disturbed the provincial calm of this portion of the Meridian. Just the occasional orange flicker of planet-hoppers, small traders, light cargo haulers going about their petty businesses between the stars.
What did Callista know about Seti AshgadS.
He edged the B-wing into a lower temporary orbit and brought up the coordinates for the town of Hweg Shul.
He would find her, he thought. He would see her again.
The long-range laser cannon took out his rear deflector shield and nicked the stabilizer before he was even out of sight of blackness and stars.
It was only luck it didn't destroy the craft entirely, luck and probably the difficulty in homing on a vessel at the bottom end of its target mass. Luke flipped at once into evasive action, twisting, zagging, plunging toward that vast glittering eternity of dimness and crystal through a flaming hovl of atmosphere. A second bolt clipped the B-Wing's airfoil; and as he fought to pull out of the crazy spin, Luke saw' the white lances of light slash upward from the ragged line of slate-gray foothills.
So much for Seti Ashgad's information about the minimum mass needed to activate the gun stations, thought Luke grimly. Was that what Callista had meant about not trusting the man?
But Ashgad hadn't known Luke would even be on Leia's mission, let alone that he'd be going to Hweg Shul. Nobody but Han and Chewie had known that. He twisted the controls, trying to avoid sliding straight into one of those white lances of killing light. The ground rushed upward, radiant, burning with wan, reflected sun.
Blast, thought Luke, as the joystick lurched under his hands, don't quit on me now.
There was enough play in the remaining stabilizer to land without killing himself--just. The antigray cradles were still okay. But when he leveled off he'd be a better target. He zagged right, left, dropped instinctively as a beam slicked over his head. Those were live gunners, they had to be. No autostation had that kind of response flexibility. Live gunners who knew what they were doing.
Huge cliffs; mountains; towering terrifying, bare monuments of basalt and crystals yawned fathomless below him. He plunged the big fighter down among them, veered through narrowing chasms as a laser bolt splintered a black column of rock a thousand feet high to his left and rained the craft with fragments. The steady, howling winds of the higher atmosphere turned to random hurricanes that smote him from every canyon and crevice. With its long ventral airfoil the B-wing was almost impossible to control. Luke pulled into a level slide, barely avoid ing another bolt and a toothed crag of what looked like gray striated quartz, the glare of the sunlight from a million million mirrors nearly blinding.
He was out of range of the gun stations, hidden in the mountains, plunging down a long, scintillated canyon toward the wasteland beyond.
The stabilizer went, and Luke forced the controls over, reached out with his mind to touch the Force, nudge the crazily plunging craft away from the rock walls, past the jutting towers and razor-ridged hogbacks of stone, heading for the blue notch of the canyon mouth.
Too low. No altitude. He'd never . . .
He put out all his will, all the strength of the Force, to lift the B-wing over the last ridge of rose-gold shining glass, edge it down, down . . .
Wind slapped him like a monster hand. The B-wing veered wildly, then the airfoil scraped and tore on the pebbled wilderness beyond the canyon. Rocks and dust and fragments of crystal enveloped him in a whirlwind of heat. Shaken nearly out of his bones, Luke held the controls steady, fighting to see, hoping there was nothing ahead of him but more level gravel.
There was. A transparent boulder the size of a speeder caught what was left of the airfoil. The whole craft slewed sideways, rolled, the delicate S-foils buckling and snapping. Luke feared for one heart-tearing second that his seat restraint would give way, and he'd break his neck on
What did Callista know about Seti AshgadS.
He edged the B-wing into a lower temporary orbit and brought up the coordinates for the town of Hweg Shul.
He would find her, he thought. He would see her again.
The long-range laser cannon took out his rear deflector shield and nicked the stabilizer before he was even out of sight of blackness and stars.
It was only luck it didn't destroy the craft entirely, luck and probably the difficulty in homing on a vessel at the bottom end of its target mass. Luke flipped at once into evasive action, twisting, zagging, plunging toward that vast glittering eternity of dimness and crystal through a flaming hovl of atmosphere. A second bolt clipped the B-Wing's airfoil; and as he fought to pull out of the crazy spin, Luke saw' the white lances of light slash upward from the ragged line of slate-gray foothills.
So much for Seti Ashgad's information about the minimum mass needed to activate the gun stations, thought Luke grimly. Was that what Callista had meant about not trusting the man?
But Ashgad hadn't known Luke would even be on Leia's mission, let alone that he'd be going to Hweg Shul. Nobody but Han and Chewie had known that. He twisted the controls, trying to avoid sliding straight into one of those white lances of killing light. The ground rushed upward, radiant, burning with wan, reflected sun.
Blast, thought Luke, as the joystick lurched under his hands, don't quit on me now.
There was enough play in the remaining stabilizer to land without killing himself--just. The antigray cradles were still okay. But when he leveled off he'd be a better target. He zagged right, left, dropped instinctively as a beam slicked over his head. Those were live gunners, they had to be. No autostation had that kind of response flexibility. Live gunners who knew what they were doing.
Huge cliffs; mountains; towering terrifying, bare monuments of basalt and crystals yawned fathomless below him. He plunged the big fighter down among them, veered through narrowing chasms as a laser bolt splintered a black column of rock a thousand feet high to his left and rained the craft with fragments. The steady, howling winds of the higher atmosphere turned to random hurricanes that smote him from every canyon and crevice. With its long ventral airfoil the B-wing was almost impossible to control. Luke pulled into a level slide, barely avoid ing another bolt and a toothed crag of what looked like gray striated quartz, the glare of the sunlight from a million million mirrors nearly blinding.
He was out of range of the gun stations, hidden in the mountains, plunging down a long, scintillated canyon toward the wasteland beyond.
The stabilizer went, and Luke forced the controls over, reached out with his mind to touch the Force, nudge the crazily plunging craft away from the rock walls, past the jutting towers and razor-ridged hogbacks of stone, heading for the blue notch of the canyon mouth.
Too low. No altitude. He'd never . . .
He put out all his will, all the strength of the Force, to lift the B-wing over the last ridge of rose-gold shining glass, edge it down, down . . .
Wind slapped him like a monster hand. The B-wing veered wildly, then the airfoil scraped and tore on the pebbled wilderness beyond the canyon. Rocks and dust and fragments of crystal enveloped him in a whirlwind of heat. Shaken nearly out of his bones, Luke held the controls steady, fighting to see, hoping there was nothing ahead of him but more level gravel.
There was. A transparent boulder the size of a speeder caught what was left of the airfoil. The whole craft slewed sideways, rolled, the delicate S-foils buckling and snapping. Luke feared for one heart-tearing second that his seat restraint would give way, and he'd break his neck on
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