Beviin jumped back and took the opportunity to reload. “Good. Someone’s at home.”
“Now to get them to stop shooting long enough to explain we have an errand for them.” Fett and Briika leaned out of cover and laid down fire. Another volley of hot blue-white bolts skimmed the crown of Fett’s helmet, adding another black streak to the green paint. “If they won’t answer the door, we have to get in.”
“We’re good at that.”
“Without killing them.”
“Now there’s the awkward hit.” Beviin pulled a holo-probe out of his sleeve pocket and edged it cautiously around the angle of the wall. The image it relayed back to their HUDs showed a galley area: tables, stacks of metal trays, a couple of upended chairs, abandoned plates. People had scrambled. This had been a meal-break for aircrew, maybe. They’d have made a run to the airstrip to get the fighters airborne.
Someone was still there, though. He saw a flash of orange movement. Flight suit. Pilot. Pilots could get word out. Pilots needed not to be left too injured or stunned to fly out of here under Vong attack. “Bob’ika,
“I can do that myself.”
“Who’s got durasteel armor, and who’s got the beskar version? As in almost lighrsaher-proof beskar?”
“If he gets a lucky shot in, that fancy antique won’t save you.”
“I never understood why you didn’t go for beskar” said Beviin. “But save that for later. In three …”
Beviin jumped to his feet and ran for all he was Worth towards the blaster fire. He had a detached moment of thinking that Medrit would go crazy at him for taking such a risk and worrying about that more than the bolt that hit him in the chest plate and sent searing hot air into the breather in his visor. Adrenaline was a wonderful thing. He thought that just as he threw himself on the flurry of orange-suited limbs and was deafened by his own voice yelling, “Drop it! Shut up and listen!”
Armor crashed against his. Dinua and Briika landed on top of him. He was almost at the bottom of a heavy pile subduing one pilot.
“Get off, we’ll crush him-“
“Got his blaster?”
“I got it.”
“Got his arms?”
The pilot yelped. Dinua had certainly grabbed something. That was a trick he hadn’t seen used in quite a while. Beviin eased back and hauled the pilot into a sitting position to find he was in fact a she, an angry-looking blonde with razored hair and now a welt on her right cheekbone that was turning into a black eye.
“Mandos,” she spat. “You’re fighting for those things} You filthy-“
“Yeah, we love you, too. Now listen to the Mandalore.” Beviin jerked her around to face Fett. “Where’s your helmet? You’ve got some flying to do.”
“Why?” There was a helmet on a nearby table, and it was going to fit her whether she liked it or not. “For you?”
“Get this data to your nearest command,” Fett said. He pulled the data chip from his belt and held it in her face, too close for her to focus. “You need this data on the Vong. Ship layout, some bio-data, and two mission plans that show where they’re headed next and their op orders. It’s whatever we could grab. Just get it to someone who’ll make good use of it. And we don’t have time to do the theatrical gaze of stunned silence. Shift it. Now.”
Fett helped her up and she zipped the chip into the pocket on the thigh of her suit, eyes wide and wary. “So whose side are you on?”
“Ours,” said Briika. “I want my daughter to have daughters. She won’t be doing that with the Vongese running the show.”
“Cham, get her to her fighter or whatever’s still flying, and see her past the Vong,” Fett said, indicating the exit with his blaster. “If there’s nothing airworthy on the strip, purge your Gladiator’s security data and give her the keys. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Better make it look like we’re pursuing her, then.”
Cham handed the pilot her helmet and pushed her ahead of him. “And I’ll be wanting a yellow one to match my plates this time. Custom job.”
There was nothing left to do now but get out. The crab-boys wouldn’t know it they’d been beaten back or not: the squad was only supposed to shut down the tower and cause a diversion anyway. They’d done that. Dinua set off at a sprint, rifle in both hands, and when they emerged from the building they saw why they hadn’t come across any resistance inside.
The Yuuzhan Vong ground forces were swarming toward the spaceport, with small craft that looked like disembodied organs flying over them. Facing them along the perimeter was a wall of shattered speeders, repulsor trucks, and anything that could be commandeered to provide a defensive barrier. Fleet personnel in a variety of uniforms-even catering corps-were taking position next to civilians, armed with a selection of weapons that smacked of desperation.