Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [58]
“Every detail I give you could mean the life of ten of your people,” she said. “I’ll buy into the full confession thing. But one million credits stands.” Distantly, an alarm Klaxon began to sound. “What’s this? More warfare against Zsinj? I wonder who’s going to die today?”
Ven struggled to keep his voice under control. “We certainly don’t employ torture or murder like the Empire,” he said. “On the other hand, we could keep you in custody in some free-trade port while we assemble charges, and make no secret of the fact that we have you. How long would it take Zsinj to find you, do you suppose?”
Her expression became ugly. “For that, I hold back one detail you’ll never know about, and some of your oh-so-precious people die. How about that, you subhuman nothing? Give me a human negotiator.”
There was a sound beyond the door, an unmistakable one: two blasts in quick succession, two scrapes and thuds as bodies hit the floor.
Ven stood. He grabbed the side of Gast’s bed and yanked, precipitating her to the floor. He shoved the bed over on her, then slid to stand beside the door.
“Hey!” she said. The bed rocked as she struggled to free herself.
The door slid open. A blaster gripped in a large human hand entered first. Ven grabbed the blaster, twisted it up.
He had a brief glimpse of the man he was wrestling with: big but not tall, fleshy, with red hair. Then burning liquid washed into his eye. He yelped, instinctively turned away from the pain.
A meaty fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him to the floor. He shook his head to clear it, belatedly realizing that it was hot caf in his face.
Above him, the attacker looked at the wriggling bed and fired into it—twice, three times, four. There was a female shriek in the middle of that.
Then the assassin turned to aim down at Ven.
Ven kicked out, shoving against the bed frame, and slid out partway into the hall. The assassin’s shot struck the flooring between his legs.
Ven found himself between the two door guards, both slumped, dead. He grabbed at the blaster pistol still in the hand of the one to his left. He brought it around, even as he saw the assassin aiming—
Ven didn’t bother to aim. He fired, heard the distinctive crackle of blaster beam frying flesh as his shot took the assassin in one ankle. The big man yelped, fell, his blaster aiming in straight at the Twi’lek—
Ven fired again. This shot took the assassin right in the nose, snapping his head back, filling the chamber with even more burned-flesh odor. The big man fired, whether intentionally or as a dying spasm Ven didn’t know, and his shot hit the doorjamb.
Ven rose. There was no more wiggling going on behind the bed. Knowing what he was likely to see, he pulled the bed from against the wall and looked at what lay beyond.
“Polearm Two,” Tyria said, “power down and announce your surrender or I’ll blow you out of space.” She toggled her S-foil switch and felt a hum as the foils assumed strike position.
The A-wing heeled over and accelerated, moving behind the protective bulk of Mon Remonda, out of her sight.
Tal’dira smiled as he heard the pure tone of a good targeting lock on Wedge’s X-wing, but the noise garbled as Tycho slid in between target and prey. Tal’dira dropped relative altitude, hoping for a quick shot under Tycho, but the captain mimicked his move, remaining an obstruction.
Now Tycho was an easy target, and so close—a proton torpedo would turn him into a billion fiery specks. But Tal’dira shook his head at the notion. Tycho wasn’t his enemy. Tycho wasn’t the traitor. “Captain Celchu, get out of the way,” he said. “I have a job to do.”
He spared a glance for his sensor board. The other Rogues were staying in position—all but Rogue Nine, Corran Horn, who was