Dusque moved closer to the crate. Finn pulled out four different models of blasters and handed two to her, while he hung on to the other two himself. He nudged a few scraps of metal and other crates aside with his foot and cleared a path to a small workbench. He laid his blasters down and then had Dusque add hers to the lineup. He arranged them, then picked up the first one on the left, a long, slim one, and held it up, barrel pointed away, for Dusque’s inspection.
“This is a sporting blaster,” he explained. “It has a manual sight here just in front of the cooling coils on the barrel. It’s light and easily concealed. Go on,” he urged her. “Take it.”
Dusque accepted the weapon from him and felt the heft of it in her hand. It was very light, weighing not much more than a decent survival knife. While she balanced the item in her hand and tried to become more familiar with the feel of it, Finn moved up beside her.
“The downside to this weapon is that it doesn’t have a very powerful charge and it burns up power packs pretty quickly. Also, it uses a manual sight, so there’s more room for error. Actually,” he continued, “it’s more the weapon of the nobility than anything else.”
“Then it’s no good?” she asked.
“Don’t discount this little one so fast,” Finn told her. “You can swap out power packs pretty quickly and, if you need to sneak a weapon in someplace …” He paused. Moving to stand behind her, he pointed out a small recessed button on the blaster above the trigger.
“See there?” he asked her. She nodded and found herself standing taller as he stood closer.
“Press this and she pops into three pieces: the grip with the power pack, the main body with the blaster components, and the barrel. Give it a try.”
Dusque found that the gun came apart readily. Without waiting for his instruction, she snapped its parts back into a functioning weapon. “That could be handy,” she agreed coolly, trying not to show how pleased she was by the obvious approval on his face.
He took away the sporting blaster and handed her the next one.
“This is a DH-seventeen blaster,” he explained. When she took it from his hands, he moved even closer to her.
“Heavier than the other one,” Dusque remarked.
“Yep,” he agreed. “Longer range than the sporting model and longer-lasting firepower.” He wrapped his hand over hers. It was warm and dry and strong.
“The safety release,” he told her, “is above the trigger. See?”
“Mm-hmm,” she agreed, studying the pistol. “Is that the power pack?” she asked, pointing to a unit above the trigger, near the barrel.
“That’s right,” Finn replied, sounding delighted that she noticed. He released her hand and stepped back. “On the other model it was in the grip itself. These are a little trickier to take out, but can still be removed quickly when you get the hang of it.”
“Pros and cons?” she asked.
“It can blast through stormtrooper armor, but not a ship’s hull, so this is a good choice for close fighting on a ship. And on the low-power stun, it can knock someone out cold. It’s normally semiautomatic, but this one’s been juiced to fully automatic. See?” he asked as he pointed out the modification.
“The downside with that is you burn up packs very quickly and can even overheat the outer components if you’re not careful. And it’s illegal for any nonmilitary personnel to possess.”
“Oh,” Dusque said, and held the weapon out as though she were targeting something. Finn moved behind her and placed his hand over hers again as she sighted down the weapon. He guided her head with his other hand.
“It’s got a scope,” he explained quietly, “not a manual sight. Notice the difference?”
Dusque faltered for a moment when she felt his body touch her back lightly. As much as she wanted to deny it, there was a current that ran between them. It excited and frightened her at the same time.
“I do,” she finally said. Finn was quiet for a minute, and when he stepped over to their arsenal, Dusque was certain he let his fingers trail over hers longer than he needed to. He busied himself with his next selection, and Dusque wondered if he needed to collect himself. When he did choose another, she realized she had seen one like it before.
“The other pilot, Han Solo, carries one like that,” she said.
Finn gave her a grin. “Very good,” he complimented her. “You obviously studied him pretty closely,” he added after a moment’s thought, and Dusque could’ve sworn there was just the touch of jealousy in his voice. Even while she felt exasperated, she knew she was also pleased.
“Well, I did have a hard time taking my eyes off him,” she told Finn innocently and watched his jaw clench. She bit back a laugh. When he didn’t respond, she began to wonder if her teasing had gone too far. She was about to say something to make up for it, but then the storm cloud lifted from his face and he smiled back at her, although it was not the easy smile of a moment ago.
“Anyway,” he began, ignoring their last exchange, “the DL-forty-four is what’s known as a heavy blaster.” He tossed the weapon at her, and Dusque needed both hands to catch it. She wondered if he was mad at her.
“You’re right,” she said, “but I can still carry it one-handed.”
Finn nodded. “And you can fire it that way, too. But this weapon is really designed for close-quarters combat, and it uses up power packs even faster than the DH-seventeen.
“The nice thing, though,” he continued and leaned in, “is this right here.” He pointed to a small unit in the grip. “That device vibrates the grip when you’re low on power, so you know to switch out packs. Downside with this weapon is you have to be a good shot. You can’t just blast away and hope for the best, or you’ll burn out the pack. And the button above the grip but below the sight is a quick release for the power pack.”
He took that one away and handed her the last weapon on the table. It was longer than the others.
“This is the E-eleven blaster rifle,” he told her. “Go on, take it.”
Dusque was a trifle hesitant because he still seemed angry with her. Finn appeared to sense her discomfort and eased off a bit. “You can do it,” he told her. She accepted the rifle and realized she needed both hands to hold it comfortably.
“It has a range almost three times that of a blaster.”
“It’s heavier,” Dusque admitted. “I don’t think I could hold this with one hand.”
“Most can’t. If you see under the barrel, there’s an extendable stock that’ll help your aim.”
Dusque fumbled with the mechanism and Finn assumed his earlier pose, standing behind her and cradling both her and the weapon in the circle of his arms. He snapped the stock partially open, forming a triangle under the gun.
“Now hold this up and look through the scope,” he instructed her.
Dusque saw that the view with this one was different. “It’s not like the others,” she told him. When he responded, he spoke into her right ear and his breath sent shivers through her once more.
“It’s computerized so that you can aim in the worst conditions. Doesn’t matter,” he continued, “low light, haze, or smoke won’t affect your shots. For more stability—” He paused and pulled the stock toward Dusque, opening it fully. He placed it against her shoulder. “—open this up.”
He stretched his arm against the length of her left one and there wasn’t a part of their bodies that wasn’t touching. Dusque wasn’t sure which of them was trembling.
“The switch over here,” he continued softly, “is so you can vary the power setting from stun to something … more … powerful.” He hesitated.
Dusque was no longer listening to the words he was saying. She leaned her body against his and found his solidity comforting. She didn’t know which one of them lowered the weapon, but it slid to the floor with a dull thud. His hands trailed up her arms and he gripped her shoulders firmly. His breathing came out in short puffs that tickled her neck, and chills ran up and down her spine.
“Dusque,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she replied in kind.
“H …” He faltered.
“Yes?” she asked gently, overcome with an emotion she feared to name.
“I-I can’t,” he finished and pushed her away from him.
Dusque reeled slightly as she regained her balance, and she was surprised at herself for having relied so much on his strength to support her. She leaned forward to grip the workbench and take a deep breath.
When she had composed herself, she saw that Finn had a torn expression on his face. She wondered if he was frustrated by pushing her away, or upset that he had allowed her to get too close to begin with. And then his words about the Empire came back to her, how he believed that everyone betrayed those they loved to it eventually.
As Finn started to speak, Dusque held up a hand and placed it against his lips. “It’s all right,” she said. “I understand. It’s the Empire, isn’t it?’
Finn did not speak for some time, but stared at her with his black eyes. Dusque thought she might drown in those inky depths. When he finally did answer, his voice was hard and almost cold. “Yes,” he agreed, “it is because of the Empire.”
Dusque wondered what atrocity they had committed against him or, most likely, someone he had loved to leave him so cold and hateful now. The realization came to Dusque that while he knew so much about her, his past was shrouded in mystery. She had learned a little on Lok, but there was so much left unsaid between them.
“What happened—” she started to ask him, when the Mon Calamari returned.
“Strap yourselves back in,” he ordered, totally unaware of what he had interrupted. “We’re about to drop out of hyperspace.”
“You heard the man,” Finn told her, and she wondered if he was glad he didn’t have to answer her question.
She turned away from him and picked up the DH-17. “I think I’ll take this one,” she said, changing the subject herself. She didn’t want to force him to talk if he was unwilling to open up. She grabbed a holster from the crate and an armband with power packs. When she had added the weapon to her gear, she sat down and strapped herself in.
From the only viewport in the cargo area, Dusque could see the slashing rays of hyperspace travel streak by, and then the stars stopped their mad dash. She breathed a sigh of relief, glad that they were almost there. But her relief was short lived. Suddenly the shuttle rocked hard to the left and then the right. Had she not been buckled up, Dusque knew she would have been slammed against the wall with the rest of the cargo. As the ship bucked, she could see laserfire from the starboard portal. They were under attack.
“What is it?” Finn shouted, struggling with his restraints.
“Imps,” the Mon Calamari yelled. The tension and fear in his voice were unmistakable.
“Blast it,” Finn hissed. “They’re never in this sector.” He freed himself just as the ship took another hit; he was thrown hard to the floor.
“Watch out!” Dusque called as a crate broke free of its moorings and slid dangerously close to him. He sidestepped the deadly object and it smashed into the far wall, goods spilling out everywhere.
She saw that he managed to struggle into the cockpit, and then she lost sight of him. She debated joining them forward, but realized she had absolutely nothing to offer them other than a distraction. She knew less about the workings of ships than she did about guns. She held on to her restraints as the ship was tossed about like a piece of driftwood at sea and hoped that Finn was as good a copilot as he had proclaimed on Lok. Between the blasts, she strained to hear what they were saying up front.
“Solo, do you copy?” the Mon Calamari shouted. “We’re under attack.”
“I’ve kind of got my hands full here at the moment,” came the Falcon pilot’s clipped response.
The ship took another hit, and Dusque was nearly torn from her seat by the force of it. They were in serious trouble, she realized, and she wondered if she was going to perish out in the void of space with her friend’s death unavenged and her life unremarkable.
I’ve done nothing with my life, she mused, and the waste of it tormented her more than its imminent loss.
“Give me that comm,” she heard Finn’s rough voice demand.
“What?” Peralli cried out.
Dusque heard what she thought might be a struggle of sorts before the ship took another dangerous hit. No longer bucking, the transport started a dangerously steep descent. While Dusque held on to the arms of the seat out of useless fear, she heard a whine and an explosion. Oddly, it sounded like it had come from within the cockpit.
“Finn!” she screamed. She clawed at her straps, suddenly more afraid that he had perished than that her own death was close at hand. As she fumbled to find the buckles, she was momentarily relieved to hear his voice. It sounded as though he was talking to Han, saying something about their position. As she released the last strap, she realized that the ship was plunging ominously downward at an increasing rate. The attack, however, had ceased.
She held on to the support structures and crossbeams to keep from crashing forward as she made her way toward Finn. Smoke obscured most of her view; she could see that the tiny cockpit was filled with the acrid stuff, and part of the control panel was sputtering. As she clung to the doorway, she could also see Peralli slumped forward in his pilot’s seat, his communications gear askew on his large, fishlike head, his eyes rolled back. He was dead. Finn was straining his muscles as he fought with the controls.
“What—” was all Dusque managed to stutter.
Without looking up, Finn said through gritted teeth, “Too late to save the ship. Too late.”
“What about the Falcon?” she asked.
“Han managed to clear the fighters,” he replied.
There were no longer any in sight, she noted, and she wondered why the fighters hadn’t stayed to finish them off. Filling the clear canopy of the cockpit was the planet Corellia. It looked so peaceful, Dusque thought, blue-green and white against a velvet background. But as it grew larger and larger, she realized that they were accelerating.
“Get yourself strapped back in,” he shouted to her, “and brace yourself for planetfall.”
Dusque swung around. She climbed over boxes and loose gear, fighting to regain her seat. There was too much in the way—too many items that had not been properly strapped down—and the ship rocked and swayed as gravity pulled it through the atmosphere. She slipped and fell back. On her hands and knees, vaguely aware that she was crawling up, she reached out for the seat. Her fingertips touched it, then the ship shuddered, and she stumbled. With a great push, she lurched to her feet, intending to launch herself at her seat. And then she heard Finn scream out, “This is it!”
The ship slammed to a shattering halt and Dusque felt herself falling, suddenly airborne. She hit something hard and then she felt nothing more.
Somewhere in the blackness, Dusque could feel herself floating. She was warm and comfortable and felt quite free. There was, however, a persistent tugging and a voice somewhere deep in the void. She tried to ignore it, preferring the cool darkness to the sounds and sensations calling to her. She moved away from it and when she did, she felt a sharp, stabbing pain. Suddenly colors blinked and swirled around her, shattering the peaceful darkness. And from somewhere, she heard a moan. Then she realized the sound was coming from her. She blinked hard several times and slowly opened her eyes completely. It took some time before she was able to focus, and when she did, she was amazed.
She was lying in a heap in what remained of the cockpit, her limbs askew, covered by bits of crates and other debris. She could feel wetness behind her and tasted blood. She tried to move and winced again. She realized it was the sharp stab in her side that had roused her to consciousness—that and the voice that still called out to her frantically.
“Dusque!”
“Here,” she answered weakly and then tried again. “Here!”
Debris started to fly off he
r, and Dusque realized that she was less injured than she had originally thought. She was mostly pinned. As a large piece of equipment was lifted from her chest and shoulders, she could see Finn standing above her. Worry and concern were etched on his face. Blood seeped down his forehead; he was frightening to behold. But Dusque was grateful to see him alive.
Without saying a word, he reached down and removed the last bit of wreckage off her legs. He leaned down and scooped her up into his arms. She stifled a cry of pain and, as he carried her up toward the main cabin, she realized why he had moved her without checking for other injuries first. Over his shoulder, she could see that the cockpit was slowly flooding with water. The body of the pilot lay there, partially submerged.
“Peralli,” she said weakly.
“He’s dead,” Finn stated flatly, a grim expression fixed on his stony visage. He maneuvered them over to the workbench, which was only slightly tilted. He laid her down with surprising tenderness and ran his hands over her legs and arms, checking for injuries. When he moved up to her waist and left side, she winced in pain.
“Feels broken,” he told her, referring to at least one of her ribs.
“No argument there,” she agreed.
“I’m not sure what else might be injured,” he told her, worry softening his voice.
Dusque propped herself up on one elbow and moved to sit up. Finn tried to restrain her initially, but she shook her head and waved his hands away.
“No time for that,” she replied and clenched her jaw. “What about you?”
“Nothing, just a few scratches,” he said, dismissing her concern. He left her side and started to search the piles of gear that had been thrown about the cabin.
“What are you doing?” she asked him, keeping one eye on the water that had now filled the cockpit. At least, she thought, the Mon Calamari had been returned to the water in the end.
“Looking for a medkit to fix you up,” he explained angrily. “We are going to have to get out of here soon.”
“Forget about it.” She winced. “Grab the straps from that chair. They’ll do.”
The Ruins of Dantooine Page 12