Star Wars: Death Star

by Michael Reaves

“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.

  CORRIDOR OUTSIDE MEDICAL BAY, DEATH STAR

  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.”

  70

  CORRIDOR OUTSIDE MEDICAL BAY, DEATH STAR

  Ratua 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 che
ck 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.

  71

  E-2T MEDSHUTTLE 5537

  Dance 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.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES, DEATH STAR

  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.”

  Atour tried to sound bored. “Order number?”

  The tech read off the code. Atour counted slowly to three. “Ah, yeah, here it is. That’s a valid number, Control. Let ’em go.”

  “Copy that, Flight Control.”

  Atour shut down the comm and leaned back in his chair. Now if P-RC3’s programming continued to work, the ship would be away in a moment or two, and if anybody tried to stop it with the rigged tractor beam—which they might, because Tractor Beam Control wouldn’t have a copy of the ship’s order in its computer any more than the real Flight Control did—then, in theory, the beam wouldn’t work and they should fly free.

  In theory.

  In any event, there was nothing else he could do now. He rose and stepped away from his desk. If Teela Kaarz’s evaluation of the danger was correct, and if the Rebels could read the plans well enough to spot the design flaw—both entirely reasonable assumptions—then the Death Star might have only a few minutes more of existence left to it. If that indeed proved to be the case, he knew where he wanted to spend those last few minutes.

  Atour walked into the stacks until he was surrounded by shelves of various data storage. Tapes, chips, disks, even books. As always, it comforted him to be encompassed by knowledge. He sat down on a bench.

  A pity he would never write that book. The destruction of the Death Star would have made a powerful final chapter. Ah, well … perhaps someone else would put stylus to screen someday and tell the tale.

  Atour smiled. He took a deep breath of the musty air.

  He was content.

  COMMAND CENTER CONTROL ROOM, DEATH STAR

  Tarkin stood watching the planet/moon graphic as the orbit around the world came closer to being complete.

  Vader had taken out his elite TIE squad and knocked off several of the Rebels, though that hadn’t been necessary. They couldn’t hurt this station. Nothing could.

  An operations lieutenant approached. Tarkin looked at him. The man was obviously worried. He said, “We’ve analyzed their attack, sir, and there is a danger.”

  Danger? Impossible!

  “Should I have your ship standing by?”

  Tarkin stared at the man. “Evacuate? In our moment of triumph? I think you overestimate their chances.” He turned back to watch the graphic.

  Cut and run just as they were about to wipe out the head base of the Rebellion? Preposterous!

  The voice from the speaker said, “Rebel base, three minutes and closing.”

  What harm could those last few fighters possibly do in that time? In less than three minutes, they would be orphans, easy pickings, and the war would effectively be won.

  SUPERLASER FIRE CONTROL, DEATH STAR

  Tenn Graneet watched the graphic on his screen. The target would be within range in another couple of minutes.

  His mouth was as dry as desert sand, his belly churning like a heavy sea. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t murder yet another world. But he couldn’t stop it, either. Were he to stand down, another gunner would be up here to replace him in mere minutes, and he would be in the brig with a military death mark against him.

  What was he going to do?

  E-2T MEDSHUTTLE 5537, YAVIN SYSTEM, GORDIAN REACH

  The bay doors opened, and Vil punched it. The little ship rocketed out. Now all he had to do was stay in the groove …

  “E-Two-Tee Medical Shuttle Five-Five-Three-Seven, this is Flight Control. Where are you going?”

  Vil said, “Flight Control, this is Lieutenant Fayknom. We have an emergency pickup.”

  “I show no record of your flight plan.”

  Stall, Vil! “Hey, that’s not my problem. I just fly where I’m told. Check with Door Control, they vetted us.”

  “We are attempting to do that now, Lieutenant. Turn it around and return to the dock until we get it cleared up.”

  “Negative on that, Flight Control. This is a priority mission. We come back, it’ll be too late to do our job.”

  The Flight Control officer was between a rock and a hard place, Vil knew. He had his protocols, and they weren’t being met. But somebody had opened the doors and let the shuttle leave, so maybe it was a computer error. It wouldn’t be the first one.

  “This is TIE x-one,” came a deep voice over the comm. “What is the nature of your mission, shuttle?”

  Vil felt his insides freeze. Any starfighter pilot who knew a tractor from a pressor knew that designation. It was Vader himself on the comm.

  Vil said, “An incoming Imperial ship has been damaged by Rebel fire. They have wounded.”

  “I know of no such Imperial arrivals,” Vader said. “Return to the station.”

  “Copy, Lord Vader. We are returning to the station.” He shut off the comm.

  Ratua said, “What? Are you crazy?”

  “Relax,” Vil said. “We aren’t going back. But if he thinks we are, that buys us a few more seconds to get clear. We’re faster than he is, once we get moving. He won’t be able to—uh-oh.”

  “What?” That from Teela.

  “He’s coming at us.”

  TIE X1

  The instant he had seen that medical conveyance, Vader had felt something wrong, a clamor from the dark side. While he ordered the shuttle back to the station, all it took was a moment’s probing with the Force for him to recognize a mind that was familiar.

  There were several aboard, none of them weak-minded, but one … a w
oman … where had he felt her before?

  Ah, he had it. On the station, when he had toured during construction. One of the builders, an architect, had shut him out of her thoughts, as if slamming a door in his face. He’d been impressed by her strength of mind and will.

  What was an architect doing on a medical rescue ship?

  And then he knew: deserters!

  His anger surged. There were so many things about this project that he had not been able to control. Well, he could deal with this! The X-wings could wait a moment or two longer. He would take care of these traitors himself. They would learn that resisting Darth Vader was fatal …

  As he and his wingmates bore in, the medical ship slewed into a tight, high-g turn. Vader felt the fabric of the Force shiver as he adjusted his path to intercept.

  He opened the channel again. “Return to the station, shuttle, or I will fire on you,” he said.

  E-2T MEDSHUTTLE 5537

  They were in deep trouble, Vil knew. They weren’t even armed, and Darth Vader was the best fighter pilot in the galaxy. He remembered saying something once to the effect that he would probably just augur his ship in if he ever found himself in Vader’s crosshairs—that way at least he got to choose when to die.

  It wasn’t just his life on the line now, though.

  Desperate, Vil ran every trick he could think of through his mind. None of them was going to do the job. They were cooked.

  Unless …

  TIE X1

  Vader bored in. The targeting computer narrowed the scan. He had a lock. Whatever they were up to—spies, perhaps?—it didn’t matter. He would eliminate them, then return to the main task.

  He thumbed the fire buttons.

  72

  E-2T MEDSHUTTLE 5537

  Vil slapped the retrofire controls. The reverse thrusters all lit full-out. The ambulance didn’t stop, but it slowed enough so that Vader and his two wingmates blew past as if the larger craft were standing still.