Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [42]
He succeeded. His shoulder hit the grid and he felt the flooring burn through his light tunic, branding him. He continued the roll and the burning sensation tore down his back, across his buttocks.
There was a burning in his throat, too. It had to have been from his scream. He felt as though his back had been torn completely free, revealing bones and blood for all the world to see. He almost gave up then, as the pain told his body to tighten up into a tight ball and lie there until he died, but he felt his heels hit the floor and he rose, instinct and adrenaline giving him the energy to keep moving.
He turned back toward the source of the explosion. The flames on the walls were now growing, extending toward him, but in the center of them there was a different sort of light—whiteness, not redness. He lurched toward it, gaining speed.
There it was in his mind, an absurd image—his childhood visit to an arena on Coruscant where animals from all the planets of the galaxy did tricks for the entertainment of men. One of those tricks was leaping through fiery hoops and frameworks. Now he was doing it.
The floor grating disappeared two steps ahead, ending in a broken edge of red-glowing metal. He leaped over the edge into the white void beyond—
And hit something. White, cold hardness. He bounced off it and landed on his back.
And there the pain from his burns hit him. His back arched and he shrieked. His body would not obey him, would do nothing but writhe and shout.
He could not even look down to see if Dia was still with him, if he’d managed to carry the woman he loved out of that inferno.
Lara drew her blaster pistol and fired. Her first shot missed the leading wave of stormtroopers but checked their progress—most of them dropped to skid behind antennae, air-conditioning equipment, and other rooftop gear. The first of them returned fire and Lara realized rather belatedly that she had no cover before her.
Elassar had his blaster out in a two-handed grip. He fired, tearing uselessly into the side of the metal housing between him and his target. Lara grabbed his tunic at the shoulder and tugged him toward another metal housing.
They ducked down behind the landskimmer-sized equipment case and heard blaster shots hammer into the far side. “We’re in trouble,” Lara said.
“True. Should I charge them and wipe them out for you?”
“Oh, if you think you could, that’d be really decent of you.” Lara popped up, took a quick shot, was rewarded with the image of a pair of stormtroopers ducking behind cover. “I’ll help too,” she said. “I’ll call the troops.”
“Deal.”
Lara brought out her comlink. “Wraith Two to Rogue Leader. Emergency. Emergency. Do you read?”
The only answer was a hiss of static.
Face forced himself to look around. He was in a hallway.
There, to his right, lay Dia. She was moving, her eyes half-open. Beyond her was a jagged hole in a once-pristine white wall. It was three or four meters in diameter, starting at knee height and continuing up into the ceiling and beyond, and it was lined in flames. Heat rolled out of it, a steady wind from a manmade hell.
Out from the fire shot Wes Janson, crashing into the same wall Face must have hit, but he kept his feet when he landed. His right shoulder and back were on fire. He dropped to the floor and rolled, swatting at the flame.
Then came Tyria. She landed short of the wall, her blaster rifle in hand. Poised as a heroine from an action holodrama, she swept up and down the hall with the rifle. There was no sign of fire, even of burn upon her.
Four out. Four to go. Face heaved himself to his feet, leaving Dia where she lay for the moment. There was blood all over the flooring where he’d fallen. He decided not to think about that for the moment. Or about the pain—he swore and brought out his blaster pistol,