The trooper caught up with Myri after three steps, seized her arm, and swung her around to slam her into the side of a building. She couldn’t see his features in the deep shadow, but his voice was suddenly full of anger. He jabbed a forefinger at her. “You do not insult the—”
She put one hand on the back of his and seized his index finger with her other hand. She bent his finger up, a sudden, all-out effort, and bones snapped.
He started to look at his stricken hand, started to make a pained noise, but she immediately drew her blaster, thumbed its side switch to make sure it was still set on stun, and fired into his stomach. The stun bolt briefly illuminated the alley and his shocked expression. Then he fell.
She looked down at him and holstered her weapon. “Sorry, Army. My heart belongs to Starfighter Command.” Then she stepped over him and returned to the street.
In the fourth mini-excerpt of Aaron Allston’s X-Wing: Mercy Kill, Myri Antilles wants to forge her own path.
“Myri, I thought you were making your living gambling. Nice and safe on the Errant Venture. Making a fortune, from what I heard.”
She nodded, her attention on her rifle.
“So? Why this?”
She smiled. “You must be so proud.”
“What? Of whom?”
“That’s what they tell me. Mostly about Daddy. ‘Wedge Antilles’s daughter? You must be so proud.’ And I am. Some people know about Mom’s career. ‘You must be so proud.’ And I am. Some people know about my sister’s record in the last war. ‘You must be so proud.’ Yes, yes, I am. But maybe it’s time for someone to be proud of what I do. Maybe even me.”
Oh, but look how well resting on their family’s laurels worked for the Solo kids! Wait, nevermind.
It’s Thursday afternoon, and thus we are treated to our second mini-excerpt from Aaron Allston’s X-Wing: Mercy Kill.
A young human woman in clothes styled to resemble a starfighter pilot’s jumpsuit and jacket but made of crinkly gold cloth, her hair a more striking and unnatural red than Face’s, bumped into Face, made a vague noise of apology, and hurried past, continuing onward toward the exit.
Voort scowled at Face. “I saw that.”
“Of course you did.”
“What did she slip you?”
Face reached into a suit coat pocket and drew out a datapad. It was small, its once-gleaming surface scratched and dull. “This. It’s wired to overheat and ignite in about three minutes.”
Then she noticed that Trey had stopped talking. Instead, he was leaning forward, his forehead pressed against a heavy-duty, locking transparisteel cabinet.
Myri moved until she could see his face. “Four? You suddenly look like you want to cry.”
“I do.” He stepped back from the cabinet and shone his glow rod on its contents.
The cabinet had two shelves, themselves transparisteel. On the top shelf were two silvery bowl-like stands, and in each rested a globe larger than a balled human fist—a globe with dials and a depressible button.
Myri stared at them for a moment, then clamped her hand over her mouth to suppress a gasp. “Thermal detonators.”
“Two of them.” Trey’s voice was almost rapturous. “I have to steal these.”