assault on Noquivzor, designed to destroy Rogue Squadron—what a coup that would have been. He named Iron Fist after his first command, an elderly wreck of a Victory-class Star Destroyer. It’s a symbol to him, of his rise from obscurity to power. It’s the key to him, I think.” He glanced over at Runt, who leaned lazily against a support pillar on the other side of the main viewport. “What do you think?”
The brown-furred nonhuman turned toward him. Face felt his own spine stiffen. This wasn’t Runt’s usual body language, and the long-faced pilot’s eyes drooped almost closed. Runt said, “Did I give you leave to speak?” His voice was rich and deep, without his usual melodious tones and odd inflections.
“Your pardon,” Face said. He felt oddly formal. “Iron Fist? Zsinj’s primary and most important act of symbolism?”
Runt shook his head, sending his long, glossy ponytail swaying. His smile showed his large teeth but did not seem in the least friendly. “You don’t understand Zsinj,” he said. “To Zsinj, symbols are for others. Zsinj uses them as simple controls. Knobs and buttons by which he can cause his lessers to do their duty. Dials and gauges by which he can measure their fear. No, Zsinj’s tool is that fear itself, fear and respect. Zsinj smashes with one hand and feeds with the other. One act impresses the unaligned governors who used to support the Empire. The other hand beckons them. As more and more feed from that hand, still more will be forced to.” Runt finally looked fully at Face. “It is the governors. It must be. Zsinj will do whatever it takes to draw them into his camp, one by one or ten by ten. Smash them, entice them, seduce them, terrify them.”
Face glanced back at Janson. The squadron’s second-in-command grinned at him, obviously amused by Runt’s performance, then cocked his head to one side and froze—near-universal pantomime of a droid whose power has just been shut off, pilot’s shorthand for someone whose brain is receiving no power.
One of the lounge’s simulators hissed as its canopy opened. The new Twi’lek pilot, Dia Passik, bounded out as though she were partially made of springs. She had a smile on her face, nearly a smirk, and she headed straight for the bar. Face watched her closely; there was something odd about the way she moved.…
That was it. Hers was the strut of a Corellian pilot. A male Corellian pilot, to the extent that her build would allow her such motion. She, too, knew something about body language and simulated manners.
The adjoining simulator opened and Phanan climbed out more sedately. He came over to Face. “Well, she dropped the heavy end of the hammer on me,” he said.
“Vaped you?”
“Three times out of three. I don’t think she’s up to Kell’s level, and certainly not up to the commander’s, but she’s deadly.” Phanan added, a hopeful note in his voice, “Perhaps she’d show me some mercy on account of my physical appeal and personal charm.”
“I’m sure she would if you had any.”
They joined Dia at the bar, flanking her, and ordered a nonalcoholic fruit fizz to match hers. Squeaky, the 3PO unit with mismatched gold and silver components, drew their drinks, uttered a sigh, and murmured something