Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [114]
“Petothel?” It was Fel’s voice. “Petothel, are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer.
Zsinj watched, his mouth slack and expression disbelieving, as the holocomm display from the Reprisal continued.
The bridge view was gone, of course. It had vanished when the bridge was destroyed. But sensor data continued to pour in.
The Reprisal was breaking up. The initial explosion had breached her hull, smashed her bow shields, and temporarily deprived her of effective command. The proton torpedoes that followed had inflicted massive structural damage on the old Dreadnaught.
Now she continuously vented atmosphere into space, her crumpling bulkheads preventing airtight doors from sealing. Her captain had sent her into a turn just before the bomb’s impact, doubtless to track the Millennium Falcon with her guns, and the stress of the maneuver was cracking the mighty old ship open like a nut.
Zsinj sagged against the bulkhead. “I can’t kill him. I can’t kill Han Solo. I don’t know the formula. I don’t have the plan.”
Melvar, in his ear, said, “The One Eighty-first is disconnected. I’ve ordered them to break away from the attacking force. But we can send in another capital ship and get them coordinated again.”
“No. Throw good money after bad? Besides, Solo will be in hyperspace before another ship can get into proper position. This assault is over.”
Melvar saluted and moved over to look down into the crew pit, where his starfighter director was. “Send the starfighters down to a planetary base.” His voice was heavy with regret.
Zsinj knew that regret.
He knew frustration, too. Nothing was working. Nothing was working.
The TIEs were still swarming, but abruptly they were swarming in another direction, back toward the planet.
With no TIE fighters close enough to see in the cockpit viewport, Squeaky dispensed with the human-face mask he wore. It served merely to conceal the gold tone of his face and was only effective against distant or fast-moving observers. At Wedge’s direction he returned to his Han Solo voice and activated the comm unit. “Wraiths, form up, prepare for hyperspace. Polearm Seven, it’s time for you to return to dock with the Falcon.”
“Coming in, General.”
Wedge leaned in over Squeaky’s shoulder. “Now say, ‘Good shooting out there.’ ”
“Doesn’t she know she shot well?”
Wedge glowered. “Just do it.”
“Good shooting out there, Konnair.”
“Thank you, General.”
Dorset Konnair’s A-wing sidled in toward the Falsehood’s starboard. Delicately, she maneuvered it alongside the docking station temporarily installed where one of the freighter’s escape pods should be. A moment later, Squeaky felt the thump of contact. “All ready,” he said, in his own voice.
“Go back and help Donos patch that leak, would you?”
“If I must. One minute a general, the next minute a sheet-metal worker.”
Wedge smiled at him. “That’s life in the armed forces.”
“Petothel, come in.”
Lara stirred, trying to convey with body language that she was dazed. She stared out the forward viewport. Fel’s TIE interceptor cruised there, mere meters from her. It seemed to be spinning, though she knew that it was her own interceptor that was rolling. “What? I, what?”
“Are you injured? We can bring in a shuttle with a tractor to get you out of there.”
“No, I’m good to fly.” That was the pilot’s automatic response, whether Imperial or New Republic, whether truth or self-delusion. She sat upright. “Did—did we get him?”
“Almost,” Fel said. “Come along, you’re my wing.” He vectored away and moved planetward, away from the burning wreckage of the Reprisal, only a few kilometers away.
She’d spent her time “unconscious” productively. The datapad that had transmitted its unusual commands to her laser weaponry was now back in a pocket. She’d hammered her helmeted head against the side of the cockpit until it really was sore, until she was almost as dizzy