"Aaron Allston "Iron Fist" (STARWARS. X-Wing #6)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Noises he knew well: the whuff Piggy the Gamorrean made whenever he struck at someone in practice, followed by the impossibly loud, meaty noise his fist always made when it hit. Two blaster shots in quick succession. A howl from Runt. The man with the broken leg still screaming. Shrieks from passersby and the clatter of their feet as they retreated from the danger zone.
Wedge got his hand on the blaster, swung around, snapped off a quick shot that took his other guardsman, now rising, in the throat and threw him back to the grimy duracrete. That gave Wedge a clear view of the impromptu battlefield, Wraiths struggling with military policemen.
"Nobody move!" That was Ton Phanan, miraculously unharmed, holding the blaster rifle previously owned by one of their captors-that man, Wedge saw, was staggering away, his eyes glassy, his hands clutching his own throat, trying fu-tilely to arrest the tide of blood seeping between and around his fingers.
The MPs paused, saw the gun aimed at them... and, one by one, relaxed to drop their arms or ceased struggling with the Wraiths.
Face Loran, his voice in a reasonable tone Wedge knew to be forced, answered, "He didn't walk like a Corellian."
They were now in a debriefing room in Starfighter Com-
mand Headquarters, a room as spotlessly white and clean as
the bar and street had been filthy. A colonel Wedge didn't know
was conducting the interview, but Admiral Ackbar, commander-
in-chief of New Republic military operations, was also seated



at the interrogators' table. Though Ackbar was a Mon Cala-marl, a species with huge, rubbery features that seemed more fishlike than humanlike, he was a friendly presence in Wedge's estimation.
"That's not enough justification to attack someone with proper credentials," the colonel said.
Face stiffened. "Respectfully, sir, it is when I'm correct."
"Don't be preposterous. You can't classify a man's home-
world just by looking at him." "Yes, I can, sir."
The colonel, a middle-aged man with a face creased by too many years of waging war against the Empire, looked dubious. But without speaking, he stood, walked backward from the table, and then walked back and forth a half-dozen paces.
"Hard to say," Face said. "If you had any distinctive walk-ing mannerism from your homeworld, you erased it with mili-tary training. At Vogel Seven, if I'm not mistaken. I'd say that you were injured at some time in the past and had to learn to walk again-or maybe it was a disfigurement at birth, cor-rected by surgery? I can't really tell."
The colonel resumed his seat. Surprise was evident on his face. "Correct on both counts. How do you do that?"
"Well, I was an acton On top of that, I'm trained to recog-nize, analyze, and assume physical mannerisms-just as I am with vocal mannerisms and a dozen other things. More im-portantly, I lived several years on Lorrd, where my family is originally from. The Lorrdians practically invented the art of conscious communication through body language."
Ackbar finally spoke up, his voice a not-quite-human rum-ble. "You admit, Colonel, that Lieutenant Loran is capable of recognizing when someone's physical mannerisms do not match his professed planet of origin?"
The colonel considered. "Well, it's low for a statistical sampling, but I'd say he demonstrates considerable skill in that regard."
"Between that," Face said, "and the speed with which the
MPs reached the bar-which, I remind you, is close to bedrock
level, and not a place sensible New Republic military personnel
are usually near-I concluded that it was a deception. The cy-
borg was trotted out to start the trouble and make an MP ar-rest look legitimate; many pilots have been run into jail while on leave exactly this way."
The colonel ignored the statement and turned to Phanan. "You defused the situation by putting down one of the ersatz military policemen and seizing his weapon."
Wedge saw Phanan struggling with a reply-probably something to the effect of the colonel being able to recognize simple facts when they played out under his nose-but re-straining himself. Phanan merely said, "Yes, sir."
"That man died. Trachea cut, carotid artery cut. Yet the commander here says the MPs disarmed you before leading you out of the bar. What did you use?"
"A holdout, sir. A laser scalpel. Hard to distinguish from a writing tool without close inspection . . . and up close, I'm pretty effective with it."
"I'd say so. Did you surrender this weapon to our guards before coming before me ?"
"What weapon, sir ?"
"The laser scalpel."
"Not a weapon, sir. It's a tool of medicine. I wasn't asked
to turn over my bandages, bacta treatments, disinfectant sprays, or tranquilizers either, but I can kill a man with any of them, under the right circumstances."
The colonel glanced at Wedge, a beleaguered look Wedge knew well from his own mirror-it asked, What sort of unit have you assembled here? Wedge merely shrugged.
The colonel closed down his datapad. "All right. Pending the results of further investigation into this matter, I'm going to release your squadron."
Wedge said, "Thank you, sir."
"How are your injured squad members? Ekwesh, wasn't it, and Janson?"
"Both in sick bay," Wedge said. "Runt Ekwesh has a mild concussion, and is thoroughly embarrassed that Phanan knocked him down to keep him out of the fight. Lieutenant Janson got a blaster crease across the ribs; he's got a bacta patch on it and will be fit for duty in a day or two."
The colonel rose; Wedge and his subordinates followed



suit. The colonel said, "I wish them every luck in getting back to duty as soon as possible." He left unstated the obvious fact that he far preferred them facing Imperial stormtroopers and warlord forces than the civilians of the planet Coruscant. An exchange of salutes later, he departed.
Admiral Ackbar came forward. "Before you go: What are your thoughts on this matter?"
Wedge said, "I'd prefer to see what General Cracken's people get out of the survivors, but my guess is Zsinj. We hurt him pretty badly when we destroyed the Implacable." That ship, an Imperial Star Destroyer, belonged to Admiral Apwar Trigit, a subordinate of the warlord Zsinj, who was now the chief enemy and target of the New Republic. "He's shown a vengeful streak in the past, and has enough intelligence and contacts to mount a plausible-looking trap like that. I'd say that he's figured out who Wraith Squadron is and has decided to make us pay."