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Tycho lay on his stomach at the transport’s starboard side, his pistol braced against the lip. He fired once, twice, three times, and Wedge heard a shriek from the crowd of shooters. There was another thump, and Tycho said, “Four’s aboard.”

“Where’s Three?”

“Thirty meters back.”

“We’ll pick him up.” Wedge put the ungainly vehicle in reverse. It glided backward with frustrating slowness. Wedge reduced the repulsorlift power on the port side, increased it on starboard, so it tilted to port; this made it harder to control, but the vehicle’s underside offered him and his pilots a little additional cover.

The vehicle shook again, harder than before, and Tycho announced, “Three’s aboard.”

Wedge glanced at his men. “Anyone hit?”

They shook their heads, not looking at him, concentrating on pouring blaster fire off the starboard side.

Wedge increased all repulsorlifts to full power. The transport soared upward—

To an altitude of four meters. Half the height of the walls of the perator’s complex. There was no way he could fly over the walls.

“We’re going out by the gate,” he announced. “Brace yourselves, pilots.” He put the transport into forward motion, steering straight toward the crowd of shooters and the gate beyond.

The air was thick with the smell of blaster bolts, and thick with the bolts themselves. Only the shooters at the farthest edges of the crowd could get a good look at any of the men on the transport, and therefore get a decent shot at them; the others could see only the transport’s underside.

Tycho uttered a yelp and stood as the metal under his stomach superheated. All over the transport, the flooring began to glow. In two spots, it gave way entirely and blaster bolts shot through, toward the sky. Wedge shifted his body as the flooring beneath him began to glow.

But meter by meter they approached the gates and began outrunning the shooters in the courtyard. A thin screen of attackers with blasters was lined up at the gate, and they poured fire up at the bottom of the transport as Wedge crossed overhead; he saw one blaster shot, reduced in strength, emerge to slice across Hobbie’s hip. He hissed, leaned over the rail, took three quick shots in the direction of the screen of attackers.

Then they were past, floating at a good clip above a street heavy with pedestrian and transport traffic, pursuers trailing out behind them and losing ground—

The repulsorlift transport’s engine coughed and the vehicle immediately lost speed. The pursuers began to gain ground on them, even while rushing across lanes of heavy traffic.

Hobbie, stanching his hip wound with a pocket torn from his jacket, offered up a bitter smile. “It just doesn’t get better, does it?”

Tycho popped the metal plate over the transport’s engine. “Shot,” he announced. “Both ways. Blaster fire has ruined it.”

“Right,” Wedge said. “Janson, what do they expect us to do?”

“Set down and run on foot, or hop another transport. A wheeled one, since there are no floaters in sight.” Janson, keeping low, leaned over the rear of the transport and fired off several shots at their pursuers. Wedge saw two men fall. One of them was immediately run over by a wheeled transport, its driver unable to swerve far enough aside in time.

“So we do something else,” Wedge said. He aimed the dying transport toward the building opposite the palace gates—a tall residential building, its balconies deep, many furnished with elaborate tables or reclining furniture.

As they neared the building, Wedge could see the flatscreens on its exterior at ground level. All showed an identical image—the rear of Wedge’s transport, from a distance of forty or fifty meters, on its approach toward the building. He offered up a growl. A flatcam was broadcasting their escape and it was probably up on walls and personal flatscreens all over Cartann. People at the base of the building he approached recognized the scene, turned, pointed up at their transport—and some unsheathed blaster pistols and began firing.

“Hobbie, suppression fire to starboard. Tycho, to port. Janson, keep it