Death Star (49 page)

“Cutting it kind of close, aren’t we, Doc?” Nova asked.

Uli gave him a strange look, almost as if he blamed the sarge for his tardiness. But all he said was, “I’ve got to listen to the advice I give my patients, and exercise.”

Teela’s comlink cheeped. She thumbed it. “Riten?”

“You made it to the rendezvous?”

“I’m getting dressed now.”

“The others?”

“They’re all here. Except for you.”

“Good, good. You have less than ten minutes to get from there to the ship.”

“Where are you?”

A slight hesitation. “In my office.”

“What?” Teela looked about, saw that the others were as shocked as she was. “But—you can’t—”

“I’m afraid there has been a glitch in the plan,” Riten’s voice said. “My faithful droid was a bit clumsy in its research, and as a result, it won’t be able to fulfill its part. Somebody has to be here to vet the call from the man who will open the door for you. That would be me.”

“Can’t you take the call on your comlink?”

“Alas, no. My droid set it up, and I’m not technically skilled enough with hard- and firmwire to jigger what it did. It doesn’t matter. I did a check on that possibility you brought up, and I think you’re right, Teela. If that happens, no one will be coming for me. If it doesn’t happen, well, I’ve had a long and enjoyable ride. No regrets.”

“Atour—”

“No, no, not now. You don’t have time. Get moving. Have a good life, child. Now go—all of you.”

He shut off the link from his end.

Nobody moved or spoke for a few seconds.

“Can’t we go back for him?” Teela asked, fighting back tears. She knew the answer, of course, even before Memah said, “There’s no time. All we can do is make sure his sacrifice isn’t in vain.”

“She’s right,” Rodo said. “Let’s go.”

Vil opened the door, and they moved into the corridor. “I really hope somebody knows where we’re going,” Ratua said.

“This way,” Nova said. “The entrance to the dock staging area is just around the next corner.” He took the lead.

The corridor widened out, ending in a blast door guarded by a pair of stormtroopers in black uniforms.

Nova stepped up to one of them. “We’ve got an emergency medical flight.”

“Your orders?” the trooper said.

“C’mon, Sarge, we’re in a hurry. We got guys dying out there.”

“And if I let you in without scanning your orders, I’m gonna be dying in here.”

The fake orders were logged into the shuttle’s computer. They didn’t have any kind of flimsi or datachip on them. Nova said, “They didn’t give us anything—the orders are on the ship.”

“Fine. I’ll have somebody download and check them.”

Teela saw Nova glance at his chrono, then look at her. They had less than ten minutes before that tractor beam would be shut off, and it was only going to be offline for forty-five seconds.

They couldn’t wait. Something had to be done,
now
.

Nova knew they were out of time. There was only one course left open to them. He glanced at the other guard, then at Rodo, and knew, by that kind of telepathy fighters can sometimes share, that the big man understood.

Nova turned back to the guard and shrugged. “Okay, you’re in charge. Let me get you the comlink code—” and with that, he fired a punch into the guard’s throat, flipped the man’s helmet up with his free hand, then snapped an elbow to the now bare temple.

The guard dropped. He saw the second guard fall as Rodo swept his feet from under him, then followed him down to the deck to bounce the guard’s head against the plate. Excellent—both taken out with a minimum of fuss.

“Let’s go, people!” Nova opened the blast doors—

Just as three squads of black-suited guards came around the corner. Fifteen men, in all. Fifteen armed men.

The lieutenant in charge saw his two fallen comrades. “Hey, what the—”

Nova said, “These men have been poisoned. We were called to take care of them and contain the area.”

That wouldn’t work for long, he knew. Seven medics dispatched for just two guards? The lieutenant would have to be pretty challenged to buy that for more than a few seconds.

Nova looked at Rodo again. “Whaddya say, Rodo?”

Rodo nodded. He looked at the others, particularly at Memah. “Go,” he said, softly.

Memah stared at him, shocked. “Rodo,
no
!”

Nova looked at Dance, jerked his thumb at the blast doors. “You’re the only one who can do it, flyboy. Go!”

There was a long moment that seemed to stretch to infinity, and then the others started to move.

The lieutenant said, “Hold up there! Let me see your authorization.” He approached, and his men followed.

Nova held up a hand. “You’ll need respirators,” he said. “These two were gassed. Nerve toxin—better not get too close. I’ve got some antitoxin ampoules here, if you’ll let me inoculate you and your men—”

The guards were only a few meters away now. They showed no concern about any possible proximity to nerve gas.

“You gonna take the right side?” Rodo said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. Watch that little guy on the left—he’s already got his hand on his blaster.”

“Copy. Nice knowing you, Nova.”

“You, too, Rodo.”

R
atua saw the action begin as if the participants were moving in slow motion. He was no fighter, but as the guards and Stihl and Rodo tangled, he saw one of the guards draw a blaster, and he knew his old jailer and the bouncer wouldn’t be able to stop the man in time.

But Celot Ratua Dil might.

He moved as fast as he had ever moved in his life.

The blaster came up, and the guard extended his arm. Ratua could see the man’s finger begin to tighten, slowly, slowly …

Ratua slammed into him. There was no skill involved—it was just a body block—but his speed magnified the force with which he struck the trooper enough to knock the latter into the corridor’s far wall. The blaster clattered to the floor, followed by the unconscious trooper.

Ratua was momentarily stunned himself, the impact having hit him just as hard, of course. But he’d been prepared for it. He reeled, but managed to stay on his feet until his head cleared.

The world resumed its normal speed. He saw other troopers going for their blasters, but Stihl and Rodo were among them now, too close for the guards to shoot without risking hits on their own people.

Time to leave.

Memah, Vil, Teela, and Doc Divini were just inside the
doors. Ratua moved to join them, kicking in the afterburner again. He slapped the hatch control as he blurred by it.

The blast doors closed behind him and locked.

The bay was a small one, used primarily for berthing and launching medical vessels. And there was their ticket to freedom, the E-2T shuttle, sitting on the landing turntable.

As they approached, another officer came down the ramp. He eyed them suspiciously; Ratua was convinced that there was a certain rank of Imperial officers whose only job was to eye everything suspiciously.

The officer, a sergeant major, said, “What do you people want here?”

Uli stepped up. “I’m Dr. Divini,” he said. “This is my team. We have a medical emergency we need to get to, stat. That’s our ship.”

“Your orders—”

“They’re in the ship’s computer. I’ll transmit them from there once we’ve launched.”

“Protocol—”

Uli stepped up close to the officer. “Shut it, man,” he said in a low voice, “do you want to be responsible for the death of Admiral Daala?”

The officer’s eyes went wide. “Admiral Daala?”

“Her ship has been hit by Rebel fire and we’re detailed to collect her. You sure you want to be the man who held us up?”

The officer stepped aside.

“Let’s go, people!” Uli said. “We’ve got a job to do.”

They moved quickly up the ramp into the shuttle, Ratua thinking,
The doc’s a pretty good con man. Who knew?

Nova ducked a wild swing, caught the attacking guard’s arm, and spun him into the trooper behind him. Both men fell, but he had no time to rejoice, because there were others coming for him, lots of others. He waded into a pair of
guards and hit both at the same instant with a double punch, smashing their noses, then dropped and swept, upending another one, and before that one hit the deck he was up again firing a side kick into the belly of yet another—

Beside him, Rodo grabbed a guard by his front, lifted him off his feet, and head-butted the man, knocking his helmet off, then threw him into another trooper. He whirled and took out two more with a spin kick.

“We’re having fun now, aren’t we?” the big man said. He laughed.

Nova recognized his recurring nightmare, which had now become reality. He didn’t know the how or the why of it. He only knew that they were going to lose.

Well, then—that was how it would be.

They’d taken out a goodly number of guards, but there were still seven or eight of them standing, and the only reason he and Rodo hadn’t been roasted yet was because the fighting had been too close for the guards to use their blasters. That was about to change, however. They were backing away, going for their weapons. The game would soon be over.

Nova felt fear welling inside him. Not for himself; he knew he was a dead man fighting. Two against fifteen, the latter armed with blasters? A win was never in those cards. But it was vitally important that he prolong the fight as long as he could, to give the others time to escape.

This would be his last dance, and he wanted it to be the best he could manage. Going up against impossible odds, going down swinging, using what he knew.

There were a lot worse ways to check out.

Beside him, Rodo grabbed a guard’s head in both massive hands and twisted. The guard dropped, his neck broken. But another trooper had come up behind the big man, and now he thrust his blaster into Rodo’s back. Nova saw Rodo’s midsection turn black and charred as the energy
beam burned its way through, saw Rodo’s look of shock as he fell …

He saw another trooper drawing down on him, saw the blaster’s muzzle aimed at his head, and knew he could never reach it in time.

The world turned white hot, like the center of a star, and then icy black, colder than space.

D
ance dropped into the pilot’s seat and fired up the central processor. The heads-up display appeared.

“Sublight drive up,” he reported. “Now, if someone’ll just open the door …”

It took only a couple of seconds for Door Control to query over the comm: “E-Two-Tee Medical Shuttle Five-Five-Three-Seven, why are you powering up?”

Dance looked at Uli. Uli activated the comm.

“This is Dr. Kornell Divini, op number 504614575. We have an emergency pickup.”

“Transmit your orders, Doctor.”

Uli looked at Dance. “Do it, Vil.”

Dance sent the file.

The hardwired comm line lit. Atour picked up the headset. “Flight Control,” he said.

“Flight Control? The comm station must have given me the wrong connection. Sorry.”

Atour blinked. “Who are you trying to contact?”

“The library. This is Lieutenant Esture. We just had a droid we were examining do a firmware meltdown and we need to talk to its supervisor.”

“Sorry I can’t help you, Lieutenant—we’re kind of busy here.”

“Right. Out.”

Atour broke the connection and began to sweat. This was bad. They’d recheck the number and call again. If he didn’t answer—and he had to answer, in case it was Bay Door Control—they’d know something was wrong, and they’d be sending somebody to have a little talk with him right away. Droids that suddenly went blank were rare enough that they’d suspect tampering. Add that to a comm number that was misconnected more than once, and even an Imperial officer could do the math.

How much time did he have? Minutes, if he was lucky. Seconds, more likely …

The comm lit again. Atour activated it. “Flight Control.”

“Flight Control, this is Bay Door Control Five-Seven-Five-Four-One. We have orders for departure of an E-Two-Tee Medshuttle.”